"Sylvestre Ker will go! Sylvestre Ker will not go!"
Not a spirit from within flew out, while all the outside spirits entered, muttering, chattering, laughing,--
"Yes, yes, yes, yes! No, no, no, no!" And I believe they fought.
At the same time the sound of a cavalcade advancing was heard on the flinty road that pa.s.sed before the tower; and Sylvestre Ker recognized the long procession of the monks of Ruiz, led by the grand abbot, Gildas the Wise, arrayed in cope and mitre, with his crozier in his hand, going to the Ma.s.s of Plouharnel, as the convent chapel was being rebuilt.
When the head of the cavalcade approached the tower, the grand abbot cried out,--
"My armed guards, sound your horns to awaken Dame Josserande"s son!"
And instantly there was a blast from the horns, which rang out until Gildas the Wise exclaimed,--
"Be silent, for there is my tenant wide awake at his window."
When all was still, the grand abbot raised his crozier and said,--
"My tenant, the first hour of Christmas approaches, the glorious Feast of the Nativity. Extinguish your furnaces and hasten to Ma.s.s, for you have barely time." And on he pa.s.sed, while those in the procession, as they saluted Ker, repeated,--
"Sylvestre Ker, you have barely time; make haste!"
The voices of the air kept gibbering: "He will go! He will not go!" and the wind whistled in bitter sarcasm.
Sylvestre Ker closed his window. He sat down, his head clasped by his trembling hands. His heart was rent by two forces that dragged him, one to the right, the other to the left,--his Mother"s prayer and Matheline"s laughter.
He was no miser; he did not covet gold for the sake of gold, but that he might buy the row of pearls and smiles that hung from the lips of Matheline....
"Christmas!" cried a voice in the air.
"Christmas, Christmas, Christmas!" repeated all the other voices.
Sylvestre Ker suddenly opened his eyes, and saw that the furnace was fiery red from top to bottom, and that the crucible was surrounded with rays so dazzling he could not even look at it. Something was boiling inside that sounded like the roaring of a tempest.
"Mother! Oh, my dear mother!" cried the terrified man, "I am coming.
I"ll run...."
But thousands of little voices stung his ears with the words,--
"Too late, too late, too late! It is too late!"
Alas! alas! the wind from the sea brought the third peal of the bells of Plouharnel, and they also said to him: "Too late."
VII.
As the sound of the bells died away, the last drop of water fell from the clepsydra and marked the hour of midnight. Then the furnace opened and showed the glowing crucible, which burst with a terrible noise, and threw out a gigantic flame that reached the sky through the torn roof.
Sylvestre Ker, enveloped by the fire, fell prostrate on the ground, suffocated in the burning smoke.
The silence of death followed. Suddenly an awful voice said to him: "Arise." And he arose.
On the spot where had stood the furnace, of which not a vestige remained, was standing a man, or rather a colossus; and Sylvestre Ker needed but a glance to recognize in him the demon. His body appeared to be of iron, red-hot and transparent; for in his veins could be seen the liquid gold, flowing into, and then retreating from, his heart, black as an extinguished coal.
The creature, who was both fearful and beautiful to behold, extended his hand towards the side of the tower nearest the sea, and in the thick wall a large breach was made.
"Look!" said Satan.
Sylvestre Ker obeyed. He saw, as though distance were annihilated, the interior of the humble church of Plouharnel where the faithful We a.s.sembled. The officiating priest had just ascended the altar, brilliant with the Christmas candles, and there was great pomp and splendor; for the many monks of Gildas the Wise were a.s.sisting the poor clergy of the parish.
In a corner, under the shadow of a column knelt Dame Josserande in fervent prayer, but often did the dear woman turn towards the door to watch for the coming of her son.
Not far from her was Matheline du Coat-Dor, bravely attired and very beautiful, but lavishing the pearls of her smiles upon all who sought them, forgetting no one but G.o.d; and, close to Matheline, Pol Bihan squared his broad shoulders. Then, even as Satan had given to Sylvestre Ker"s sight the power of piercing the walls, so did he permit him to look into the depth of hearts. In his mother"s heart he saw himself as in a mirror. It was full of him. Good Josserande prayed for him; she prayed to Jesus, whose feast is Christmas, in the pious prayer which fell from her lips; and ever and ever said her heart to G.o.d: "My son, my son, my son!"
In the heart of Pol, Sylvestre Ker saw pride of strength and gross cupidity; in the spot where should have been the heart of Matheline, he saw Matheline, and nothing but Matheline, in adoration before Matheline.
"I have seen enough," said Sylvestre Ker.
"Then," replied Satan, "listen!" And immediately the sacred music resounded in the ears of the young tenant of the tower as plainly as though he was in the church of Plouharnel. They were singing the Sanctus: "Holy, holy, holy, Lord G.o.d of Hosts! The heavens and the earth are full of Thy glory. Hosanna in the highest! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the highest!"
Dame Josserande repeated the words with the others, but the refrain of her heart continued: "O Jesus, Infinite Goodness! may he be happy.
Deliver him from all evil, from all sin. I have only him to love....
Holy, holy, holy, give me all the suffering and keep for him all the happiness!"
Can you believe it? Even while piously inhaling the perfume of this celestial hymn, the young tenant wished to know what Matheline was saying to G.o.d. Everything speaks to G.o.d,--the wild beasts in the forest, the birds in the air, even the plants, whose roots are in the ground.
But miserable girls who sell the pearls of their smiles are lower than the animals and vegetables. Nothing is beneath them,--Pol Bihan excepted. Instead of speaking to G.o.d, Pol Bihan and Matheline whispered together, and Sylvestre Ker heard them as distinctly as if he had been between them.
"How much will the fool give?" asked Matheline.
"The idiot will give you all," replied Pol.
"And must I really squint with that one-eyed creature, and limp with the lame wretch?"
Sylvestre Ker felt his heart die away within him.
Meanwhile, Josserande prayed earnestly for Sylvestre Ker.
"Never mind," continued Bihan; "it is worth while limping and squinting for a time to win all the money in the world."
"That is true; but for how long?"
Sylvestre Ker held his breath to hear the better.
"As long as you please," answered Pol Bihan.
There was a pause, after which the gay Matheline resumed in a lower tone,--
"But ... they say after a murder one can never laugh, and I wish to laugh always...."
"Will I not be there?" replied Bihan. "Some time or other the idiot will certainly seek a quarrel with me, and I will crack his bones by only squeezing him in my arms; you can count upon my strength."