An Episode Under the Terror | Page 8

of the soul of--of--of an august
personage whose body will never rest in consecrated earth----"
Involuntarily the abbe shivered. As yet, neither of the Sisters

understood of whom the stranger was speaking; they sat with their
heads stretched out and faces turned towards the speaker, curiosity in
their whole attitude. The priest meanwhile, was scrutinizing the
stranger; there was no mistaking the anxiety in the man's face, the
ardent entreaty in his eyes.
"Very well," returned the abbe. "Come back at midnight. I shall be
ready to celebrate the only funeral service that it is in our power to
offer in expiation of the crime of which you speak."
A quiver ran through the stranger, but a sweet yet sober satisfaction
seemed to prevail over a hidden anguish. He took his leave respectfully,
and the three generous souls felt his unspoken gratitude.
Two hours later, he came back and tapped at the garret door.
Mademoiselle de Beauseant showed the way into the second room of
their humble lodging. Everything had been made ready. The Sisters had
moved the old chest of drawers between the two chimneys, and covered
its quaint outlines over with a splendid altar cloth of green watered silk.
The bare walls looked all the barer, because the one thing that hung
there was the great ivory and ebony crucifix, which of necessity
attracted the eyes. Four slender little altar candles, which the Sisters
had contrived to fasten into their places with sealing-wax, gave a faint,
pale light, almost absorbed by the walls; the rest of the room lay
well-nigh in the dark. But the dim brightness, concentrated upon the
holy things, looked like a ray from Heaven shining down upon the
unadorned shrine. The floor was reeking with damp. An icy wind swept
in through the chinks here and there, in a roof that rose sharply on
either side, after the fashion of attic roofs. Nothing could be less
imposing; yet perhaps, too, nothing could be more solemn than this
mournful ceremony. A silence so deep that they could have heard the
faintest sound of a voice on the Route d'Allemagne, invested the
nightpiece with a kind of sombre majesty; while the grandeur of the
service--all the grander for the strong contrast with the poor
surroundings--produced a feeling of reverent awe.
The Sisters kneeling on each side of the altar, regardless of the deadly
chill from the wet brick floor, were engaged in prayer, while the priest,
arrayed in pontifical vestments, brought out a golden chalice set with
gems; doubtless one of the sacred vessels saved from the pillage of the
Abbaye de Chelles. Beside a ciborium, the gift of royal munificence,

the wine and water for the holy sacrifice of the mass stood ready in two
glasses such as could scarcely be found in the meanest tavern. For want
of a missal, the priest had laid his breviary on the altar, and a common
earthenware plate was set for the washing of hands that were pure and
undefiled with blood. It was all so infinitely great, yet so little,
poverty-stricken yet noble, a mingling of sacred and profane.
The stranger came forward reverently to kneel between the two nuns.
But the priest had tied crape round the chalice of the crucifix, having no
other way of marking the mass as a funeral service; it was as if God
himself had been in mourning. The man suddenly noticed this, and the
sight appeared to call up some overwhelming memory, for great drops
of sweat stood out on his broad forehead.
Then the four silent actors in the scene looked mysteriously at one
another; and their souls in emulation seemed to stir and communicate
the thoughts within them until all were melted into one feeling of awe
and pity. It seemed to them that the royal martyr whose remains had
been consumed with quicklime, had been called up by their yearning
and now stood, a shadow in their midst, in all the majesty of a king.
They were celebrating an anniversary service for the dead whose body
lay elsewhere. Under the disjointed laths and tiles, four Christians were
holding a funeral service without a coffin, and putting up prayers to
God for the soul of a King of France. No devotion could be purer than
this. It was a wonderful act of faith achieved without an afterthought.
Surely in the sight of God it was like the cup of cold water which
counterbalances the loftiest virtues. The prayers put up by two feeble
nuns and a priest represented the whole Monarchy, and possibly at the
same time, the Revolution found expression in the stranger, for the
remorse in his face was so great that it was impossible not to think that
he was fulfilling the vows of a boundless repentance.