Martyrs of Science

by S. Henry Berthoud

  “Yes, I know everything!” I exclaimed. “You shall be punished as you deserve.”

  Antoine went out, in despair. Five minutes later I heard an explosion. I ran to my servant’s room. He had blown his brains out.

  He had left a note for me: Monsieur, I’m a wretch. I’ve stolen your jewels. I’m dishonored; I shall die.

  On reading that, I was overtaken by an unbearable distress, and a fever. I had to take to my bed, in a pitiful state.

  Édouard, as truly as I believe in God, the figure that I had seen the night before leapt to my gaze all night long—except that he only showed me two fingers, and his vibrant voice pronounced the word “Two.”

  Now, his mysterious speech and gestures were only too clear to me. The fatal ring was to cost the lives of three people. One of them had already met his fate.

  During my convalescence, I was told that a young woman, poorly dressed and carrying a small child in her arms had come several times to ask for me. She had begged insistently that she be allowed to speak to me. I ordered that she should be brought to me if she came back again.

  An hour later, she was shown into my room.

  Casting my eyes over that unfortunate woman, pale, save for her eyes reddened with tears, hardly able to stand up, I understood that she had suffered a great deal, even more from moral troubles than physical ones.

  “Antoine loved me,” she said—and her knees buckled underneath her. If an armchair had not happened to be there, she would have fallen on the floor. “It was for me that he stole. It’s because of me that he’s dead. I’m…this is his son...”

  The poor young woman’s sobs broke my heart.

  “Here, Monsieur, take this ring back. It’s the only gift of his that I have left. I hadn’t yet sold it in order to live. Take it back, Monsieur, but don’t denounce me to the law. What would become of my child, the only thing that remains to me? What would become of Antoine’s son, if they threw me in prison?

  She handed the ring to me, and I, overwhelmed by the memory of my vision, despairing in the realization that she had told the truth, chilled by fear at the thought of the misfortunes that she was still anticipating, remained motionless, absorbed by my lugubrious thoughts.

  Poor creature! She thought that I was rejecting her supplications; she threw herself at my feet, seized my hand and bathed it with tears.

  The unfortunate woman’s agony brought me out of my reverie. “That ring must be destroyed,” I exclaimed, “in order that it should not be deadly to anyone else. Hurry up, give it to me!”

  The child had taken it from his mother’s hand, in order to play with it; she had surrendered it listlessly. He had raised it to his lips.

  Suddenly, he uttered a groan, stiffened convulsively and fell back. His mother was no longer holding anything but a cadaver.

  The ring enclosed a mortal poison in its gem.

  And the horrible figure that was pursuing me appeared above the despairing mother. This time, he did not speak, but his long finger held up a single digit.

  Who will the third victim be?

  Édouard, this is an idea that has lit up within me for the first time: an idea inspired in me by Heaven, I’m sure of it.

  What if I were to put an end to the misfortunes caused by that infernal ring? I’ve lost everything that attached me to the earth. Existence weighs upon me; it has burdened me. What if I were to deflect the fatality that threatens someone else and draw it down voluntarily upon my own head?

  The phantom has predicted it, and I am only too forcefully compelled to believe its predictions. It still needs another victim—only one! Will Providence punish me for sacrificing myself in this situation?

  Already, for a long time, I’ve wanted to free myself from life. The fear of celestial wrath held me back. Now, God will bless me for dying.

  Look! Here’s the phantom coming back; he’s giving me a sign that I can die.

  Adieu!

  THE LADY OF THE COLD KISSES

  In the year 1187, Godescalque, Abbbé de Vaucelles,

  weary of his burden and wanting to plunge more

  deeply into the contemplation of Heaven, resigned it

  to Jean, who was obliged to return it to him two years

  later, because he did not feel strong enough or rigorous

  enough to remedy the deplorable debauchery,

  mutiny and confusion of its monks.

  Le Carpentier, Histoire de Cambrai, vol. I,

  Abbaye de Vaucelles.13

  To my transports she yielded about to die,

  And her happiness was but one long sigh.

  F. Délacroix, “The Rape.”14

  The valley of the Escaut is one of the most picturesque locations in Flanders. There is no traveler who does not marvel at it and ask: “What is that vast building whose three wings, iridescent with windows, stands amid the ponds, meadows and woods?”

  At present, it is a factory; once, it was the Abbaye de Vaucelles.15

  Once, the woods that crown the immense valley extended much further than they do today. Then, numerous pathways, contrived with extreme artistry, did not allow the monks to lose a single one of the amazing views that extended in every direction.

  Flocks, the property of the abbey, covered those green meadows, through which the Escaut runs; its source is not far from Vaucelles. The virgin waters of the river, still a stream, alimented the ponds that you can see. At all times their tranquil surface cradled gondolas surmounted by awnings, on the cushions of which the monks, sprawling limply, enjoyed the pleasures of fishing and the delights of fresh air.

  The Abbaye de Vaucelles offered the reality of the retreats of which the Epicurean imagination dreams, retreats that one would love to possess in order to live there, far from the anxieties and fatigues of the world, a life without cares, a life of idleness and wellbeing.

  The monks’ habits were made of fine white silky cloth; their hair, lightly fastened behind the head, was exquisitely neat, falling over a black scapular; and the elegance of their ingenious footwear had become proverbial.

  Under the episcopate of Maximilien de Berghes in the year 1569, a man carefully hidden in the folds of a voluminous cloak was wandering by night around the Abbaye de Vaucelles, advancing with precaution, moving along the wall in order not to be seen. He circled the building in that fashion and, having reached the dormitory, coughed lightly. Suddenly, a ladder fell from a window, to which it remained attached at one end. The unknown man climbed up slowly and was received by two half-naked monks. The young man, whose garments included a mixture of religious and secular costume, set about recounting some adventure or other to them in a low voice, in which the name of a woman continually cropped up. Afterwards, they separated, and each one went away to go to bed in his own cell.

  The young monk, for he was a member of the Vaucelles community, returned like the others and threw himself down breathlessly on his bed. Agitated by memories that he could not chase away, however, he unsuccessfully tried to go to sleep. In vain, he got up to bathe his forehead in cold water; in vain, he opened the window of his cell to let in cooler air; nothing could reconcile him with sleep.

  Then, lighting a small lamp that he brought to his bedside, he took up a thick manuscript whose parchment pages were overloaded with gilt ornaments and the most vivid colors. He read at random, at the place where the book had fallen open, and happened upon these pages, which recounted the foundation of Vaucelles:

  Christian readers, it is necessary for you to read attentively and meditate upon this true story, if you want to know when and how Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy, Seigneur de Crèvecoeur and Vicomte de Cambrai, after having contested with his bishop as his ancestors had done, after having had none but his own interest in recommendation, after having measured the just and the unjust for their utility, and concluded that a good consciences was importunate to his designs, was suddenly moved to compunction and horror of his crimes. You shall see after that in what fashion he caused the glory and advancement
of the House of God to march at the head of all his actions, and took such tender care of all the churches and hospitals of Cambrésis and its surroundings regions that he is revered there everywhere as a benefactor and a founder.

  But it is necessary for you to know that Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy possessed, in the location where the Abbaye de Vaucelles now stands, a fortified château with four crenellated towers, guarded by men-at-arms as miscreant and harsh as their seigneur was at that time.

  The most evil of them all was, without a doubt, an old squire whom no one could look at without fear. There was a wicked and lubricious expression in his little shining eyes, and to see the burned color of his skin one might have thought him a demon escaped from the fires of Hell or a sorcerer that the executioner had allowed to flee the pyre. That villainous man claimed to have fought in the Holy Land and attributed his suntanned complexion to the burning sky where Our Lord Jesus Christ did for the salvation of men.

  But if his body had borne arms for a holy cause, it had not worked to the profit of his soul, for old Pecquigny—such as his name—addressed ugly blasphemies and insults to all the saints in paradise without even excepting (may Our Lord pardon me for relating such things!) the Blessed Virgin Mary herself, the mother of the savior and the pure and immaculate source of all merits and blessings.

  In spite of having so many bad habits—among which we have omitted drinking to the point of drunkenness, unrestrained thievery, wrath and rebukes—Pecquigny had been able to find means to be in great favor with his young master, Hugues d’Oisy. It is true that he employed the experience of his old age and the cunning of his inventive mind to serve the impetuous passions of the young lord; then again, he excelled at taming horses, it being sufficient for him to murmur a few words, or merely to dart a glance, to render the most intractable horse as docile as a timid lamb.

  Now, Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy reckoned nothing superior to the pleasure of riding a fine palfrey or embracing a pretty girl, and with Pecquigny and his shrewd and deceitful advice, Hugues found as many restive fillies as chargers.

  It happened one day that Sire Hugues met a young woman who had come from the estates of Espienne to accomplish in a convent in Cambrai the pious desire that Heaven had given her to enter a cloister and spend her life in perpetual prayer on the road to salvation. Fortified by her blessed resolution, she was walking alone, rosary in hand, having taken the veil in advance and put on a wimple.

  Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy doffed his hat, more out of habit than in a spirit of devotion, when he encountered the blissful young woman. Seeing that, Pecquigny burst out laughing, so loudly that he nearly fell off his horse. “By the Devil in Hell!” he exclaimed, “by his fork and his tail, it’s my opinion, my young master, that you’ll soon be dressing in a cowl and hood, and instead of feeling the edge of a blade against your thigh you’ll be whipping your bare shoulders with the cords of a disciplinary lash. Far be it from me to let the girl pass with my hat lowered as if she reeked of holy incense—I’d pay her a different compliment, myself.”

  And, setting off after the young woman, he brought her back to his master.

  She told him, naively, for what reason she was going to the town of Cambrai, and Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy felt ill at ease on hearing that voice, so soft, pronounce simple words, and seeing large dark eyes full of sensuality and languor.

  He sighed, and, fearful of evil thoughts, told the young woman to go on her way.

  She was already obeying when she heard Pecquigny call out to her. “Hey!” he shouted. “Don’t venture any further at thus hour. The road is dangerous, and thieves and lechers might do you harm. As you can see, we’re pious folk, who doff our hats before a blessed veil.” He cast a mocking glance at Hugues. “Come to the manor close by; you can spend the night comfortably there with no mishaps, and tomorrow, if it suits you, you can continue on your way.”

  The young woman followed this bad advice.

  Merciful God, Blessed Virgin, model of purity, what happened at the manor during the night? Female laments, moans and cries for help were heard at about midnight, and the following day, a coffin was buried, without the priest naming, after the oblation—as is usual—the deceased for whom it was necessary to say prayers.

  A year after that sad adventure, Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy espoused in legitimate marriage Heldiarde de Beaudour. The wedding-party was held at the Châtel de Vaucelles, and the moment when the spouses were left alone, after the blessing of the nuptial bed, finally arrived—too slowly in Hugues d’Oisy’s opinion.

  Left with his spouse, he advanced in all haste toward the bed in which the beautiful Heldiarde lay, but he had scarcely arrived there than icy arms embraced him, an icy breast made contact with his and frozen lips kissed his lips.

  Then the apartment was lit by a faint gleam, and he saw the pale cadaver of a woman lavishing caresses upon him, shoving aside Heldiarde—who was dying of fright—with one hand and only interrupting her caresses to say: “Hugues, it’s me that you have married. I lost my chastity for you; I lost my divine spouse Jesus Christ for you; I lost the salvation of my soul for you; you belong to me; I am your wife.”

  The funereal bride did not disappear until daybreak.

  She came back the following night, and the one after, and she came back every night, with her cold caresses, her stiff embraces and her horrible words of love.

  It was in vain that Hugues left with Heldiarde for his Château de Crèvecoeur; the lady of the cold kisses followed him everywhere, and every time he looked at his wife, every time he extended his hand to her, the specter loomed up between them, and repeated: “It’s me, and me alone that Hugues has espoused.”

  Hugues and Heldiarde would both have died, if the blessed Abbé de Clairvaux, Saint Bernard, had not come to Cambrésis. He heard mention of the frightful marvel that has just been related and had no difficulty in recognizing that, for so great a punishment, there must have been a crime even greater.

  Wanting to return peace to the Châtel de Vaucelles, and banish forever the demon that was desolating the place, Saint Bernard came to find Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy, and found him in a state that would have moved the harshest man to pity.

  “There is a means,” said the man of God, “to make the persecutions of the evil spirit stop; devote yourself to a holy monastic life; trample the vanities of the world underfoot, put on the robe of a hermit. The cloister and its pious austerities cure the soul of its criminal habits, purify the conscience of its iniquities, raise a rampart between the faithful and the tempter, console the most profound troubles, and open the way to eternal life.”

  Redoubling his energy, he continued: “Imitate Jesus Christ, our savior. He spent forty years upon the earth in chastity and continence; his happiness was solitude, meditation and prayer. Embrace the life of the cloister, wretched sinner covered in iniquity, and bless the Almighty, who, in his mercy, permits weak and unworthy mortals to imitate a God, an immense, omnipotent God who died for your salvation.

  “I tell you this, and I repeat: there is no paradise outside the cloister. Is it not written in the gospels that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a powerful man to enter the kingdom of Heaven? Embrace the life of the cloister, then; do penance, and the kingdom of Heaven will come to you, and Satan will fall, vanquished, and the head of the serpent will be crushed.”

  Heldiarde uttered a profound sigh, for she could not consent to renouncing Hugues’ love. At that sigh, her spouse felt his heart break, and he remained motionless, making no reply.

  The old squire Pecquigny, whose discourteous gaze had not turned aside before Saint Bernard, then took it upon himself to speak.

  “By my old blind mule!” he said, his fists on his hips, sniggering, “what you say is enough to make me die laughing. Bounty of the Devil! To listen to you, he’d have to tie up and lock away his spurs, and become an impotent wretch, like those they make among the infidels that people go to fight in distant lands
, and let himself perish alive—unless he engenders bastards, as many monks do who repent of the vow they’ve sworn. By my good sword, I too have read and commented on the scriptures you call holy, and written there in all clarity is: Be fruitful and multiply. What do you say to that, my bald-headed friend?”

  A holy indignation turned the blessed cheeks red. “Vade retro, satanas!” he cried, in a tone of authority and wrath—for he suspected that the Devil alone, in person, could be pronouncing those impious words at such a point.

  Pecquigny trembled, and lost his audacity.

  “Vade retro, in nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti!”

  Saint Bernard had not yet pronounced the name of the savior when a harrowing noise, like thunder, suddenly burst forth, and nothing more remained in the place where the squire had stood than a heap of ashes exhaling an odor of sulfur sufficient to make one feel sick.

  It was necessary for the Comte d’Oisy and his wife to yield to that final prodigy, and they obeyed Saint Bernard’s orders in every detail.

  The reader will see in the sequel to this edifying story how Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy donated the Château de Vaucelles, in order that an Abbaye might be built there endowed with great wealth, and how Saint Bernard brought a dozen monks there to live a god life, who all died in an odor of sanctity. He will marvel at the account of miracles contrived by the blessed Abbé de Clairvaux; for instance, a spring that surged forth to slake the thirst of the workers, and a chariot of fire to transport the stones, trees and other objects without being drawn by horses or other visible beings. When the Abbaye was built, the chariot of fire returned to the woods, where, since that day, no one has ever seen it again, in spite of the most assiduous searches that were made.

  The lady of the cold kisses disappeared on the day when Abbé Raoul, English by nationality, came to live in the convent with his monks.

  Monseigneur Hugues d’Oisy and his wife, Madame Heldiarde, proposed to retire to a cloister, in obedience to Saint Bernard’s admonitions, but the aforesaid saint saw Our Lord Jesus Chris in a dream, who ordered him not to separate the two spouses, and they lived together for a long time in the fear of God and the most edifying devotion.