'As you like,' he said with a sigh. 'Very well, then. Let us go down to the stable. I want to see this stolen horse of yours.'
Chapter Four
A Mother's Heart
Armed with a lantern, Gilles followed the rector without comment and even with a kind of relief. He was glad his godfather had not pursued his inquiry into the subject of women because, under the influence of strong emotion, he had been on the verge of betraying his secret. The violence of his own inward reactions had surprised him. His heart had sounded the alarm in very much the manner of a watchful sentry keeping guard over some great treasure or well-defended fortress. And this little excursion to the stable was welcome in so far as it gave him a chance to recover his self-control.
With an effort, he drove out the image of Judith which had been going to his head like a fever and also the infinitely more disturbing vision of Manon, and pushed open the wooden door. He breathed in the good stable smell of fresh straw and held up his arm to light the interior. The horse's gleaming hindquarters, beautifully groomed by Mahé, shone like silk in the glowing light. The abbé stepped forward, a sudden brightness in his eyes.
He examined the animal in silence, like a man who knew what he was about, for M. de Talhouët had been an enthusiastic horseman before taking orders. Indeed, his love for horses had at one time troubled his father, who doubted if it were compatible with a genuine vocation. Then young Vincent had offered that love to God, as he had offered every other sacrifice, with a smile. And quiet Eglantine, docilely munching her heap of gorse alongside the handsome newcomer, was in her way the image of that sacrifice, for ever since he had put on a priest's habit the youthful centaur of Leslé had contented himself with a mule. But he could still take the same pleasure in the sight of a fine horse.
At last the abbé straightened up, forcing his glowing face into an expression of sternness.
'You have good taste, my boy. When you steal you don't do the thing by halves. This is a magnificent animal, a mount fit for a lord.'
Gilles dropped his eyes, feeling uncomfortable none the less.
'I know, sir. All the same, I swear to you I did not choose him. I should have jumped on the first slug I saw just the same.'
'Come, come! There must have been other horses in the vicinity, but you saw only this one. Perhaps because you sensed that he would be fast and you were in a hurry?'
Gilles' honesty rejected this proffered excuse.
'I don't think so. I should have preferred a quieter mount because it took us some time to reach an understanding, he and I. To begin with, he was trying to throw me off.' He sighed. 'You know,' he said, 'that I am a wretched horseman, since my mother would never let me learn to ride. She used to tell me I should never have to ride on anything but mules and donkeys. I think that was when I first began to jib at the future she had arranged for me. I love horses so much—'
He stopped, flushing, but the abbé did not notice, being lost in his own thoughts which were far from charitable towards Marie-Jeanne. With the best will in the world, the poor woman had certainly been doing her best to give her son a dislike of the religious life. But then, had she ever tried to discover what was going on inside the child's head?
Seeing him lost in thought, Gilles plucked up courage to add very softly: 'I know I have no right – that it would be a bad beginning to the new life I want to make – but I should so like to keep this horse. I love him already—'
The abbé glared at him.
'And what gave you the idea that such wickedness deserves reward? Do you realize that you could be sent to the galley for this? There are lads of your age in convict gangs in Brest for doing far less.'
'I know. Do you want me to give myself up to the law, then?'
'I don't want anything at all – except my supper and bed. And time to think. We'll go in now. I'll tell you tomorrow what I have decided.'
But neither Gilles nor the abbé were fated to sit down to supper at a reasonable hour that night, for when they entered the passage they found Katell there, obviously upset. With her was an elderly peasant woman, weeping like a fountain, open-eyed and with the tears pouring unchecked down her grey face and on to her black cloak.
As soon as Katell perceived her master, she literally flew to him.
'Oh, rector, sir, it's Marjann! She says that my lord baron de Saint-Mélaine is much worse and in need of the last rites.'
Güles started at the name as though he had been struck but the abbé exclaimed incredulously.
'Much worse! Why, I did not even know that he was ill. Has a doctor been sent for?'
It was the elderly Marjann who answered him, still weeping: 'He would not have it, rector! He would not have it. He always said that when an animal was worn out there was nothing to be done. But as to being ill, oh, that he was. And for a long time past. But, by our blessed lady, he would not say so! Not even to you or the young lady. He made me promise not to say a word to anyone. And now he's dying. You must come, rector. You must come quickly—'
And she began to cry more than ever, while Katell muttered under her breath about the folly of trying to hide one's poverty to that extent.
'I'm coming,' the rector said.
'And I,' Gilles cried, without thinking. Then, at his godfather's questioning look, he added in an undertone: 'You'll need a choirboy to go with you, at least. It's late and the weather is dreadful. It's no night to take a child out, and since I'm here—'
'Hmm,' was all the abbé said, but the glance he gave him brought the colour to Gilles' cheeks, for it said clearly enough that in his view a boy in a state of sin was scarcely the most desirable escort for the holy sacrament. However, since he was unaware of his godson's real motive, M. de Talhouët merely ascribed his offer to an earnest wish to redeem himself. He nodded.
'I am going to church to make ready,' he said. 'Come to me there in ten minutes. But first go and ask Dr Guillevic to call on M. de Saint-Mélaine immediately.'
The boy was off almost before he had finished speaking.
Ten minutes later, the abbé in surplice and stole but with sabots over his shoes and clutching the viaticum to his chest, was almost running in the direction of the Ville-Close, followed closely by Gilles wielding a large umbrella and a bell which he swung regularly. The rain was still falling. It pattered on to the stretched silk. But despite the lateness of the hour the town was still awake. In fact it presented a spectacle of unaccustomed gaiety, thanks to the lines of army tents along the Blavet. The lights within them give them the air of a Venetian festival, while the camp fires struggled bravely against the rain. There came the sound of the sentries' regular footsteps and their voices calling to one another from time to time.
God, Gilles and the abbé passed beneath the great gateway, walked on a little way and stopped before a tall, narrow house with only three windows in the front but adorned with an elegant balcony wrought in the previous century. The rust which had eaten it away and the cracks in the facade were partly concealed by the darkness, but Gilles' sharp eyes noted them as he passed.
Two steps led up to the door, which was standing open. Old Marjann was on her knees in the doorway, waiting for them, candle in hand. As soon as they were inside she rose, more nimbly than might have been expected from her decrepit bones, and led them quickly down the passage and up a dim staircase, holding the candle high so that its light fell mercilessly on the damp-stained walls and cobwebby ceiling.
The house was icy cold. It reeked of poverty and Gilles' heart was wrung as he thought that this was the palace of his proud Judith. Even the classrooms at St Yves were more comfortable. At least they put down straw there in winter.
The room that opened to them was minimally brighter, thanks to the fire of broom twigs burning in the hearth, but the peeling paper made strange acanthus leaf shapes on the walls and the huge, old-fashioned bed, like a temple with its four solid oak columns, enclosed a desert of torn sheets and patched coverlets in which the frail figure of the dying man was all
but lost.
Gilles scarcely recognized the man he had last seen in church at Hallowe'en. Without the white wig, which now stood on a wig stand on the mantelpiece, he was seen to be nearly bald with a long, red nose which stressed the tragic pallor of his face. The purple-veined lids were stretched over his sunken eyeballs and a continuous rattle came from the open mouth with its one tooth. A man in a brown suit was at the bedside, short-sighted eyes peering behind steel spectacles, bending down to examine the thin chest with a frown.
Seeing the abbé in his vestments, he straightened with a sigh, then got to his knees.
'You come in good time, Abbé,' he said testily. 'It is too late for me.'
The priest's eyes went from the doctor to the dying man and then back to the doctor.
'How is it that he never sent for you, my friend?'
Dr Guillevic shrugged his shoulders.
'The answer is all around us. He was poor but he was proud. I would have treated him for nothing, of course, and he knew it. All the more reason, in his eyes, why he should not ask it of me. He is all yours now.'
'Not for long, I fear. We must make haste.'
While old Marjann set out the small items needed for the rite of Extreme Unction and the abbé began the prayers for the dying, Gilles, mechanically uttering the responses, gazed at the dying man before him.
He was no more than a shadow, the mere suggestion of a man, a fragment of stretched skin and bone that no longer seemed to contain any human organs. Yet from that shrunken body had once come that other he could not wipe from his memory, that glowing young girl's body, demoniacal in its vitality and yet instinct with gentleness. Judith was flesh of this wretched flesh. Such a thing seemed inconceivable.
He was picturing the girl in his mind so intensely that he was scarcely surprised to see her appear suddenly in the dark doorway, like a portrait come to life by magic. The figure of a nun loomed behind her but remained outside.
Judith uttered a cry of grief. She flung herself so impetuously at the bed that she bumped into the priest who had not seen her come in. Nor did she seem aware of him. She dropped like a wounded animal, her knees thudding on the wooden floor, and grasped the hand lying motionless on the sheet. They heard her moaning softly: 'Father! Father! What is it? Father, speak to me. Please, speak to me. You won't go away – you won't leave me – for pity's sake, say something. Speak to me!'
'He cannot speak to you, my child,' the abbé said, bending over her. 'You must be brave.'
'But he is not dead. I can see he is not. He is breathing!'
'Yes, but he can no longer hear you. Let us pray together. That is all that we can do for him—'
But Judith had no wish to pray. She jerked herself upright and in the light of the candles Marjann was lighting, Gilles saw her dark eyes glittering angrily.
'Why was I not told? Why did I know nothing?' she cried, without troubling to lower her voice. 'I thought he was quite well, only a little tired because he was old. And now, this evening, they come to tell me he is dying and that I must make haste. Was there no one to look after him?'
Her tone and her eyes were accusing. Then Dr Guillevic spoke up sharply.
'No one told you, young lady, because nobody knew. Not even ourselves. Your father insisted on keeping his condition a secret. You must know how reserved, how withdrawn he was—'
'And you must know how poor we are. My father was not withdrawn, as you say, he was proud. He would rather die than ask for help. But because he could not go out or entertain, no one bothered to find out how he was. If he had been rich, then the whole town would have flocked to his doors if he only sneezed!'
'You are letting your grief run away with you. Your father would not see anyone and we could scarcely force his door if he refused to open it. He could always find an excuse to avoid being visited, even by the rector. And you will hardly accuse him, who spends his life among the wretchedest hovels, of scorning your father because he was poor.'
The girl's mouth turned down as though she had just swallowed something bitter. She shrugged.
'Visits of charity! Don't you understand how he must have hated that? He, a Saint-Mélaine, the honour of Brittany, to be treated like a crippled sailor or a worn-out labourer. To have to be humbly grateful for a good word, as they say, and accept a few provisions left, as though by accident, on one corner of the table, or one of those grey woollen mufflers people knit of a winter's evening as they sit by the fire eating pancakes and mulling over the latest gossip – or – or perhaps even a few silver coins – for Christmas! That's not what I meant. But a friendly visit, such as one makes to one's equals, the true, warm, noticing kind of friendship that can recognize death lurking at the back of tired eyes. He would not have refused that. But you left him in his dreadful loneliness with only that crazy old woman who believes in fairies and in goblins and sees the devil everywhere! Oh, I hate you! How I hate you! All of you!'
Her angry cry ended in a sob and the tears welled up and poured down her strained face. She was shaking like a leaf, on the verge of hysteria, and her shrill voice rang through the almost empty room. Then the doctor stepped forward and slapped her twice, quite calmly, then took hold of her bodily and forced her to sit down in the one armchair, where she collapsed in a heap, shaking with convulsive sobs.
'Someone get me some water,' the doctor growled. 'And you, abbé, finish your business. This is a shameful scene.'
The abbé" nodded and smiled sadly.
'Oh, grief knows no shame. The poor child is beside herself. She does not know what she is saying, you know. And there may be something in it after all. We ought to have tried to force our way in. I fear that we have been gravely wanting in charity.'
'Don't try and blame yourself for a fault you've not committed, Abbé. You knew the Baron as well as I did. If we had forced our way in, he would have hurled the first thing that came to hand straight at our heads. He never went to church except at Christmas and Easter and he did not go out. But for the devotion of poor Marjann here, whom his daughter so unkindly calls a crazy old woman, he could have died alone and no one even noticed, and it might have been weeks before anyone found the body. But let no one come and tell us anyone knew what was going on – even his daughter who seems to have been sitting in her convent thinking that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.'
Contrary to what might have been expected, Judith showed no signs of resenting this indictment. She might not even have heard. She was huddled in her chair, her head in her hands, weeping softly.
With a sigh, the abbé moved back to the bed and resumed the interrupted sacrament, but he had to shake Gilles to get him back on his knees. Overwhelmed by the violence of the scene and by the girl's grief, he was staring at her with a dreadful sense of helplessness.
What she inspired him with, in addition to a recurring, painful hunger, was an odd mixture of affection and anger. He hated her for the unmitigated contempt which she so unjustly heaped on him, but he could not resist her charm and the tenderness which enveloped him whenever he thought of her smile and of the shadow of her lashes on her cheek when she lowered her eyes. That night, seeing her suffering, watching her sitting in the chair as though in the pillory, it was tenderness that won. He would joyfully have banished all his resentment to have the right to protect her, even against herself, and to dry the tears that flowed so endlessly.
When the last prayer was at an end, he emerged from the dark corner where he had been ever since her entry and moved towards her, as though drawn by a magnet. A board creaked under his foot and Judith looked up.
For a moment their eyes met and locked and for a few brief seconds the wondering Gilles found himself believing that they could never part again. In hers there was neither anger nor contempt, but only the misery of a little girl lost, only a pathetic appeal for help. It was like a miracle. Everything else had vanished, the handsome, poverty-stricken room, the dying man, the priest and the doctor. They were alone in a world which belonge
d to them alone.
A tear rolled slowly down Judith's cheek. Her lips parted, trembling, as if she were about to speak. But then a rattle from the bed broke the wonderful silence, and the doctor's voice said: 'It is the end. Come, mademoiselle.'
She was on her feet in an instant. The moment of grace had passed. Judith's head went up, her lips tightened and her face set hard again.
'You have no business here,' she said frostily. 'Be gone!'
Gilles shuddered, dragged from the gentleness of a moment before by the cutting contempt in the girl's voice. Moving so close that he could look down on her, he rasped out: 'No! The rector brought me here and it is for him to tell me when to go. And if you mean to have your servants throw me out, Mademoiselle de Saint-Mélaine,' he added cruelly, 'I do not think their numbers need concern me.'
He thought for a moment that she would have hurled herself at him but already M. de Talhouët had intervened, looking from one to the other of the young people in surprise.
'Go and wait for me downstairs,' he told his godson. 'I will make arrangements for the laying out and for someone to watch the body before we go.'
An hour later, when the mortal remains had been entrusted to the Brotherhood of the Dead, godfather and godson faced one another across the table in Katell's kitchen, while she dished up great bowls of porridge, mulled cider and even an omelette, whipped up by some miracle out of her mysterious store, before retiring to the chimney corner with her knitting.
They ate for a while in silence. Gilles, his nose in his bowl, shovelled food into his mouth and struggled against sleep. His long ride, the bruises of which were beginning to make themselves felt, the excitements of the day and the late hour were all weighing him down. All he wanted now, once he had satisfied his protesting stomach, was to sleep, to sink deeply into that blessed oblivion which is the sleep of youth.
The abbé waited until he had swallowed his last mouthful of cider and then asked quietly, as though continuing a conversation already begun: 'How long have you known her?'
Falcon 1 - The Lure of the Falcon Page 9