The Arm and the Darkness

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Paul genuflected with stately simplicity, and after a moment’s hesitation, Arsène followed his example. They knelt side by side before the altar. Paul lifted his face, and it was exalted and pure with emotion. He prayed simply and openly, clasping his hands. All at once his expression was filled with an austere beauty, like that of an angel’s. Arsène was moved to the heart. He could not pray, but all his being was pervaded with reverence, and an adoration for this gentle young man.

  When they left the church, Paul did not speak. But he smiled and pressed his friend’s hand, as though words were beyond him. At the door, they were met by the old priest and a tall younger priest.

  The Abbé Lovelle seized Paul’s hands and gazed at him with passionate love.

  “Ah, Monsieur!” he exclaimed, “we did not expect you today! What inexpressible pleasure you have bestowed upon us!”

  Paul embraced the old man, who appeared to Arsène to possess many of the physical and spiritual attributes of the Abbé Mourion. The old priest’s eyes dwelt on Paul’s countenance as on that of a worshiped saint. He could not relinquish Paul’s hand, but clung to it fervently.

  Paul glanced inquiringly at the other priest, who remained discreetly in the background, and seeing this, the old abbé contritely apologized, and turned to the other man.

  “This is Père de Pacilli, Monsieur le Comte!” He pressed Paul’s hand beseechingly, as the other priest bowed deeply and respectfully. “The bishop believes that I must rest for two months, Monsieur. Nay, he has insisted upon it. So, if I have your permission, I shall visit my niece and nephew in Rouen, and return refreshed.”

  “How inconsiderate I have been!” ejaculated Paul, placing his arm about the old priest. “I have not thought that you needed refreshment and rest. Call at the château tonight, my dear abbé, and take with you a purse to insure your safe and comfortable journey, and to purchase gifts for your relatives. Ah, how selfish I have been, never thinking of your comfort and your weariness!”

  “Monsieur is a saint!” replied the abbé, with tears. “There is only one of whom he never thinks, and that is himself.”

  He choked in his emotion, but his face was eloquent. Finally, he faltered: “The bishop has sent Père de Pacilli to take my place while I am gone, and after a long conversation with him I am assured that he will care adequately for our little flock until my return.”

  Paul greeted the younger priest cordially, gazing into his eyes frankly and simply.

  But Arsène was uneasy. Where had he seen this long dark countenance before, these black almond-shaped eyes and long delicate skull? Where had he seen that mouth, wide, thin and crafty, and that spade-like pale chin? It was the expression that puzzled him, for he could not remember that, alone of all the other characteristics. For it was meek and subdued, silent and respectful, with lowered glance, and deprecating. The other expression he vaguely remembered was crafty and arrogant, amused and keenly intellectual.

  He was consumed with an astonishing dislike. He surveyed the tall spare figure in its black habit, the narrow white hands which were not brown and calloused as were the broad hands of the Abbé Lovelle. Here was a man of aristocratic breeding, a noble, and whatever his blood, it was foreign, unfathomable and too refined for this disguise. And Arsène was certain that all this was a disguise. Surely this priest was not a one to substitute for an old country curé on an obscure estate! The priest turned his profile for a brief instant to Arsène, as he conversed respectfully with Paul in a low and mellifluous voice, and Arsène saw the long and delicate nose, aquiline and large, with the nostrils so thin and chiseled that the red membrane was visible. There was an accent in that voice, aristocratic and assured, with an undertone of hauteur which he could not conceal.

  Engrossed in his thoughts, he had not listened to the gracious and amiable conversation between Paul and the priest. So he broke in harshly and abruptly:

  “Where have I seen you before, Monsieur le curé? For certes, I have seen you!”

  Paul was surprised at his friend’s tone and short manner. But the priest gazed at Arsène respectfully, and with every appearance of genuine surprise. But Arsène had seen the wary flicker in those brilliant and narrowed black eyes.

  “I do not know where I have had the honor of being in Monsieur’s presence before,” he answered, bowing. “I was formerly in Chartres, and then in Amiens. I have never been in Paris.”

  Arsène glowered. He plucked at the ribbons on his doublet, and bit his lips. He felt himself a fool, for Paul and the old abbé were regarding him with bewildered smiles.

  “Are you a Jesuit?” he demanded in a still harsher voice

  The priest was apparently amazed. He smiled humbly. “No, Monsieur, I have not that honor. I am only a poor abbé, whose inconsiderable talents have not merited a permanent parish.”

  The old abbé felt the hostility in Arsène, and he placed his hand on his confrere’s arm, and pressed it

  “Père de Pacilli deprecates himself,” he said, tenderly, pleading with Arsène and Paul with his faded yet luminous old eyes. “He has many talents, but the bishop has hinted to me that he is of a restless nature, and prefers to travel from diocese to diocese, assisting where he can.” Père Pacilli returned this affection with a slow sad smile, and an inclination of his head.

  But Arsène was even more suspicious, though for the life of him he could not understand his own suspicions. However, he was increasingly certain that he had glimpsed that secret and subtle countenance in some assemblage in Paris, and that the priest had not been there what he pretended to be now. If this were so, what was he doing here in this quiet and isolated spot, substituting for an old and obscure priest?

  He stared penetratingly at de Pacilli. Paul had flushed with discomfort. But Arsène saw no one but this priest, who stood before him humbly, with downcast eyes and a perplexed and meek expression. Arsène was seeing more and more each instant. He saw despite the simple attitude, the man had the bearing of a prince, the voice of an aristocrat, the gestures of a man of noble birth.

  And suddenly he was certain that there was a danger in this man, like a concealed poniard. But, to whom? What danger was there in him for Paul, and these quiet estates near the town of Chantilly? Yet, all at once, he knew that the danger was for Paul.

  He turned to his friend. “Pardon me if I am too insistent,” he said. “But I am positive that I have seen Père de Pacilli before, I cannot remember where.”

  “Does it matter?” asked Paul, gently, with an apologetic glance at the two priests.

  “Disguises always matter,” replied Arsène, shortly. “One asks: why does a man disguise himself? What does that disguise portend? And for whom?”

  He turned again to the priest. “Monsieur le curé has not deceived me. He is no son of a peasant, or an artisan. He is a man of birth and nobility.”

  The priest raised his downcast eyes and looked fully at Arsène. He could not conceal the uneasiness in them, nor the subtle amusement, nor the disdain. But he said softly: “Monsieur flatters me. My father had a small tavern in Chartres. But Monsieur is astute. My mother came of the petty nobility.”

  “Ah, that explains it,” said Paul, with his kind smile. He glanced hopefully at his friend. However, Arsène betrayed only new suspicions.

  “Why have you come here? What are you to do here, my curé?”

  “I do not understand Monsieur,” said the priest, assuming a stammer and increased bewilderment. “I was requested by the bishop of this diocese to substitute for the Abbé Lovelle during his absence. As I am of a fragile constitution, it was thought by my superiors that country air and a quiet period might restore my health.”

  “Who are your superiors?” asked Arséne, menacingly.

  But the priest could only gaze at him, as though completely astounded.

  Paul was embarrassed. He took his friend’s arm. “Your friends,” he murmured. “If we do not make haste, you will have no time to greet them.”

  They walked away toge
ther. Arsène’s cheek was flushed, and his eye was bright with ire. “I tell you, Paul, I have seen that serpent before! He is not what he seems!”

  “And if he is not, what portends?” asked Paul, lightly. “What can he do to me? Within eight weeks, he will have gone.”

  “A priest is bad enough, but a disguised priest is ominous!” exclaimed Arsène. Now that he was removed from the presence of de Pacilli, all his doubts and suspicions appeared absurd to him.

  Paul laughed. He shook his head, but said nothing.

  Now they were approaching a snug white stone house set in pretty gardens. The house was larger than those Arsène had previously seen on these estates, and it had an air of dignity. Paul appeared excited. He began to laugh softly to himself, and to glance at Arsène with tender merriment. He opened the gate.

  He could not contain himself. “Steward!” he called, eagerly. “My good steward, I have brought a guest to see you!”

  A tall gray old man appeared in the open doorway. He held a pen in his hand. He bowed before Paul. But Arsène stared at him in profound amazement.

  “François! François Grandjean!” he cried. “It is not possible!”

  CHAPTER XXIX

  Francois Grandjean was no less astonished than Arsène, who came leaping towards him with outstretched hands.He took the young man’s hands numbly in his own, but continued to gaze at him incredulously.

  Arsène was delighted. He embraced the old man with fervor. François’ blue eyes became misted; he smiled tremulously. His classical Roman head was like that of a senator receiving the embraces of a son. Then he looked beyond Arsène at Paul, who was smiling, much moved.

  Paul inclined his head and said: “When you told me, François, that a certain Monsieur de Richepin had presented you with money to secure land, I held my counsel, for immediately I foresaw the pleasure I would experience in this meeting. You spoke with such affection of Monsieur de Richepin that I suspected some deep attachment between you, and I guessed many other things by the implication of your tones and the expression of your face. Remembering, too, the tale of Monsieur, that he had been succored by one like you in his extremity, I knew, then, the whole story.” He came to them, and took a hand of each simply, gazing first at one and then the other with the clear candor of his gentle look.

  “My dear friends,” he said, with emotion in his voice, “I rejoice in your rejoicing.”

  A faint flush appeared on Arsène’s cheek, and he said with a frankness that did not deceive François, but did deceive Paul: “I went to the Rue du Vieux-Colombier but no one could tell me where you had gone.”

  François replied gravely: “I left no word among my neighbors, for I doubted that Monsieur would return at all. It was not to be expected.”

  A wry but indulgent glint appeared in his eye. Arsène was embarrassed and silent, enraged at himself for his childish lie, and more enraged that François had detected it at once. Even François’ kind if somewhat sad smile, contained no malice, only increased his irritability; for an instant the aristocrat’s old hauteur and contempt for the canaille flashed in his look and revealed itself in his bearing.

  They entered the stone house, and were plunged into cool shadow. Here the small windows were thrown open upon the country scene of tall golden grain crested with the first fire of sunset, dark sapphire hills mantled in the green lace of the vineyards, a distant stream of glittering quicksilver, and, to the right, the massed somberness of an ancient forest. The blue of the sky had become fervid, and pulsed like a passionate heart. Plumes of rosy flame floated over the hills. From afar, peasants were singing at their work, and their voices were sweet and gay as they came over the fields. Some one was bringing in the cattle, and their lowing came clearly through the hot and fragrant air. Pigeons, as they fluttered over the roof of the house and the stables, caught dazzling sunshine on their wings. Bees, heavy with loot, hummed drowsily over the flowers in the garden. Now a radiant mist crept over the valley, so that the tops of the forest floated in a shining vapor.

  Upon the red stone floor of the cottage were set simple but sturdy pieces of furniture, settles, tables, cabinets and stools. Flowers stood in earthenware pots on every surface.

  As he entered the cottage reluctantly, the disdainful and confused anger still in his heart, Arsène felt a beating, strange and shaking, throughout his body. But the cottage was empty. He breathed deeply and cautiously, glancing at a curtained doorway. However, no one emerged.

  François, with grave dignity, bid his guests seat themselves, and brought forth a jug of wine and some small excellent cakes. But Paul shook his head, smiling.

  “Ah, no, my dear friend,” he said. “I shall leave you two together. Too, I think I hear the approach of Mademoiselle, and shall go to meet her and the cattle.”

  At this, Arsène lifted his head alertly, a thousand questions on his tongue, and a brighter flush upon his cheek. Paul left the cottage, and he and François were alone. Arsène could say nothing. He sipped the wine which François silently presented to him in a pewter cup.

  The old man was no longer shabby, and his emaciation was less. He wore the rough sturdy garments of the comfortable peasant, and his wooden clogs clacked on the stone floor. His pallor had disappeared, and his face was ruddy under the whiteness of his hair. But his dignity, his austerity and loftiness of expression had increased, and when Arsène involuntarily met his gaze, he smiled gently, but with simple majesty.

  “This surprises you, does it not, Monsieur?” he asked, in a low voice.

  Arsène did not answer. He was beginning to feel ashamed.

  François, without asking permission, seated himself near the table also. The clear blue sharpness of his eyes fixed themselves on Arsène, and now his face darkened as though some despondency had seized him.

  “I came here to Chantilly, with the money you had given me, Monsieur. I not only leased a small portion of land from Monsieur le Comte, but was offered the position as his steward. I accepted, with joy. It was a retreat, and a peace, for me and my granddaughter.”

  “You need not apologize to me, nor explain!” said Arsène, with irritation.

  The old man’s brows drew together with some sternness.

  “Monsieur does not understand. I am not apologizing.”

  Arsène compressed his lips. The beating in his body was augmented. He strove for a natural tone, and looked at François with an assumption of benevolence such as one bestows upon a servant whom one wishes to patronize.

  “You speak of your granddaughter. Has she not already wed that young poet to whom she was betrothed?”

  François shook his head. He replied with reserve: “No. He did not wish to immure himself in this spot.”

  Arsène forgot everything and inquired: “Mademoiselle is reconciled? She is not inconsolable?”

  François’ seamed face broke into a deep smile. “Mademoiselle,” he replied, “is not only consoled, but relieved. I suspect that she did not hold overmuch affection for young Henri in her heart. She is self-contained, that one, and happy in her new life. The blood of land-owners is in her veins, as well as the blood of sailors.”

  He refilled Arsène’s pewter cup once more. The wine was pure and rich, filled with the breath of the countryside. Arsène watched the old man as though absorbed in his gestures. But this was merely affectation.

  He was astonished to discover that his limbs were trembling, that the beating of his heart was causing the ribbons on his doublet to vibrate.

  “Monsieur has completely recovered, I perceive,” said François, softly.

  Arsène touched the long scar on his cheek. He looked up, with warm frankness and a curious breathlessness.

  “It is true, François, and all thanks must be given to you. Do not believe that I am ungrateful.”

  François said nothing, but the shadow of a smile lingered on his lips.

  Arsène, seized by a nameless restlessness, rose and began to pace the stone floor. François rose also, respectfully, l
eaning with one gnarled hand upon the bare table.

  “You are happy here, François?” asked Arsène, as he paced back and forth before the windows, and glanced through them feverishly. “You are content? This is so different from your habitation in Paris.”

  “I am content. I am happy,” replied the old man, in a deep and shaking voice.

  Arsène came back to the table, and flung himself in his chair. Silent question after question formed themselves on his lips, but he did not speak.

  “There is no man like Monsieur le Comte,” said François, and his tone was passionate with love. He gestured widely. “Monsieur sees here an experiment in humanity. Monsieur is not offended at my freedom in speaking so of Monsieur le Comte?”

  “Speak,” said Arsène, urgently. “There is much that must be explained to me. In Monsieur le Comte’s presence one is only dazzled and confused, as if in the presence of the sun. But you are living on this land as steward. You can tell me many things.”

  François was silent for a long time. He traced an invisible design upon the table with one of his long and tremulous fingers. But he gazed before him with a far and lofty expression, touched with uncertain sorrow.

  “The dreamer’s dreams are impossible. But without a dream, and a star, no man can chart his course over the black waters of despair, and through the darkness of an awareness of reality, which is the source of despair—”

  “You believe that my friend is a dreamer?” asked Arsène, with an obscure sensation of annoyance and disappointment. “A most impractical dreamer?”

  François hesitated. He covered, his eyes suddenly with his hand. There was dejection in his attitude.

  “I have said, Monsieur, that Monsieur le Comte de Vitry has a dream, and a star.”

  Now he pressed both hands over his eyes, as if they burned with weariness and pain.