Crequy had never been known to have an intimate,or even the most casual of friends. The peasants had known always that he hated them. They hated him in return, but respected him. His tavern was popular, for he never cheated, and at times he was seized with a strange generosity which made him produce hams, sausages and other delicacies, and, with growls and curses, would invite his guests to partake of them without charge. No one had ever fathomed why he did this. On these rare occasions, the peasants would feel quite an affection for him.
No one had ever suspected that he loved the Comte de Vitry. The legend existed that he loathed him. The peasants, then under the guidance of the Abbé Lovelle, felt great wrath and indignation over this matter. Their anger was no way decreased by the fact that he drove away all young men who came to woo his pretty niece, Roselle. “One would believe he is preserving her for the Comte, if the Comte were a man such as his father,” they would grumble.
But the priest, de Pacilli, had guessed Crequy’s sullen secret. However, he did not consider it of importance enough to mention this to those whom he was seducing. In that, he made his cardinal error.
Another matter which Crequy kept secret was his slow and reluctant friendship for old François Grandjean. The friendship had not grown steadily. But it had grown. Cecile and Roselle became friends, also.
In order to conceal his “softness” in the matter of taking a friend, Crequy would visit Grandjean late at night, and they would sit for hours over a bottle of wine, Crequy arguing ferociously, Grandjean smiling gently, but persisting in his point of view. The friendship was a consolation to both. Grandjean had acquired no popularity with the peasants, in spite of his efforts. His simplicity of manner had not deceived them that he was one of them. However, they were inclined to look kindly upon him, because of the friendship the young Comte evidently had for him. But they were jealous.
The priest had done his work well with regard to François Grandjean. He had come to share in the suspicion and hatred heaped upon Paul de Vitry.
On this certain night, the young Cecile had been visiting at the home of her friend, Roselle, who had been suffering an indisposition for a few days. The young girls had been so engaged in pretty and vivacious conversation and laughter, and Crequy had so enjoyed this innocent diversion, scowling and grinning in his corner, that the hour was late before they all realized it. With great haste, therefore, just as the sonorous bell in the church tower was ringing eleven o’clock, Cecile had snatched up her cloak and caught up the empty basket which she had brought to this house filled with delicacies.
Crequy announced his intention of accompanying her to her home. The girl protested, declaring there was no danger. But Crequy obstinately insisted. “There are no animals in the street and the woods,” Cecile declared. “No, not fourlegged ones,” said Crequy, grimly.
The cottage of the Grandjeans was a considerable distance from the tavern, a walk of at least half an hour. The evening was fair and brilliant, and the shadows of the two, the great lowering giant and the slender young girl, writhed before them. The village apparently slept. The moon struck the high white walls of the distant château on its eminence in its gardens. The night had a holiness and a sweetness, and the two walked in silence.
But Crequy was not a peasant for nothing. As they approached the silent dark cottage of the Grandjeans, he suddenly caught the arm of the girl and halted her roughly, lifting his nose to sniff the air. “There is something strange,” he muttered.
Frightened, the girl paused, and looked about her. Before her, at the end of the cobbled street, her grandfather’s house slept in moonstriped silence. On each side, the square and solid stone houses slept also. Not a light was visible. A nightingale was singing in the massed trees that sheltered the houses.
“There is nothing,” she whispered, sniffing also, fearing fire. But the air was fresh and cool, heavy with sweet scents. Crequy shrugged, listened again. “Was that a sound, a voice?” he asked. His hand felt at his belt for the strong club he always carried there.
“And if it was, is that strange?” asked the girl, impatiently. “A child stirring, wakefully, a mother, a sick man—”
Crequy turned his head from side to side, like a great bull, muttering to himself. Then, with an irritable grumble, he took the girl’s arm and led her to her grandfather’s cottage. Near the door, he stopped again. Had that been a rustle in the garden, among the bushes and the trees, a stealthy rustle like the sound of several men creeping? He left the girl at the gate and investigated. The garden slept in the moonlight; the tops of the trees were silver, the paths were rimmed with silver, the roof of the house was plated with silver, the tree trunks were outlined with ghostly silver. And here and there a leaf, stirring darkly in the faint wind, suddenly turned to an ovoid of silver.
Shaking his head uneasily, Crequy returned to the gate, where Cecile, her lips compressed in an impatient smile, waited, tapping one foot.
“Go in,” he ordered her. “I shall wait here until the door has closed.”
She laughed a little, gently. “My grandfather sleeps; we must not disturb him.” She rose on tiptoe and kissed his scarred cheek affectionately. He was touched at this, sheepishly. But he remained at the gate until she had opened the door, and had waved to him archly. The door closed behind her.
He stood there a moment or two in the moonlight, then returned the way he had come. But he could not rid himself of the sensation that he was being watched by many stealthy eyes.
He walked swiftly, with his sidling lumbering gait, for some five minutes. Then he paused suddenly, lifting his head again. There was a thin acrid stench in the air. He swung about swiftly. A dim rosy glow was leaping towards the sky. He began to run quickly back to the Grandjean cottage. It was a nightmare journey, his shadow leaping about him on the cobbled street. Nothing stirred or moved, but that rosy glow deepened.
It was indeed the Grandjean cottage, as he now observed, groaning. But why was no one else disturbed? Why did nothing move on the earth or in the houses? He told himself that there had been an accident, a careless flame on the hearth, a fallen candle as the girl had climbed upstairs to bed. But his peasant’s prescience and awareness denied this. He knew something frightful was afoot.
He reached the cottage. It stood far apart from the others, in its large gardens and trees. Now those trees were a cave of crimson light, in which the cottage was burning fiercely. The distant houses were still shrouded in ominous darkness. He heard a roaring. This roaring came from the flames, but there was another and indefinable sound with it, as from a kindred roaring at a considerable distance—a human sound.
He leapt over the gate, not waiting to unfasten it. The windows of the cottage were scarlet with the shadow of the flames inside. He burst open the door, shouting loudly. The smoke and heat stung his eyes; water ran from them. For some moments he could not see.
Then, as he stumbled about in that inferno, he fell over something. The flames flared up. He saw that the old man, François, and Cecile lay at his feet, huddled together in one heap.
His mind tottered with his horror. With his great strength, he seized both of them, dragged them from the fiery pit which momentarily appeared about to engulf them. He carried them far from the house, deposited them on the grass, whose dew sparkled like quivering rubies in the reflection of the flames. He shouted, again and again, looking backwards desperately at the silent houses at a little distance. But no one answered his shouts.
The girl was moaning. Crequy saw that a wound had been dealt her on the head, and that it was bleeding profusely. He bent over the old man. François’ gaping empty eyes stared upwards at the moon. His mouth had dropped open, and no breath came from it. A terrible wound oozed on his forehead, which appeared crushed in deeply. Crequy knew that the old man was dead.
Loud tearing sobs came from Crequy’s throat. He shouted frantically, over and over. Still, no one came. Then, seeing the serious condition of the girl, he lifted her in his arms and started back to his own home. Her blood dripped on his hands. She had ceased to moan; she lay in his arms like one already dead.
He had almost reached his tavern, weaving and running desperately, when he became conscious of a prolonged and savage roaring. He looked towards the château.
And then, he halted in his tracks, gaping idiotically, the girl sagging in his arms. For the walls of the château were leaping with rosy flames. And around the grounds Crequy could see the black dancing shadows of a countless number of men. He could hear a far distant screaming.
And then it was that he knew. He did not think, as a more civilized and urban man might have done, that this was all an accident, that the men leaping about the château were endeavoring to save it. He did not deceive himself frenziedly as would have done that more civilized and urban man. Aware, naturally, of the vileness and ferocity of the human mind, he understood at once.
He flung himself in the shadows along the trees and the houses. Now he raced towards his tavern with numbed legs. His groaning breath tore at his throat. He dashed into his house, closed the door after him, and bolted it. Roselle, hearing that precipitous entry, appeared at the doorway of her chamber, in her shift. She had a candle in her hand. When she saw her uncle, and his burden, she swayed and cried aloud. But he brushed by her, carrying the unconscious girl to his niece’s bed, and laying her upon it with trembling arms. Then he turned to Roselle, and spoke hoarsely:
“See you, my child, listen closely. Old Grandjean has been murdered by these foul animals. They thought they had murdered this little one, also. They then set fire to their cottage, thinking to hide their murder. Do not swoon, or I shall thrash you violently! Take care of this child, hide her. Let no one enter this house. See, there is my pistol on the fireplace, Keep it with you. I shall return in a short time.”
The girl did not scream. Crequy, with one last longing look at the pistol, ran from the house, hastened towards the château. He had but one thought: to rescue the Comte de Vitry. As he rushed headlong, his slow peasant mind was red with his fury. He understood it all. Like a foul phantom face, the countenance of the priest flickered before him, smiling darkly and subtly.
But when he arrived at the château, he saw it was useless. He would only be murdered, if he attempted to reach the Comte, and then what would happen to his little cabbage, Roselle, and Cecile? Nevertheless, he slunk about the burning château, seeking, like a wild animal, for some means of carrying out his desperate hope. Some one shouted in his ear, and he paused, dazed:
“Ha, now, Crequy, you have your revenge on this monster, this heretic! Have you not always hated him? Behold him, then, on his balcony. Laugh you in his face, Crequy!”
Crequy lifted his streaming eyes. He saw Paul de Vitry on his balcony, looking down at his seething, red-stained gardens.
Crequy gazed at the Comte, and the Comte gazed at him, over the sea of writhing and leaping heads. For a long time, they gazed like this, in the light of the devouring fire.
Then Crequy raised his hand, slowly, terribly, as though taking an oath. The Comte did not move. But in his eyes there appeared a strange and mournful pleading. Crequy shook his head, with a frightful expression.
Crequy turned away. He slipped stealthily from the throng of maddened faces.
He made his way to the priest’s house. He knocked, softly. There was no answer. Crequy pushed open the door. The house was in darkness. Softly, moving on the balls of his feet, Crequy searched the house. Then a howl broke from him. The priest had escaped! He was gone.
Crequy rushed from the house. He glanced about him, like a wild thwarted beast. On what road had the priest fled? The road to Paris was beyond the house of Grandjean. He, Crequy, had seen no horse, no carriage, no man on foot. His glittering eyes plunged about him in the dark. He saw the gleaming cross on the church.
He began to run towards the church, his club in his hand. Now he knew that in that sanctuary the priest was hidden. But he was not entirely sure of it until he attempted to open the ancient doors. They were locked. A deep savage shout burst from him, primitive and full of blood-lust.
His strength was great, heightened by his insane fury. He broke down the doors in a few moments, and plunged into the deep black vault of the church. Nothing stirred under the curved arches. The tops of the old pillars were silver with moonlight, but all below was in profound silence and darkness.
Silent now, like a stalking animal, Crequy crept towards the altar. The flickering red light was like a malignant eye. He fumbled on the altar for a candle, found the short thick stub of one. He reached up and lit that candle from the eternal flame of the altar.
Then, inch by inch, holding the wavering taper high, he searched the little church. But he did not find the priest.
Now that long savage howl, frustrated, burst from him again. It rang back in dreadful echoes from the groined roof and the crowding pillars. The light of the taper glanced back from the ancient walls like the dancing shadows of demons.
Again, he searched the church, peering behind the altar. And so it was that he found the small sunken door.
He stopped there, glaring at it, smiling evilly. He examined the lock. The key was not in it. He pushed against the door. It did not stir under his hand.
Then he spoke softly, his mouth near the wooden door, and his voice was wheedling and horrible:
“Ah, now, father, there is a suppliant here, a sinner, who would confess to you, dear father! Will you not come out and listen to him? Will you not join him in confession, good father in Christ? While he tells you of his sins, will you not tell him how you murdered a poor old man, and the Comte de Vitry? Ah, father, do not be deaf to this miserable suppliant! Come forth and confess to him, before you descend into hell and meet your master face to face.”
His dreadfully soft voice came back to him in muffled echoes from the walls and the ceiling. The altar flame leapt up once, then seemed to cower. The darkness crept nearer, seemed filled with unseen but terrible faces.
Crequy knocked gently on the door. His wheedling voice was frightful to hear. “Ah, now, sweet father, you cannot be asleep? Not while the Comte is being murdered? Not while a suppliant pleads with you?”
Grinning madly, he pressed his ear to the door. Was that a faint gasping stir behind its wooden panels? Was that a caught breath, a shuffling, a descending, a creeping away?
Crequy began to laugh, at first gently, then with rising power, until all the church echoed back in broken and thunderous sounds that inhuman laughter. The pillars seemed to tremble in it. The walls appeared to groan and quiver.
Crequy set down his candle carefully. Then he applied his shoulder to the door. But, set in its aperture, it did not move. Again and again streaming with sweat, he assaulted it. Now his flesh was broken and bleeding. His great brow and bald skull were wrinkled like an ape’s. His lips were drawn back over his teeth. He bent his head, straining at the door. All his life, his heart, his spirit, were concentrated in that assault. He appeared to be leaning against it, like an exhausted man. But that was deceptive. For now a faint splintering and squealing sound came from the tortured wood.
Moment after moment passed away, and Crequy did not appear to move. But the muscles of his neck and arm and back turned purple, became black with the congested blood. Veins sprang out over his brow and mighty crimson cheeks. His legs bent forward, and the muscles sprang out like huge rocks under the straining cloth of his britches and his hose. And now there was no sound at all in the church, except that dim groaning of the strong door.
Then, all at once, the hinges gave way. The door fell inward with a deafening crash. It thudded down the wet and stony steps leading into the crypt. Crequy, having picked up his candle again, stood on the threshold, peering into the gloom. He was gasping aloud, his lungs laboring. His body shook like a tree in a storm.
Now he was smiling again. With slow dainty steps he descended holding the candle high.
He found himself in a tiny crypt. The old stone walls ran with moisture. A lizard, and other noisome small creatures, sprang across his feet, disappeared in the darkness. The floor of the crypt was slimy, running with thin snakes of black water. And, in a far corner, huddling on his knees, was the priest.
Now, never before in his life, had the thought of personal death occurred vitally to Monseigneur Antoine de Pacilli. Like all men, of powerful good or evil, death had appeared to him to be a swamp which sucked under others, but could never engulf himself. It had been an academic idea to this priest, but not one of such importance as to demand pondering or reflection. It was something which stealthily attacked lesser men, but none such as those of supreme intellect, cold egotism and superhuman endowments. In fact, it had something vulgar in it, and shameful and humiliating. This calamity which destroyed rats and canaille had naught to do with such as Monseigneur Antoine de Pacilli.
Now, he was face to face with this detestable, this degrading, this contemptible, but all-powerful enemy.
So it was that Crequy, when directing the full candle-light on the white face of the staring priest, saw no fear upon it, no Whimpering dread, but an all-pervading horror and repudiation. That delicate carved countenance, those almond eyes, that sleek dark head, seemed to vibrate before him in an aura of its own. Even in that dread moment, the aristocrat was there, fallen to his knees from exhaustion, and not from fright.
Crequy laughed aloud, rocking on his heels. The candlelight leapt upon the walls, the low ceiling, the floor. But de Pacilli did not move. His face became narrower and whiter than ever, as if in cold and intellectual denial.
“Ah, now, sweet father, why so silent, so pale?” cried Crequy. “Why have you ignored a suppliant? Or have you been so engrossed in your foul prayers that you did not hear my voice? Or have you been listening to the murdered soul of the Comte de Vitry, whispering its last confession in your ears?”
The priest was silent. His tilted black eyes glittered like the eyes of some evil serpent, watchful, unmoving, expressionless.
Crequy carefully laid his candle on the floor. He stretched out his hands; he grinned; he carefully examined, then curved, his great murderous fingers. He looked at the priest again, and licked his lips. Now an obscene and inhuman light danced, flickered, blazed in his little starting eyes. Slowly, inch by inch, he crept across the cracked streaming floor towards the priest, his hands extended, his lips uttering strange gibberish. The priest did not move. He watched the approach of death with no change of expression. He might have been a dead man, waiting.
Crequy reached him. He paused for a moment, and executioner and victim stared at each other in the uncertain candlelight.
Then Crequy howled again, and it was a wolfish, a tigerish, sound. He reached down. He seized the priest by the throat, dragged him to his feet. De Pacilli did not resist. He hung from Crequy’s hands like a narrow black sheath topped by a white fixed face.
Crequy drew that face so close to his own that they almost touched.
“Pray now, dog, pray now, sweet father, for in five instants you shall see the face of Satan,” he whispered. He shook the limp body by the throat, so that it swayed in his grip.
Then, his hands closed tighter about that slender throat. He felt his hands sink through the flesh to the bone. He felt muscle and vein crush and dissolve under his grasp. The priest did not struggle; his arms hung slackly at his side.
Slowly, that white narrow face turned red, purple, then black. The eyes had fixed themselves, even in their rolling upwards, upon Crequy’s fiendish countenance. Now, they fastened there, as he died.
But, to the last, those eyes did not flicker or close. The horror only increased, as if transfixed by a most frightful and appalling vision.