“Testify personally to the truth of the Cardinal’s miracle,” answered Cazeau, gazing coldly at her excited face as though he saw something altogether strange and removed from human semblance. “And bring your child into the Holy Presence and relate his history. It will be nothing but an advantage to you, — for you will obtain a patient hearing, and the priceless boon of the Papal benediction!”
“Grand merci!” said Martine, “But I have lived more than half my time without the Papal benediction, and I can work out the rest of my days in the same way! Look you! — there is a great English Duke I am told, who has an only son sorely afflicted, and he has taken this son to every place in the world where the Church is supposed to work miracles for the healing of the sick and the helpless, — all to no use, for the poor boy is as sick and helpless as ever. How is that? What has the Papal benediction done for him?”
“Woman, your tongue overrules your senses!” said Cazeau, with rising temper, “You rail against the Church like an ungrateful heathen, even though you owe your son’s recovery to the Church! For what is Cardinal Bonpre but a Prince of the Church?”
Martine stuck her arms akimbo, and surveyed him disdainfully.
“OH — HE!” she cried, “My tongue overrules my senses, Monsieur Clause Cazeau! Take care that your cunning does not overrule yourself! Did I ever deny the worth and the goodness of Cardinal Bonpre? Though if I were to speak the whole truth, and if I were to believe the nonsense-talk of a child, I should perhaps give the credit of the miracle to the stray boy whom the Cardinal found outside the Cathedral door— “Cazeau started— “For Fabien says that he began to feel strong the moment that little lad touched him!”
“The boy!” exclaimed Cazeau— “The boy!”
A curious silence ensued. Jean Patoux lifting his drowsy eyes gazed fixedly at the whitewashed ceiling, — Madame, his wife, stood beside him watching the changes on Cazeau’s yellow face — and Martine sat down to take breath after her voluble outburst.
“The boy!” muttered Cazeau again — then he broke into a harsh laugh.
“What folly!” he exclaimed, “As if a little tramp of the streets could have anything to do with a Church miracle! Martine Doucet, if you were to say such a thing at the Vatican—”
“I have not said it,” said Martine angrily, “I only told you what my Fabien says. I am not answerable for the thoughts of the child! That he is well and strong — that he has the look and the soul of an angel, is enough for me to praise God all my life. But I shall never say the Laus Deo at the Vatican, — you will have no chance to trap me in that way!”
Cazeau stared at her haughtily.
“You must be mad!” he said, “No one wishes to ‘trap’ you, as you express it! The miracle of healing performed on your child is a very remarkable one, — it should not be any surprise to you that the Head of the Church seeks to know all the details of it thoroughly, in order to ratify and confirm it, and perhaps bestow new honour on the eminent Cardinal—”
“I rather doubt that!” interposed Patoux slowly, “For I gather from our Archbishop that the Holy Father was suspicious of some trick rather than an excess of sanctity!”
Cazeau reddened through his pallid skin.
“I know nothing of that!” he said curtly, “But my orders are imperative, and I shall seek the assistance of the Archbishop to enforce and carry them out! For the moment I have the honour to wish you good-night, Monsieur Patoux! — and you also, Mesdames!”
And he departed abruptly, in an anger which he was at no pains to disguise. Personally he cared nothing about the miracle or how it had been accomplished, but he cared very much for his own advancement, — and he saw, or thought he saw, a chance of very greatly improving his position among the ecclesiastical authorities if he only kept a cool head and a clear mind. He recognised that there was a desire on the part of the Pope to place Cardinal Bonpre under close observance and restraint on account of his having condoned the Abbe Vergniaud’s confession to his congregation in Paris; and he rightly judged that anything he could do to aid the accomplishment of that end would not be without its reward. And the few words which Martine Doucet had let drop concerning the stray boy who now lived under the Cardinal’s protection, had given him a new idea which he resolved to act upon when he returned to Rome. For it was surely very strange that an eminent Prince of the Church should allow himself to be constantly attended by a little tramp rescued from the street! There was something in it more than common, — and Cazeau decided that he would suggest a close enquiry being made on this point.
Crossing the square opposite the Hotel Poitiers, he hesitated before turning the corner of the street which led towards the avenue where the Archbishop’s house was situated. The night was fine and calm — the air singularly balmy, — and he suddenly decided to take a stroll by the river before finally returning to his rooms for the night. There is one very quiet bit of the Seine in Rouen where the water flows between unspoilt grassy banks, which in summer are a frequent resort for lovers to dream the dreams which so often come to nothing, — and here Cazeau betook himself to smoke and meditate on the brilliancy of his future prospects. The river had been high in flood during the week, and the grass which sloped towards the water was still wet, and heavy to the tread. But Cazeau limited his walk to the broad summit of the bank, being aware that the river just below flowed over a muddy quicksand, into which, should a man chance to fall, it would be death and fast burial at one and the same moment. And Cazeau set a rather exorbitant value on his own life, as most men do whose lives are of no sort of consequence to the world. So he was careful to walk where there was the least danger of slipping, — and as he lit an excellent cigar, and puffed the faint blue rings of smoke out into the clear moonlit atmosphere, he was in a very agreeable frame of mind. He was crafty and clever in his way, — one of those to whom the Yankee term “cute” would apply in its fullest sense, — and he had the happy knack of forgetting his own mistakes and follies, and excusing his own sins with as much ease as though he were one of the “blood-royal” of nations. Vices he had in plenty in common with most men, — except that his particular form of licentiousness was distinguished by a callousness and cruelty in which there was no touch of redeeming quality. As a child he had loved to tear the wings off flies and other insects, and one of his keenest delights in boyhood had been to watch the writhings of frogs into whose soft bodies he would stick long pins, — the frogs would live under this treatment four and five hours — sometimes longer, and while observing their agonies he enjoyed “that contented mind which is a perpetual feast.” Now that he was a man, he delighted in torturing human beings after the same methods applied mentally, whenever he could find a vulnerable part through which to thrust a sharp spear of pain.
“The eminent Cardinal Bonpre!” he mused now; “What is he to me! If I could force the Archbishop of Rouen into high favour at the Vatican instead of this foolish old Saint Felix, it would be a better thing for my future. After all, it was at Rouen that the miracle was performed — the city should have some credit! And Bonpre has condoned a heretic . . . he is growing old and feeble — possibly he is losing his wits. And then there is that boy . . .”
He started violently as a fantastic shadow suddenly crossed his path, in the moonlight, and a peal of violent laughter assailed his ears.
“Enfin! Toi, mon Claude! — enfin! — Grace a Dieu! Enfin!”
And the crazed creature, known as Marguerite, “La Folle”, stood before him, her long black hair streaming over her bare chest and gaunt arms, her eyes dilated, and glowing with the mingled light of madness and despair.
Cazeau turned a livid white in the moon-rays; — his blood grew icy cold. What! After two years of dodging about the streets of Rouen to avoid meeting this wretched woman whom he had tricked and betrayed, had she found him at last!
“When did you come back from the fair?” cried the girl shrilly, “I lost you there, you know-and you man-aged to lose ME — but I have waited! — wai
ted patiently for news of you! . . . and when none came, I still waited, making myself beautiful! . . . see!—” And she thrust her fingers through her long hair, throwing it about in wilder disorder than ever. “You thought you had killed me — and you were glad! — it makes all men glad to kill women when they can! But I — I was not killed so easily, — I have lived! — for this night — just for this night! Listen!” and she sprang forward and threw herself violently against his breast, “Do you love me now? Tell me again — as you told me at the fair — you love me?”
He staggered under her weight — and tried for a moment to thrust her back, but she held him in a grip of iron, looking up at him with her great feverish dark eyes, and grasping his shoulders with thin burning hands. He trembled; — he was beginning to grow horribly afraid. What devil had sent this woman whom he had ruined so long as two years ago, across his path to-night? Would it be possible to soothe her?
“Marguerite—” he began.
“Yes, yes, Marguerite! Say it again!” she cried wildly, “Marguerite! Say it again! Sweet — sweet and tenderly as you said it then! Poor Marguerite! Your pale ugly face seemed the face of a god to her once, because she thought you loved her — we all find men so beautiful when we think they love us! Yes — your cold eyes and cruel lips and hard brow! — it was quite a different face at the fair! So was mine a different face — but you! — YOU have made mine what it is now! — look at it! What! — you thought you could murder a woman and never be found out! You thought you could kill poor Marguerite, and that no one would ever know—”
“Hush, hush!” said Cazeau, his teeth chattering with the cold of his inward terror, “I never killed you, Marguerite! — I loved you — yes, listen!” For she was looking up at him with an attentive, almost sane expression in her eyes. “I meant to write to you after the fair, — and come to you . . .”
“Hush, hush!” said the girl, “Let me hear this! — this is strange news! He meant to write to me — yet he let me die by inches in an agony of waiting! — till I dropped into the darkness where I am now! He meant to come to me — oh, it was very easy to come if he had chosen to come, — before I wandered away into all this strangeness — this shadow — this confusion and fire! But you see, it is too late now,” and she began to laugh again, “Too late! I have a strange idea that I am dead, though I seem alive — I am in my grave; and so you must die also and be buried with me! Yes, you must certainly die! — when one is cruel and false and treacherous one is not wanted in the world! — better to go out of it — and it is quite easy, — see! — this way!—”
And before he realised her intention she sprang back a step — then drew a knife from her bosom, and with a sort of exultant shriek, stabbed him furiously once — twice — thrice . . . crying out— “This for your lie! This for my sorrow! — This for your love!—”
Reeling back with the agony of her murderous blows he made a fierce effort to tear the knife from her hands, but she suddenly threw it a long way from her towards the river, where it fell with a light splash, and rushing at him twined her arms close about his neck, while her mad laughter, piercing and terrible, rang out through the quiet air.
“Together!” she said, “That day at the fair we were together, and now — we shall be together again! Come! — Come! I have waited long enough! — your promised letter never came — you have kept me waiting a long long while — but now I will wait no longer! I have found you! — I will never let you go!”
Furiously, despite his wounds, he fought with her, — tried to thrust her away from him, — and beat her backwards and downwards, — but she had the strength of ten women in her maddened frame, and she clung to him with the tenacity of some savage beast. All around them was perfectly quiet, — there was not a soul in sight, — there was no place near where a shout for help could have been heard. Struggling still, dizzy, blind and breathless, he did not see that they were nearing the edge of the slippery bank — all his efforts were concentrated in an endeavour to shake off the infuriated creature, made more powerful in her very madness by the just sense of her burning wrong and his callous treachery — when all at once his foot slipped and he fell to the ground. She pounced on him like a tigress, and fastened her fingers on his throat, — clutching his flesh and breathlessly muttering, “Never! — never! Never can you hide away from me any more! Together — together! I will never let you go!—” till, as his eyes rolled up in agony and his jaw relaxed, she uttered a shout of ecstasy to see him die! He sank heavily under her fierce grasp which she never relaxed for an instant, and his dead weight dragged her unconsciously down — down! — she not heeding or knowing whither she was moving, — down — still down! — till, as she clung to his inert body, madly determining not to let it go, she fell, — fast grappling her betrayer’s corpse, — into the ominous stillness of the river. The flood opened, as it were, to receive the two, — the dead and the living — there was a slight ripple as though a mouth in the water smiled — then the usual calm surface reflected the moon once more, and there was no sign of trouble. Nothing struggled, — nothing floated, — all was perfectly tranquil. The bells chimed from all the churches in the city a quarter to midnight, and their pretty echoes were wafted across the water, — no other sound disturbed the silence, — not a trace of the struggle was left, save just one smeared track of grass and slime, which, if examined carefully, might have been found sprinkled with blood. But with the morning the earth would have swallowed those drops of human life as silently as the river-quicksand had sucked down the bodies of the betrayed and the betrayer; — in neither case would Nature have any hint to give of the tragedy enacted. Nature is a dumb witness to many dramas, — and it may be that she has eyes and ears and her own way of keeping records. Sometimes she gives up long-buried secrets, sometimes she holds them fast; — biding her time until the Judgment Day, when not only the crime shall be disclosed but the Cause of the crime’s committal. And it may chance in certain cases, such as those of men who have deliberately ruined the lives of trusting and loving women, that the Cause may be proved a more criminal thing than the crime!
That night Martine Doucet slept badly, and had horrible dreams of being dragged by force to Rome, and there taken before the Pope who at once deprived her of her son Fabien, and ordered her to be shot in one of the public squares for neglecting to attend Mass regularly. And Jean Patoux and his wife, reposing on their virtuous marital couch, conversed a long time about the unexpected and unwelcome visit of Claude Cazeau, and the mission he had declared himself entrusted with from the Vatican,— “And you may depend upon it,” said Madame sententiously, “that he will get his way by fair means or foul! I am thankful that neither of OUR children were subjects for a Church-miracle! — the trouble of the remedy seems more troublesome than the sickness!”
“No, no,” said her husband, “Thou dost not judge these things rightly, my little one! God worked the remedy, as He works all good things, — and there would be no trouble about it if it were not for the men’s strange way of taking it. Did ever our Lord do a good or a kind deed without being calumniated for it? Did not all those men-fools in Jerusalem go about ‘secretly seeking how they might betray him’? That is a lesson for us all, — and never forget, petite, that for showing them the straight way to Heaven He was crucified!”
The next day a telegram was despatched from the Archbishop of Rouen to Monsignor Moretti at the Vatican: —
“Claude Cazeau visited Hotel Poitiers last night, but has since mysteriously disappeared. Every search and enquiry being made. Strongly suspect foul play.”
XXVI.
November was now drawing to a close, and St. Cecilia’s Day dawned in a misty sunrise, half cloud, half light, like smoke and flame intermingled. Aubrey Leigh, on waking that morning, had almost decided to leave Rome before the end of the month. He had learned all that was necessary for him to know; — he had not come to study the antiquities, or the dark memories of dead empires, for he would have needed to live at least ten yea
rs in the city to gain even a surface knowledge of all the Romes, built one upon another, in the Rome of to-day. His main object had been to discover whether the Holy See existed as a grand and pure institution for the uplifting and the saving of the souls of men; or whether it had degenerated into an unscrupulous scheme for drawing the money out of their pockets. He had searched this problem and solved it. He had perceived the trickery, the dissimulation and hypocrisy of Roman priestcraft. He had seen the Pope officiate at High Mass in the Sistine Chapel, having procured the “introduction from very high quarters” which, even according to ordinary guide-books, is absolutely necessary, — the “high quarters” in this instance being Monsignor Gherardi. Apart from this absurdity, — this impious idea of needing an “introduction” to a sacred service professedly held for the worship of the Divine, by the Representative of Christ on earth, he had watched with sickening soul all the tawdry ceremonial so far removed from the simplicity of Christ’s commands, — he had stared dully, till his brows ached, at the poor, feeble, scraggy old man with the pale, withered face and dark eyes, who was chosen to represent a “Manifestation of the Deity” to his idolatrous followers; — and as he thought of all the poverty, sorrow, pain, perplexity, and bewilderment of the “lost sheep” who were wandering to and fro in the world, scarcely able to fight the difficulties of their daily lot, and unable to believe in God because they were never allowed to understand or to experience any of His goodness, such a passion of protest arose in him, that he could have sprung on the very steps of the altar and cried aloud to the aged Manager of the Stage-scene there, “Away with this sham of Christianity! Give us the true message of Christ, undefiled! Sell these useless broidered silks, — these flaunting banners; — take the silver, gold, and bank-notes which hysterical pilgrims cast at your feet! — this Peter’s Pence, amounting to millions, whose exact total you alone know, — and come out into the highways and byways of the cities of all lands, — call to you the lame, the halt, the blind, the sickly, and diseased, — give comfort where comfort is needed, — defend the innocent — protect the just, and silence the Voce de la Verita which published under your authority, callously advocates murder!”
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 496