Chapter XLVI: Wreckage

“Yea, I am passed away, I think, from this;
Nor helps me herb, nor any leechcraft here,
But lift me hither the sweet cross to kiss,
And witness ye, I go without a fear.”
—AUSTIN DOBSON, _The Dying of Tanneguy du Bois_.

The door opened a little way, heavy sabots clattered over the high stone sill on to the floor of beaten earth within, and the door closed again.

“Perrine,” said the old man who had entered, speaking Breton, “it is arranged. I have left Marie-Pierre behind at Coatsaliou’s house to fetch him.”

The woman who sat dozing in the ingle-nook gave a start. “Eh, ma Doué, is it you, Mathurin? What did you say? I was half asleep.”

The aged Breton, thin, bent, his meagre white hair falling over his bowed shoulders, began to shuffle towards her, then, as if remembering something, stopped, and slipping his bare feet out of straw-stuffed sabots, pattered on noiselessly without the latter. “Listen,” he said, sitting down beside his wife. “When Coatsaliou brings the good priest safe from Besné to his house he will find Marie-Pierre there—I left him behind on purpose—and when the Révérend has refreshed himself, Marie-Pierre will tell him how we have here a wounded Vendean, and how we fear he is dying, and that he cannot have the sacraments because Monsieur le Recteur is driven away. Then Marie-Pierre will bring the abbé here, and he can confess the young man and give him the last sacraments and go on his way.”

Madame Gloannec, many years younger than her husband—she was his second wife—lifted her coiffed head and looked doubtful. “You say it is arranged, Mathurin, but supposing the priest cannot come? After all, he is himself escaping, is he not, from Nantes? Perhaps he will think the risk too great.”

“Is it likely, Perrine, that he will not come when he hears that the young man is dying without the sacraments, and he a priest of the Vendeans!”

“You do not know who he is, the abbé?”

“No more than Noel Coatsaliou himself. But Noel says that he must be somebody very important, because of the money that must have been spent to get him out of Nantes, and the difficulty of making all these arrangements for guiding him to the coast. Probably he is very holy; it will be blessed for us to have him in this house.” He took snuff vigorously, and with an air appreciative of future spiritual benefits.

“And for the young man,” added his wife. “Thank God that we have been able to get him a priest at the last. . . . But to think,” she added sadly, “that there was a time when we thought we should save the poor boy.”

“Dame! I never thought so, with a wound like that!”

“Then why did you and Marie-Pierre bring him in, at such a risk?—No, Mathurin, you know you thought so, too. . . . It is six weeks yesterday since you found him.”

“Christmas Eve it was,” assented old Gloannec, putting away his snuff-box and brushing himself. “Well, I for one am not sorry that the good God has decided to take him to Himself, and, without disrespect, I think He might have made up His mind earlier.”

“Because the poor young man has suffered so much, you mean?” said his wife. “Yes, you are right there. But last night, when I was up with him, he had not nearly so much pain as usual. Yet it is a bad sign that he is so much weaker. He is worn out, I think.”

“If only we could have had a surgeon,” said Mathurin. “Well, well. . . . Yet, thank the saints, if we have not been able to do much for his body, we shall have done the best we could for his soul, and may God have mercy on it.”

He had scarcely completed the sign of the cross with which he accompanied this pious adjuration before the latch of the door clicked. They had neither of them heard the approaching footsteps.

* * * * * *

As M. des Graves, following his tall young guide, and clad like him in Breton dress, stepped out of the whipping February blast into the warm kitchen, the place appeared to him to be much darker than it really was. Then, as the apparent gloom lightened, he saw, in the greenish light of the peat fire, the three Breton faces looking at him with a reverent and wistful attention.

“First of all give us your blessing, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said Mathurin, hobbling forward. “It is long since we had a priest in this house.” And with his wife and his son he fell on his knees to receive it.

As they rose M. des Graves glanced instinctively towards the _lit clos_, which, with its carved panels, its chest, and its little holy-water stoup, stood as usual in the corner by the hearth. Madame Gloannec saw the look.

“No, Monsieur l’Abbé: he is above, in the granary. It is a poor place for a sick man, but it was safer in case the Blues searched for fugitives. Indeed, they did so once, and we had to cover the bed with hay. Will your Reverence come to him now?”

“He is conscious, I suppose?” asked the priest. “How long has he been in danger?”

“Ma foi, I scarcely know,” replied Madame Gloannec. “We are but ignorant people, mon père, and could not have a surgeon. And he was desperately hurt. At first, when Mathurin and Marie-Pierre brought him in, six weeks ago, with a horrible wound right through his body, we thought he was dying. We did what we could; then he got a little better, then worse, then better again, and so it has gone on until the last few days, when he has been much worse. Yesterday we were sure that he was sinking. So, knowing that your Reverence was about to pass through on the way to Ste. Reine, I asked him if he would like to see a priest, and he said yes. He was quite conscious half an hour ago, and I think he has little pain now, but he has suffered very much.” The tears were in her eyes as she added that if the priest wished to give him extreme unction the sacred oils were still in the little church near by, and could be speedily fetched. The tabernacle was empty. But, since the army had crossed the Loire, M. des Graves had always carried the Blessed Sacrament with him, and he had but to despatch Marie-Pierre to the church, which was done.

Mounting the narrow, ladder-like stairs after Madame Gloannec, the priest found himself in the space under the roof, used, as always in Brittany, for a loft and store-room. In one corner was a large pile of fodder, into which, at their approach, a mouse ran squeaking. Strings of onions hung from the sloping rafters; a brazier, now nearly extinct, had been lit to dispel the cold, and it was evident that its smoke escaped but ill by the hole which had been knocked in the roof for that purpose. One small window let in a muffled daylight, and near it, on a miserable pallet bed, under a dirty and faded coverlet, was the outline of a human form, lying, slightly huddled up, on its right side, with its face turned away from the door, and consequently invisible.

Madame Gloannec placed a crazy chair at the head of the bed for the priest, and going round to the other side of the pallet bent down.

“Mon enfant,” she said in a tone of extraordinary gentleness, and as if she were indeed speaking to a child—even to her own child—“mon enfant, here is the good priest come to you. You wish him to confess you, do you not?”

Evidently she received an answer in the affirmative, though none was audible to M. des Graves; and after a moment’s hesitation she slipped her arms under the dying man, gently lifting him a little so that he should lie on his back. And as his head sank back in profile on the low pillow M. des Graves recognised him.

He was terribly altered; his face, with its shadows, its pinched nostrils and hollow temples, waxlike in pallor and transparency. Round the mouth and on the brow was scored the track of past pain, but what every lineament bore most plainly was the stamp of an exhaustion so profound that it seemed as if physical suffering must be over now for ever—could have no more power over the body on which it had so fully worked its will. Indeed, after the first lightning shock of recognition the priest asked himself if they could really be Louis’ features, so completely had all trace of the lazy vitality which was once their characteristic and their charm ebbed away from their sharpened contours.

Madame Gloannec, occupied in arranging the pillow and the coverings, did not hear the stifled exclamation which rose to M. des Graves’ lips. A momentary fierce conflict shook him between his instinctive craving to bend at once over Louis, to call him by his name, to assure himself if indeed he were dying, as they said, to tell him that he was near him, to comfort him . . . and the conviction that nothing personal must be suffered to distract the young man at this supreme moment, and that the poor remnants of his strength had to be used for something else than a greeting which would shake and try them. And the priest was victorious over the friend. M. des Graves deliberately set his chair where Louis could not see him without completely turning his head, an action which was probably quite beyond his powers, and pulling out a shabby stole, sat down. Madame Gloannec crept from the room.

The roughly-shorn brown head—they had cut off his long hair—moved very slightly on the pillow, and the half-shut, dark-lidded eyes opened.

“I am here, my son,” said M. des Graves instantly, praying that Louis might not know his voice. “I will say your Confiteor for you, since you are very ill, and afterwards, my child, accuse yourself of such sins as you can remember.”

Louis did not know the familiar voice. He sighed, moved his hands a little on the coverlet, and began. His own voice was as changed as the rest of him. For a few minutes it went on, weak and trailing, halting for breath, stumbling over words, and then began to show a significant tendency to repeat the same phrases over and over again.

M. des Graves interposed at once. “That is enough, my son. You have made a sufficient confession. ‘_For these and all my other sins_’——”

But Louis scarcely heeded him. His brain, spurred by its recent costly effort at concentration, was beginning to hurry him towards the regions of delirium, yet not so fast but that he seemed to know it, and to make painful attempts to regain control of his thoughts. “_For these and all my other sins,_” he repeated mechanically. “Gilbert, you must believe me. My God! you don’t think that! . . . _which I cannot now remember_ . . . _which I cannot_ . . . I cannot remember about Gilbert . . . but he is dead, and it is my fault . . . because I hated him . . . and now he is dead. . . . Marigny, Marigny, there are women in the town . . . we have only three rounds left . . . no, I shall stay by the gun. . . . O God! will the pain never cease! . . . I did not think it was so difficult to die. . . . Gilbert was lucky; he died quickly. . . . O Gilbert, if you would only listen! . . . mon père, he keeps turning away his head . . . but I never betrayed him . . . God knows I never betrayed him. . . .”

“Louis, Louis!” exclaimed M. des Graves, in great distress, careless that he used the name, and horrified at witnessing the sands of life slipping away in a fashion so useless and so heart-rending. His remonstrance had no result except to wake in the wandering mind some faint echo of the past.

“It is no use, Father . . . let me go! He says I have no honour . . . he will not listen because he is dead . . . dead . . .” The broken voice paused for an instant, and, losing something of its fever, began to grow weaker. “How wide the river is . . . they will never all get across . . . there are so many dead . . . Lescure was a long time dying . . . and Royrand. . . . I cannot remember any more. . . . _For all my sins, which I cannot now remember_. . . . If only M. des Graves . . . were here . . . but he is . . . dead, too. . . .” And suddenly he exclaimed, on a note of horror: “Gilbert, who gave you that wound?”

But at the appeal to himself the priest could bear it no longer. Better the risk of shock than this fatal expenditure of strength. He got up from his place, and, kneeling down by the side of the bed where the young man could see him, took one of the thin hands into his own. “Louis, my dear child, I am here. You must not imagine these things; they are not true. All was well between you and Gilbert; do you not remember? You have made a good confession. Try now to recollect yourself while I give you absolution.”

His revelation had all the effect he could have desired, and none of those he feared. The faint voice died down into silence. But Louis was too near death for anything to surprise him. He looked up at M. des Graves quietly, accepting his presence naturally and without wonder. His hand moved in the priest’s, the transient shadow of a smile flickered for an instant round his drawn mouth, he gave a long sigh, perhaps of contentment, perhaps of fatigue, and his eyelids fell.

M. des Graves stood up and gave him absolution. Then he knelt down again, and after a long look at the young, worn face stooped and kissed it.

The Vicomte reopened his lustreless eyes. The question in them was unmistakable.

“I think so, my dear child,” said the priest solemnly.

And Louis received the fiat with the same dreamy composure as that with which he had accepted M. des Graves’ presence. The priest had the impression that, once his mind was quieted, the mere sensation of respite from prolonged physical pain flooded it to the exclusion of any other emotion. But even as he thought this Saint-Ermay slowly and with difficulty raised his right hand and began to grope underneath his coarse shirt. Finding nothing there but his bandages he turned away his head, and M. des Graves, following his gaze, beheld, hanging by a rusty nail to the rafters, its ribbon worn and very faded, the miniature of Lucienne. Louis made a gesture towards it that was half a gesture of farewell, and his hand fell on the coverlet.

The priest went round and took down the portrait. The brilliants of its setting were clogged with something dried and brown. He put it into Louis’ hand, and the fingers closed round it, but the hand itself, inexpressibly wasted, seemed to be incapable of further effort, and remained lying there inert. Louis sighed, and murmured something inaudible; then, with a visible effort, he said slowly and distinctly, “Thank you, Father. That is all. . . .” And, adding much more faintly, “I am very tired,” he closed his eyes again.

“My child,” said M. des Graves, bending close above him, “it may yet be God’s purpose that you should live. We do not know, and in our ignorance we can do nothing. But you submit yourself to His Will, do you not, Louis? . . . And now, my dear child, shall I give you the last sacraments?”

The young man, without opening his eyes, made a little motion of the head, and M. des Graves, going to the door, called for Marie-Pierre and the sacred oils.

The beautiful and significant rite went forward, the young Breton assisting. At its beginning Louis was still conscious, but when M. des Graves came to anoint his palms, and tried very gently to disengage the miniature from his right hand, he evidently did not know what was happening, and seemed to wish to retain it. By the end he had sunk quietly into insensibility.

“You cannot give him le bon Dieu, mon père,” said Marie-Pierre in a whisper. “He is going.” Crossing himself, he dropped to his knees.

But M. des Graves, with his hand on the Vicomte’s wrist, said nothing for a moment. The tiny thread of life, flickering under his fingers, woke in him a hope disproportionate to its frail pulsations. He listened to his heart, lifted an eyelid.

“I think he may at least last the night,” he said quietly, “and I should like to stay with him. I have known him since he was a boy.”

* * * * * *

Fantastic shadows were cast about the loft by the wavering rush-light, as, powerless to aid, M. des Graves watched there over the existence which seemed likely to go out even before the short-lived candle. But, listening to the shallow, fluttering breathing from the bed, the priest thanked God that whether Louis was to live or die, he had been able to come to him in his need. If the name of another Chantemerle—the last—was to be added to the roll-call of the noble army of martyrs, for that too he would thank Him; and, most of all, that the breath of the furnace, passing over the nature that was too hard and the nature that was too volatile, had proved them both of the same metal. So, diverse as they were in all else, the same august altar had claimed them at last, Gilbert in his hasty grave at Chantemerle, and Louis, the gay and irresponsible, lying here wrecked and dying from the very circumstances which had brought his undiscovered fine qualities to the birth. For in the hardships and disasters of the campaign beyond the Loire, Louis had displayed, to M. des Graves’ eyes, a more brilliant courage than when, at La Rochejaquelein’s side, he had dashed without a single follower on to the bridge at Château-Gontier, and a heroism of endurance the more wonderful because nothing in his character or breeding had seemed to promise it.

Well, it was over now, that and the long weeks of illness, of pain and of insufficient care. God was good; He knew best. Often He vouchsafed the crown of martyrdom to the young and withheld it from the old. His own had waited for him long at Nantes in the cold waters of the Loire, in the fusillades at the quarries. But when he had thought to grasp it, it was withdrawn from him.

Towards midnight Madame Gloannec stole up to the granary. M. des Graves rose from the pallet, by which he was praying, and they stood together looking down in silence at its burden. Louis had not stirred since he had become unconscious; his hands were still lightly crossed on his breast as the priest had laid them after extreme unction, and in this posture, with his head thrown back on the low pillow, he had the aspect of an effigy in pale ivory, touched with a kind of morbid beauty and rendering with fidelity not only the calm, but the deadly fatigue preceding dissolution. The woman after a little while of gazing threw her apron over her head, and, turning away, was shaken with silent sobs; then, without a word, she left the priest again to his vigil.

And there came to the watcher very clearly the remembrance of standing with Louis by Gilbert’s bier before the altar, in the sacramental radiance of the tall candles, and looking at the great peace of his face. . . . Louis’ own face, now, was not so different. . . .