by James Hanley
He heard Marius shout.
A lone gull sweeping low over the roof cut off his thoughts.
"It must have scared him," said Labiche to himself, and looked towards this frightened and miserable man. And as he looked he felt the priest behind him.
"Nothing is good, Labiche, until it is loved, nothing evil until it is hated."
When Marius moved, he moved.
Suddenly he began to run. Something at last had smashed through the darkness, rode as high as heaven and he saw it, something like a great tower. As he moved swiftly towards it he thought it moved. He stopped, raised his head, the eyes stared at the height, as quickly were driven downwards as though drawn by some magnetic power of the light below.
Marius did not know it was a door, did not know it was open, yet went slowly forward. The moment he stood within it he saw the stars.
This church had ship's shape, and the stars shone through the large rent in its roof, legacy of fiery and demented nights. Marius stood very still, he heard himself breathing. And then he lowered his body and finally sat upon the marbled floor.
Beyond him there were other lights, one on either side of the altar, at whose foot was knelt a priest, old, bent, and farther behind him, in one bench and another, as still as stone, other figures. Marius was conscious of sounds, they rose from the foot of the altar and soared upwards, and after a moment their echo swept up from the rear of the church. Marius uttered no sound, but stared fixedly at the lights ahead of him. The great bowls hung motionless under the flickering lights.
Labiche, in his dark coat, his hat pressed almost flat upon his head had come into the doorway, and now leaned there, and saw the seated figure, three benches up in the centre aisle. He entered, blessed himself at the font, then tip-toed quietly to a rear bench on the left hand side of the church, knelt and watched. He was aware of the murmuring sounds at the foot of the altar, but against these he heard the deep, sonorous ticking of the clock above his head. He turned to glance upwards towards the choir stall. Darkness had curtained it off. Even whilst he looked Marius had risen and was walking slowly up the centre aisle. Labiche rose, moved slowly after him, and sometimes he stopped at a Station of the Cross and prayed there, and then went on. He saw the scattered figures, heads bent, he could not tell whether they were men or women, they were still, rapt, and as he moved farther and farther up the aisle, he glimpsed the single tall candle burning in front of the statue of Saint Francis. He had moved beyond the clock's sounds, and the priest's words came clear to him.
"Passer invénit sibi domum—"
And Labiche said under his breath, "Confiteor deo omnipotens deus," moved again as Marius moved.
Once he saw Marius turn right round, look down the church, his attitude that of one waiting, and always, listening. His footsteps rang clear upon the marble, but he did not seem to hear them. His whole attention was drawn by the two lights.
There they were, partly hooded in their bowls, port and starboard, the ship ploughing steadily forward under the stars. For a single moment the sound of the sea rose to his ears as he drew nearer the lights. Passer invénit sibi domum, et turtur nidum, ubi repónat pullos suos; altária tua, Dómine virtúitum, Rex meus et Deus meus; béati qui habitant in domo tua, in saeculum exculi laudábunt te.
He stood quite still listening to the sounds.
Labiche had stopped moving and now leaned against the pillar that hid him completely from sight. He saw Marius move into a bench, he counted the benches from the top, as he saw him walk sideways along this, suddenly stand and stare at the pulpit. As he came out into the narrow aisle, he passed within inches of Labiche, who heard him breathe. As Marius reached the next bench a figure stirred, appeared to rise as from nowhere, a woman, who, as she blessed herself dropped her beads, and these fell with a slight scraping sound upon the floor.
"In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen."
Marius pitched forward as though these words had struck him in the back, and then he was running up the steps to the pulpit. Labiche hurried after him, waited by the tiny oaken gate.
"Clear away aft," Marius shouted.
He stood, his back to Labiche, hands cupped to his mouth.
"Away for'ard."
The words rolled like organ notes around the silent church.
"It is as well," thought Labiche, "it is as well."
He walked quickly to the top of the church, genuflected and turned, and drew near to the still kneeling priest.
"Excuse me, Father."
The priest did not move. But from the bench on the right a man withdrew, he had seen the small man go up to the altar rails. He touched Labiche. "Ssh!" he said.
"Ssh!" said Labiche, gripped the man's arm, drew him from sight.
"Ill," he said, "very ill, that is to say—" and still pulling at the man's arm he drew him far down the church.
"Let go for'ard."
"Terrible," the man said, "blasphemy," and Labiche said under his breath, "it is understood, please come outside."
The man shivered a little in the cold night air.
"Ill," Labiche said, "terribly ill. An ambulance had better be sent for."
This was done.
XII
LYING back in this small white bed, Madame Marius had never felt so cool and so comfortable. She hoped her daughter, in another room, was equally so. She felt cleaner. It was as though through the night hours body and mind had dripped clean, the noise, the confusion, the harsh voice of that city, the clinging heat; even Madame Touchard's mongrel dog had ceased to bark. The litter of days, that had gone. She looked at the room in which she lay. Bare and clean. Bare walls of palest blue, a single white-painted chair, the plain scrubbed floor boards, a cleanliness in the very air. No mirror, no pictures, no radio, no curtains, no carpet, no table. Life simplified. No rubbish. No clock ticked. She wondered what time it was, and looking through the window saw the light reflected upon the great belt of poplar. This bed on which she stretched yet reminded her of the other, the last few hours on its lumps and flock, she shut her eyes as with some disgust, she refused to see it. What could not be shut out, too warm and flushed with life, were the memories of that journey. This refused to fall clear of the mind. The train jogged remorselessly back by the way it had come. She saw the rolling fields dissolve to outskirts of city, and then to city itself. The taxi, the station, every sight and sound and smell, moving in their order, controlled nightmare, the creature at her side, the afternoon madness.
"That she should have had hidden at her very breast, that letter from Royat, all those weeks—I would never be less than just to her, never."
She moved on these words, as on wheels, she was rushing to the station in the taxi, Madeleine close and warm beside her. The memory gripped and held. The whistle of the train was sharp in her ears.
His name was Despard. He got out of his seat, flung out their baggage, cried a porter, followed them in, right to the booking hall.
"Forty francs," Despard said.
"Robber! Thirty," replied Madame Marius.
"Forty francs," he said, parrot-like, final, his eyes fastened on the redoubtable black bag, he felt he could strip it open by a look.
"Wretch."
He saw the black bag open, his fingers itched, time was pressing, it always did. Behind him he felt pressure of other passengers endeavouring to get to the booking-office window, and in the distance there were the shouts, the hiss and stink of steam. And of the voice at the window, barking like a dog.
"Where for, Madame?
"I said, Cassis" Madame Marius said, her eye on Despard, and beyond him, at the entrance, the monstrous taxi.
"Here," she said, counting.
Another voice. "Are you for Cassis?"
"Of course I'm for Cassis, I said so, how stupid everybody is, what an accursed place—"
"You will excuse me, Madame, you have three minutes only."
She heard the croak in the voice, the slight whine, the porter
was lost behind the beard, his fingers had gripped their trunks, and, Hercules-like, he shouldered them.
"This way, Madame."
She passed through an avenue of shouts, steam, rushing trucks, slamming doors, people running.
"Come Madeleine," her mother said, gripped tightly on an arm, went forward, head held high, dismissing age, "hurry."
The platform, the train, the chatter, and then the frontier of things.
"If I remain here I will give him up to the police," she said.
Madeleine was silent, but Madame Marius saw the tears start to well up in her daughter's eyes. She lowered her voice a little.
"You may do as you wish. Whatever you feel it is your duty to do."
Madeleine was staring at the enormous clock in front of her, it's long, rusty iron hands jerked minutes round and round, the strokes of a silent hammer. She kept her eyes fixed on the large white face. Her hands rose to her own face, for a moment partly covered it.
"I don't know," she said, "I don't know."
"There is not much time," her mother said, the voice seemed to come as from a distance as though she were now stood at the other end of the platform.
The whistle blew.
"Which carriage, Madame?" enquired the porter with the beard.
Ignoring him, Madame Marius said quietly, "we are on the verge of departure."
Madeleine, looking directly at her mother, did not speak.
"All his life he has had the devil's own luck," her mother said. "He is too cute to suffer."
And after a pause, "come dear," taking her hand.
"You are pitiful," she said, and then she boarded the train, and knew her daughter was behind her.
The carriage was empty. Madame Marius sat down. The doors were slamming shut, porters were running beside the train, and now it threw off a warning burst of steam, the wheels heaved forward the train gathered speed. A porter ran parallel with their window, into which he flung a curse. Madame Marius had forgotten to tip him.
She watched the platform swimming past, people standing like statues, a guard waving a flag, a child high on its father's shoulders, she saw this child as a burst of purest joy. Then the set rhythm of the train. Winking lights in the tunnel, a sudden darkness, smoke blowing in through the window, a rush of air. Light.
Madeleine sat in a comer, and she did not stir, but looked thoughtfully out of the window, and in the expression upon her face was locked her own secret.
"There is no need to be dumb," Madame Marius said.
"There is no need to talk," replied Madeleine.
"I covered my face with the newspaper."
Madame Marius rose in the bed, arranged the pillow behind her head. Somewhere there was the tinkle of a tiny bell. This came from the small chapel at the end of the building. Looking out through this window she could see the rolling landscape, a great belt of poplar. The quality of light clothing them gave the old woman a sudden sense as of Spring. Suddenly she saw, black against the blue of wall, hard, predominant in this clear light, her black bag. The shock of surprise was over, the dream broke. Dumb, inanimate it yet spoke to her across this room.
"That evening I went to the Benediction by myself, and after the Blessing I went into the vestry, and I saw that good man. I said to him, 'I have in this bag, Father Nollet, money I no longer require. Would you please accept it for any purpose that you wish.'
"And he said, 'thank-you, Madame Marius, but I do not want your money.'"
She was back in the carriage again, hidden behind her newspaper, the bag rocking gently upon her knee.
"What is it that I hold. Rubbish? Filth then?"
The newspaper had fallen to the floor, she could not read it, and now she looked across at her daughter and cried:
"He refused it, he would not take it."
"Who? Take what?"
"The priest, he would not take what I offered. It was like being killed."
"You slept well?" Sister Angela said, as she walked towards the woman in the bed.
This room was no different from any other, bare and clean as bone.
"Yes sister, thank-you," Madeleine said, who had not slept, who had tossed and turned through night hours, had got out of bed and knelt, and prayed for him. Sister Angela sat down.
"I have seen your mother," she said.
"Yes, sister. She had a good night?"
"She says so, yet looks drawn, tired."
"She is breaking up," Madeleine said.
"Of course. Her age. Breakfast is in twenty minutes," and as she bent forward a tip of the fine, stiff linen touched Madeleine's hand and its touch was cold and clean.
"Have you plans, my child?"
Plans? Wide-eyed, Madeleine stared at the nun. She might well have said, "have you ever walked down a corridor of the moon."
"No, sister."
"But you will make plans. Our order—well, you will understand—you may rest here a while, there is another place for your purpose. I will write to the Mother there."
"Thank-you very much, sister."
"You have a story," Sister Angela said, "there is always a story."
"I was born at Nantes, I was happy there. I am not at Nantes, I am not happy, sister."
"You are married?"
"I was."
"There are others perhaps?"
"My brother, sister."
"Where is he?"
"In Marseilles. He is waiting for a ship."
"A sailor then?"
"A sailor, sister," Madeleine said.
"What will you do?"
She studied this face before it fell from sight, passionless, remote, no man and yet no woman looked out at her.
"You are unhappy, child."
Madeleine had buried her face in her hands, she did not answer. The words that had come to her were soft, flowing as water, as light tipped fingers moving in, feeling for it, stroking hurt away.
"I was happy once."
"You will be happy again," Sister Angela said.
She raised the head from the pillow.
"I have no will," Madeleine said.
Sister Angela stood up, and said, quietly, "it is understood," and she left her and went out.
"There is a matter for the Mother Superior," she thought.
There was at this long, well scrubbed table, Madame Marius and her daughter, who faced each other, a blinded soldier, a girl, two ageing women, who looked like sisters. They did not look at the new arrivals, but concentrated entirely on what lay before them.
There came to the door behind them, a short woman, round and red of face, whose chubby hands were fidgeting with keys, hung from a silver chain about her waist. Her eyes were of a periwinkle blue. She was fat and solid as butter.
"Good morning," the Mother Superior said.
One after the other, heads turned, they said "good morning, Mother Superior."
"Eat well," she said, closing the door upon them.
They ate, slowly, carefully, gravely, as though this were some exactment risen from the very atmosphere. Nobody noticed or cared that the old woman who had arrived the previous evening with her daughter, made coarse noises as she supped her coffee, and into it placed lump after lump of bread. And nobody noticed Madeleine. All would be on their way this evening, to-morrow evening, they were passengers upon a ship whose horizon was boundless. The blinded soldier rose, his delicate fingers feeling for the chair back, and the girl rose and led him out. The sisters leaned their heads together, whispering. By the side of the smaller of them lay the contents of her little blue bag. Her beads, her scapulars, her pamphlet on Therese, the tiny sheets of thin paper that announced a Plenary indulgence, the Pontifical edict, a fortnight's Retreat, a request for prayers: A little silver cross, the bundle of letters tied with string, the photograph of the forgotten family, a small plaster saint, flat upon his face, the bric-à-brac, the sacred furniture shoring up the rapt, the devoted mind.
Their heads lay close together, and as they rose they seemed as one pe
rson; one thought of aged trees, gnarled, pressed close under winter blast. Carrying their little bundles of belongings, they moved slowly out of the room, and looked, both in the same instant at the two remaining figures, seated at the top of the table. They did not speak. The door closed.
"I was wrong, child," Madame Marius said, "and I cannot think how I came to be wrong, the Poor Clares are not what I had in mind. I can't think how I made the mistake," the tiny protest in the voice, as though she had never been wrong; she might strike her breast at the very thought.
"I know already. Sister Angela has told me. This is for casuals. We leave on Friday."
"Another hundred miles," Madame Marius said, "I will be glad when I have finished travelling." She clutched her daughter's hands, "you won't leave me, ever?"
"I will stay with you to the end."
"You think I am right?" her mother said.
"I cannot answer what is right and wrong, it is too difficult," Madeleine said.
"Perhaps you would yet like to return to Nantes, have your pride yoked."
Madeleine did not answer. She got up and went to the door.
"I am going into the garden, do not come near me, I want to be by myself."
But she did not reach it. In the long, silent corridor the Mother Superior was waiting for her.
"Madame Madeau," she said, smiled for a moment, put a hand lightly on her arm. "There is something I wish to discuss with you. Please come this way."
Madeleine followed her to the end of the corridor, entered the tiny office.
There was here a large brass crucifix upon the wall, a deal table, two chairs, a small desk, a calendar hanging over this. The door closed.
"Sit down, my child," the Mother Superior said.
"I have been talking to Sister Angela," said the Mother Superior, and Madeleine looked up.
"Yes Mother," she replied, and for a moment seemed to see this nun stripped of her clothing, cowlless, and, apron-ed, she sat in a farm kitchen a fat, practical house-wife, and around her there was a soft, white cloud of feathers. She was plucking a goose.
