The Amethyst Ring. Anatole France
possessing an image of the Blessed Virgin as early as the reign of Clotaire II. M. Mazure had treated the arguments of the Abbé as idle fancies, and no one, save M. Bergeret, whose curiosity was unbounded, had read the record of this logomachy.
“The sanctuary erected by the holy apostle,” went on the Abbé Guitrel’s pamphlet, “was rebuilt with great magnificence in the thirteenth century. At the time of the wars of religion that devastated the country during the sixteenth century, the Protestants fired the chapel, without, however, being able to destroy the statue, which by a miracle escaped the flames. The church was rebuilt at the behest of King Louis XIV and his pious mother, but during the Reign of Terror was totally destroyed by the commissioners of the Convention, who carried the miraculous statue, together with the furniture of the chapel, into the courtyard at Brécé and made a bonfire of the whole. Fortunately, however, one of the Virgin’s feet was saved from the flames by a good peasant-woman, who wrapped it carefully in old rags and hid it in a cauldron, where it was discovered in 1815. This foot was included in a new statue which, thanks to the generosity of the Duke, was executed in Paris in 1852.”
The Abbé Guitrel went on to enumerate the miracles accomplished from the sixth century up to the present time by the intervention of Notre-Dames-des-Belles-Feuilles, who was in particular request for the cure of diseases of the respiratory organs and the lungs. And he further affirmed that in 1871 she had turned the Germans aside from the town and miraculously healed of their wounds two soldiers quartered at the château of Brécé, which had been turned into a hospital.
They reached the bottom of a narrow valley with a stream flowing between moss-grown stones. On an irregular platform of sandstone, surrounded by dwarf oak trees, rose the oratory of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles, newly constructed from the plans of M. Quatrebarbe, the diocesan architect, in that modern namby-pamby style which people fondly imagine to be Gothic.
“This oratory,” said the Abbé Guitrel, “was burned down in 1559 by the Calvinists, and again in 1793 by the revolutionaries, and nothing remained but a mass of ruins. Like another Nehemiah, the Duc de Brécé has rebuilt the sanctuary. The Pope, this year, has granted to it numerous indulgences, no doubt with the object of quickening the worship of the Blessed Virgin in this country. Monseigneur Charlot himself celebrated the Holy Eucharist here, and since then pilgrims have flocked to the shrine. They come from all parts of the diocese, and even farther. There is no doubt that such co-operation and zeal must draw special blessings on the country. I myself had the felicity of bringing to the feet of la Vierge des Belles-Feuilles several respectable families of the Tintelleries. And, with the permission of the Duke, I have more than once celebrated Mass at this favoured altar.”
“That is true,” said the Duchess. “And it is noticeable that the Abbé takes more interest in our chapel than the Curé of Brécé himself.”
“Good M. Traviès!” said the Duke. “He is an excellent priest, but an inveterate sportsman, and all he thinks of is shooting. The other day, on returning from the administration of extreme unction to a dying man, he brought down three partridges.”
“Now that the branches are devoid of leaves,” said the Abbé, “you can see the chapel, which, in the summer, is entirely hidden by the thick foliage.”
“One of the reasons which made me determine to rebuild the chapel of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles,” said the Duke, “was that on examining the family archives, I found that the battle-cry of the Brécés was ‘Brécé Notre-Dame!’ ”
“How very strange!” remarked General Cartier de Chalmot.
“Is it not?” replied Madame de Brécé.
Just as the ladies, followed by M. Lerond, were crossing the rustic bridge that spans the stream, a ragged girl of thirteen or fourteen, with hair of the same dirty white colour as her face, slipping from a copse on the opposite side of the hollow, ran up the steps and rushed into the oratory.
“There’s Honorine,” said Madame de Brécé.
“I’ve been wanting to see her for a long time,” said M. Lerond, “and I must thank you, Madame, for being the means of satisfying my curiosity. I have heard so much about her!”
“Yes, indeed,” said General Cartier de Chalmot. “The young girl in question has been subjected to many and searching inquiries.”
“M. de Goulet,” put in the Abbé, “comes regularly to the sanctuary of Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. It is his pleasure and delight to spend long hours in adoration of her whom he calls his mother.”
“We are very fond of M. de Goulet,” said Madame de Brécé. “What a pity it is that he should be so delicate.”
“Yes, alas!” replied the Abbé. “His strength diminishes from day to day!”
“He ought to take more care of himself,” went on the Duchess, “and rest as much as possible.”
“How can he, Madame?” asked the Abbé. “The management of the diocese fills up every moment of his time.”
As the three ladies, the General, M. Guitrel, M. Lerond, and the Duke entered the chapel, they saw Honorine, as in an ecstasy, kneeling at the foot of the altar.
With clasped hands, and uplifted head, the child knelt there motionless. Out of respect for her mysterious condition, they crossed themselves silently with holy water, letting their gaze wander from the Gothic tabernacle and fall upon the stained-glass windows, in which the Comte de Chambord appeared in the guise of St. Henry, while the faces of St. John the Baptist and St. Guy were executed from photographs of Comte Jean, who died in 1867, and the late Comte Guy, who, in 1871, was a member of the Bordeaux Assembly.
The miraculous statue was covered by a veil, and stood just over the altar. But above the holy-water stoup, painted in bright colours upon the wall was a full-length figure of Notre-Dame de Lourdes, girdled with blue.
The General looked at her with a set expression derived from fifty years of mechanical respect, and gazed at her blue scarf as though it had been the flag of a friendly nation. He had always been looked upon as something of a mystic, and had considered a belief in the future life to be the very base and foundation-stone of military regulations. Age and ill-health were making a devotee of him. For some days past, though he did not betray it, he had been, if not worried, at any rate grieved, by the recent scandals. His simple-mindedness had taken fright at such a tumult of words and passions, and he was obsessed by vague misgivings. He sent up a voiceless prayer to Notre-Dame de Lourdes, imploring her protection for the French Army.
All of them, the women, the Duke, the lawyer, and the priest, had by this time riveted their gaze upon the worn shoes of the motionless Honorine, and these sombre, solemn, solid folk fell into an ecstasy of admiration at the sight of the lithe young body, now stiff and rigid; M. Lerond, who prided himself on being very observant, made sundry observations.
At last, however, Honorine came out of her trance. She rose to her feet, bowed to the altar, and turned round; then, as though astonished at the sight of so many people, stood stock still and brushed away with both hands the hair that had fallen over her eyes.
“Well, my child, did you see the Blessed Virgin to-day?” asked Madame de Brécé.
In the shrill sing-song voice of a child in the catechism class answering by rote, Honorine replied:
“Yes, Madame. The good Virgin remained for one moment, then rolled up like a piece of calico, and I didn’t see her any more.”
“Did she speak to you?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘There is much misery in your home.’ ”
“Is that all she said?”
“She said, ‘There will be much misery in the country over the harvests and the cattle.’ ”
“Did she not tell you to be good?”
“ ‘Pray