A Blot on the Scutcheon Part 55

Bah! they had also learnt how to deal with priests in Paris.

In an instant he had thrust his hand within his blouse.

Ah, ah! It was so sudden that not even great Gourmel Tenoit, who had him by the coat, could see what he was about.

A click, a flash, a loud report, followed by a shriek from the women.

But Pere Mouet did not cry out, though the bullet winged its way straight enough to its mark. Only he staggered a little, threw up both arms, and then sank back upon the ground, at the very foot of the Calvary, his head resting against the rough rock.

It was a terrible silence that followed pistol-shot and screams.

Madame de Quernais was on her knees beside the fallen man; all eyes were upon her.

Presently she rose.

"He is dead," she said, and her voice, low and dull at first, became shrill as she repeated the words "He is dead."

A picture to be remembered, that, by more than one who stood there.

The desolate stretch of moor with its tangle of briar, thistle, and patches of purple heather; the mists broken and fleeing before the rising wind; the smoking glare of torches on the outskirts of the crowd, and the pale glory of moonlight streaming down unmarred upon the great rough-hewn cross, emblem of suffering and death, with its blackened crown of thorns telling its tale of love and victory immortal; whilst below, gathered round the little hillock, the three women, two girls clinging together, yet erect and dauntless, whilst the third knelt by the prostrate figure of the dead man.

Moonbeams fell on Madame's silver hair, from which the heavy wrap had slipped back; they fell too, on the wrinkled, kindly face of Pere Mouet.

So small, so helpless he looked lying there, yet never had he been so powerful. No wonder that he was smiling--the glad, sweet smile of one who had gone straight from his life-task to meet the Bridegroom.

But the life-work was not over, even though the worn old hands, which had always been so ready for any labour of love, were stiffening now in death.

The great crowd, gathered round, was swaying first one way, then another. Pere Mouet was dead! Pere Mouet was dead! Yonder stood his murderer.

They were honest men, after all, these humble peasants of Brittany.

Pere Mouet, and the relentless antagonism of the sea, had taught them to fear G.o.d. If they had forgotten, in a sudden burst of mad excitement and intoxication, they were remembering with quick and sharpened stabs of conscience.

And Pere Mouet was dead!

Madame was telling them so, even now, whilst she stood like some accusing spirit before them. Alone, but fearless, telling them this dread news.

Pere Mouet dead! They were realizing it--to the cost of Jean Floessel.

With a yell they would have flung themselves upon him, but Jean had already seen his danger.

If fools must be fools, it was time for wise men to escape.

Wrenching himself free from Gourmel's slackened grasp, he dived under the big man's arm and set off at full speed across the lande.

He must reach Varenac and Marcel Trouet. But the men of Kernak were of another mind.

The tide had turned.

It was no longer "a bas les aristocrats," "Vive la nation!" but the howl of men who seek vengeance.

Floessel heard the howl, and it added wings to his feet.

The blockheads! the fools! All this outcry because one insignificant priest had been killed! Why! they died like flies in Paris. He himself had been a cursed idiot ever to leave that glorious city.

And behind him came the avengers of Pere Mouet.

He ran well---that Jean Floessel--for over a mile, stumbling, sweating, cursing, whilst anger gave way to growing fear.

And he had reason to fear, for behind him ran Gourmel Tenoit, whose little lad had been nursed back to life by the good priest of Kernak, and beside him was Blaise Fermat, who owed wife and happiness to the same kindly influence.

They caught Jean Floessel just by the great rock where three brave Breton soldiers lie buried, and where the fairies visit the dead on moonlit nights and talk to them. Yes, they caught him there, and he had not even time to cry "Vive la nation!" ...

Those two were happier as they walked home together, leaving behind them a limp and hideous thing, face downwards amongst the heather.

But many wept that night in Kernak as they whispered Pere Mouet's name in their prayers.

CHAPTER x.x.xII

"MICHAEL! MICHAEL!"

They were alone.

Those three helpless women standing together under the shadow of the Calvary beside their dead. The crowd had gone. Some in pursuit of Floessel, others drifting away, shamed and frightened, as you have seen whipped curs creep back to their kennels.

Here and there a woman had stolen near to the little group, sobbing out a pet.i.tion for pardon; but most of them had gone silently, with doubt and fear in their hearts.

Pere Mouet had bidden them return to their homes, and, at this moment, Pere Mouet's commands were powerful.

So they went--regretfully, perhaps,--when they thought of the chateau, and the fine night's plunder and amus.e.m.e.nt they had promised themselves, but hurriedly when they remembered the woman who stood, crying, scornfully and accusingly, to them that their good priest was dead--murdered.

But it was possible they would come back. Cowed they might be, but they were dangerous still.

None knew that better than Madame.

They had tasted the sweets of momentary power. They had cried "Vive la nation!"

They would cry it again at the bidding of another Floessel.

"We must not delay," she said, speaking very quietly, yet with a great effort; "it is still far to the cave."

"To the cave! You will leave the good father, Madame Maman?"

Cecile's voice was reproachful.

"He needs no more of our care, my child," replied her mother gravely.