“Vraiment?” politely, smothering his chagrin. “But, certainly! Upon that block in the corner!”
It was a pillar, not a block, and marble, not wooden. An imposition so bare-faced did not pass unchallenged. We argued that the pillar was modern in workmanship, and too clean. No blood-stains disfigured its whiteness.
“There had been blood-stains without doubt. Beyond question, also, the kisses and tears of the faithful had erased them.”
But it was absurd, unheard of, to talk of decapitation upon a stone block, waiving objections to the height and shape of this. The axe, in severing the head, would be spoiled utterly by contact with the hard surface beneath.
“So I should have said, Monsieur. It is the dictate of le bon sens, Madame! But me—I am here to repeat what the Church instructs me to say. When I arrive at this so holy place, I find the pillar here, as you see it—protected by an iron rail from destruction at the hands and lips of devotees. I am told, ‘It is the pillar on which was cut off the head of St. Paul the Blessed Martyr.’ Who am I, a poor lay-brother, that I should doubt the decree of the Church?”
Seeing absolution in our faces after this frank confession, he entered, with interest, upon the history of the three fountains enclosed in as many marble altars, ranged at one side of the church. In the front of each is an opening large enough to admit the hand, arm, and a drinking-cup kept ready for dipping. Above each aperture is a head of Paul in bas-relief. In the first, the eyes are open, the features instinct with life. The second portrays the relaxed lineaments of a dying man, the third, the rigidity of death in closed eyelids and sunken cheeks. Keeping close to the letter of the lesson he had been taught, our unsavory cicerone related that the Apostle’s head made three bounds upon the earth after its separation from the body, and that at each touch a fountain had burst forth. To establish the truth of the miracle to unbelievers in all ages, no less than to kindle the enthusiasm of true worshippers at this shrine, the water of the first spring is still warm; of the second, tepid; of the third, ice-cold.
“Will Mademoiselle,” turning to the young girl near him, and grimacing in what was meant to be a fascinating fashion—“Will Mademoiselle vouchsafe to taste the healing waters? For that they are a veritable catholicon is attested by many cures. Or, is it that Mademoiselle is never ill? Her blooming cheeks would say, ‘No.’ Ah, then, so much the better! A draught of the miraculous fountains—accompanied, of course, by an ‘Ave Maria,’ is efficacious in procuring a husband. May he be un bon Catholique!”
But one of the company tasted the waters, and she affirmed roundly—in English, for our benefit, in French for the friar’s—that the temperature of all three was the same.
“That is because you have not faith!” chuckled the lay-brother, throwing what was left in the cup upon the Four Seasons. “The Catholic husband will cure all that!”
His cackling laugh was odious, his torrent of talk wearisome. We hurried to escape them by quitting the church and proffering the gate-fee, a franc for each person. At sight of the money, he ceased laughing and began to whine. The fees were the property of the Convent. For himself, he had no perquisites save such as he earned from the sale of Eucalyptus syrup. Unlocking the door of a store-house, he showed us shelves crowded with bottles of the elixir, prepared by the brethren, and used freely by them in the sickly season. Formerly, we were informed, no one could live here even in winter. The place was a miasmatic swamp, the churches and abbey were almost in ruins. But the monks of La Trappe enjoyed in an extraordinary degree (the whine rising into a sanctimonious sing-song) the favor of Our Lady and the saints. They stayed here, the year around, encouraged by His Holiness the Pope in the cultivation of the Eucalyptus, chiefly, that the elixir might be bestowed upon the contadini who ventured to live in the pestilential district, and charitable forestieri, (foreigners) unused to the climate. We assured him, coldly, that we would not buy medicine we did not need, and satisfied his benevolent intentions us-ward, by paying him for some flowers and pieces of marble we brought away as souvenirs. We left him standing in the gateway, grinning at the young ladies, and breathing so hard that we imagined we smelt garlic and sour wine a hundred yards down the road.