CHAPTER XXXI
THE CALVARY ON THE MOORS
"A cold night, Mesdames, for a walk. Your blood needs warming."
The mocking voice of their leader evoked another roar of laughter from the rest.
They were new to their role, those others, and Madame de Quernais had always been one to command much respect and awe as the great lady of the place. Now it was strange, and a little awe-inspiring, too, to see her standing there, facing them so quietly.
She did not seem afraid of the Terror, this Madame of theirs.
It was disappointing.
But Jean Floessel knew how to deal with vile aristos. He advanced with a swagger.
"Come," he jeered. "We're on our way to pay you a visit. It's a large party, but there's room enough at the château for all. It's absurd for three people to occupy so many apartments when we herd by the dozen in one. But there's an end to that now. Come, Citoyenne, you'll return with us, and we'll have a pleasant evening. If I mistake not, the little one there has a fine pair of eyes and a pretty mouth. Aha! we shall have amusement. And you'll be kind, my friends, if you're wise, or there's a citoyenne at St. Malo whose embrace is closer and colder than that of Jean Floessel, and less to your taste, I'll swear."
A hoarse shout of laughter greeted the sally.
After all, it was their day now, and, as Jean said, they would amuse themselves. There would be wine as well as dancing at the château.
It was at this moment that Père Mouet stepped forward.
A familiar little figure in brown habit, with a brown, kindly old face.
But, just now, the memories of the men of Kérnak were short.
"My children," he cried, raising his arm, "what is this? You would be led by this man into sin? I will not believe it of you. This is not Paris—it is not even France. It is Brittany—our Brittany. We of a good and noble land will not join hands with murderers; or what will le bon Dieu say to us,—He who guards and protects us in storm and gale, and who brings love and joy to our homes? Go back to those homes now, my children, and thank the blessed saints that you have been saved from crime."
A low murmur died away into silence.
Père Mouet spoke to his people's hearts.
A harsh laugh interrupted him.
"Be silent, old fool," shouted Jean Floessel, "or I will throttle your whinings in your throat. Malédiction! it's always the way of you priests to be greedy; but since there are three of them we can all have our share of the kisses."
He looked round, expecting the coarse jest to meet with applause. But none came. The men of Kérnak were thinking.
"Silence!" cried Père Mouet sternly, raising his hand again. "See you not where we stand, fellow? Beware lest Heaven shrivel your foul tongue in your throat in punishment. Repent you of your evil ways ere it is too late, and the fires of Purgatory chastise you for your sins."
Again the murmur rose from the crowd.
Religion and superstition were too deeply imbedded in these Breton peasants to be easily up-rooted. Already fear of the Church's anathema was at work in their hearts.
But Jean Floessel had been in Paris. He had learnt things there—amongst others how to forget the early lessons his mother had taught him.
He was not afraid of curse or Purgatory. With a scream of rage he flung himself forward with hand outstretched to strike the old man standing there so fearlessly before him.
But one of the peasants—a brawny fisherman of the coast, caught him by the collar, dragging him back.
Père Mouet was ready to follow up his advantage.
"My children," he cried. "Ah, my children, you will listen to me. You will return to your homes and pray God and His dear saints to keep you in peace from all the madness and evil of these terrible days."
His voice broke off, quavering with emotion, but the crowd answered by a sigh—a long sigh as of waves receding from impregnable cliffs back into the deep.
Here and there a woman sobbed and a man muttered prayer or oath. They were remembering how this Père Mouet had indeed a right to call them his children; for had he not been a father to them these forty years and more?
One recalled how he sat up three nights with little Gaston when he had the fever, another of the prayers he offered without payment for the soul of the poor Louis who died unshriven last autumn. Then how good he had been when bad days came during the winter. Père Mouet had been the only one who had a cheery word then, always cheery, always helpful, always ready to nurse a sick one, or get food for a hungry one. As for the children, there was not one in Kérnak who did not adore him.
And now what were they doing?
That was the question many put to themselves, and hung their heads in very shame for answer. But Jean Floessel was quick to see the way in which the wind was blowing.
Nom d'un chien! Was he to have all his eloquence and exertions wasted because these fools were ready to listen to one old man?
Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.
In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.
Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had him by the coat, could see what he was about.
A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.
But Père Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.
It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.
Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes were upon her.
Presently she rose.
"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."
A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.
The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.
Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Père Mouet.
So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so powerful. No wonder that he was smiling—the glad, sweet smile of one who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.
But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in death.
The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then another. Père Mouet was dead! Père Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his murderer.
They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.
Père Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them to fear God. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and sharpened stabs of conscience.
And Père Mouet was dead!
Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this dread news.
Père Mouet dead! They were realizing it—to the cost of Jean Floessel.
With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had already seen his danger.
If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.
Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.
He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kérnak were of another mind.
The tide had turned.
It was no longer "À bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the howl of men who seek vengeance.
Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.
The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.
And behind him came the avengers of Père Mouet.
He ran well—-that Jean Floessel—for over a mile, stumbling, sweating, cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.
And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kérnak, and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the same kindly influence.
They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on moonlit nights and talk to them. Yes, they caught him there, and he had not even time to cry "Vive la nation!" ...
Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.
But many wept that night in Kérnak as they whispered Père Mouet's name in their prayers.