TO CHARLES MAURRAS
GESTAS
“‘Gestas,’ dixt li Signor, ‘entrez en Paradis.’”
“Gestas, dans nos anciens mystères, c’est le nom du larron crucifié à la droite de Jésus-Christ” (Augustin Thierry, la Rédemption de Larmor).[[3]]
[3]. “‘Gestas,’ said the Lord, ‘enter into Paradise.’”
“Gestas, in our ancient mystery plays, was the name of the thief who was crucified on the right hand of Jesus Christ” (Augustin Thierry, The Redemption of Larmor).
Folks say that we have amongst us at this very day a sad rogue named Gestas, who writes the sweetest songs in the world. It was written on his flat-featured face that he would be a sinner after the flesh, and towards evening evil exultation shines in his green eyes. He is no longer young. The protuberances on his skull have taken on the lustre of copper; the long hair falling about his neck has taken a greenish tinge. Nevertheless he is ingenuous, and has kept fast hold on the naive faith of his childhood. When he is not in hospital he occupies a little room in some squalid hotel between the Panthéon and the Jardin des Plantes. There, in the old impoverished quarter, every stone is familiar with his tread, the gloomy byways are tolerant of him, and one of these narrow lanes is entirely after his own heart; for, lined though it is with dram shops and boosing kens, it boasts on the corner of one of the houses an image of the Virgin in a blue niche behind bars. Of an evening he progresses from café to café, and at station after station, with pious orderliness, he takes his beer or his spirits: the exacting duties of the devotee of debauchery call for method and regularity. The night is far gone when, without knowing how, he once more reaches his den, and by a daily miracle discovers the sacking bed, upon which he falls fully dressed. There with clenched fists he sleeps the sleep of the vagabond and the child. But that sleep is brief.