“I do not blaspheme, father, and I repeat: I bring Jesus the Christ. Did he not say himself: ‘What ye do to the least among men, that ye do unto me’? Consider, father! The poor fellow lay on the highway, suffering pain, in the sun. Did not God himself send us in his pity to lessen his suffering? It was for that reason that all the doors were shut against us, that we might succor this dying one and bring him here. If our baskets had been full of food, we could not have helped him, so everything was arranged wisely by Providence.”
A murmur circled the row of standing monks. The Prior was all but convinced. After a little meditation he said: “According to the commands of brotherly love you have done well, but likewise the Scriptures say: ‘Be cunning as the serpent.’ Is it not possible that this fellow is merely making believe? Who knows but he is an adventurer, who seeks our Cloister out in order later to fall upon it with his companions and plunder it!
“But it is done now and argument is useless. Let your punishment be—since you did this without consulting me—to take care of the sick man yourself. Come, Brothers, it is time for evening prayer!”
It was a sad and sorry-faced festival today! In the mind of Brother Zeno, who was singing, there were visions of artichokes cooked in fragrant oil; Brother Sulpicius was afraid to lift his eyes to the altar, lest he should behold fabulous, golden melons floating there; and good Cleofas thought that the incense was the smell of smoked meat. How sad was that evening meal. Nothing but dry bread, raw turnips, and cheese so old it was green. And Cœlestin was to be blamed.
Scarcely was the sad meal ended when a Brother announced the death of the stranger. Fresh trouble, and another round of reproaches for Cœlestin. Even the Prior could not hold in any longer, and began to scold: “Expense! Useless expense!”
Brother Cœlestin remained with the dying man to the last breath. As soon as he closed his eyes, a strange feeling came over him; he felt as if he were going to commit theft. With trembling hand he felt the body of the dead man, and at last he found what he sought—the old flute. As if it had been a costly treasure he hid it in his breast. The entire day he walked about like one in a dream. The monks meanwhile buried the stranger by the Cloister wall. But instead of prayers they only flung a few remarks at him, along with some handfuls of dirt.
It was a fragrant evening of summer. Cœlestin stood by the window of his narrow cell and gazed across at the mountains. His soul was slowly bursting into bloom like a gigantic flower.
He had never seen a flute before. He drew it forth eagerly and looked at it just as a child looks at a new toy, and then tried awkwardly to put it to his lips and place his fingers upon the openings and move them up and down. He made the attempt of blowing his breath into it. A pure, sweet tone bubbled up from the flute and floated forth upon the air of evening. It was as if a swan upon a lake was singing its death song.
Cœlestin was astonished and repeated the attempt, and this time longer and with more courage. If the first note was like a quiet lament, the next note was a reproach, and did not perish suddenly, but ended with a sharp call.
In his inexperience Cœlestin thought it could not be otherwise, and that it all consisted in just blowing breath into the flute, and the flute itself would do the rest, and so he blew valiantly.