The Bell in the Fog and Other Stories

and the

ed from th

hurch, indeed, had not been built in that forgotten corner of Finisterre for centuries, not since the calvary on its pile of stones had been raised in the tiny square, surrounded then, as now, perhaps, by gray naked cottages; not since the castle with its round tower, down on the river, had been erected for t

burying-place in a hollow of the hills behind the castle-old men and women who had wept and died for the fishermen that had gone to the grande pêche and returned no more, and now and again a child, slept there. Those who walked past the dead at the pardon, or after the marriage ceremony, or took part in any one of the minor religious festivals with which the Catholic village enlivens its existence-all, young and old, looked grave and sad. For the women from childhood know that their lot is to wait and dread and weep, and the men that the ocean is treacherous and cruel, but that bread can be wrung from

es and thanked God they were quie

hich they had patiently endu

d the old creaking diligence became an absurdity. Brittany was the fashion for three months of the year, and wherever there is fashion there is at least one railway. T

orn, should shatter forever the holy calm of those who had suffered so much on earth. He had known many of them in life, for he was very old; and although he believed, like all good Catholics, in heaven and purgatory and hell, yet he always saw his friends as he had buried them, peacefully asleep in their coffins, the souls lying with folded hands like the bodies that held them, patiently awaiting the final call. He would never have told you, this good old priest, that he believed heaven to be a great echoing p

'Amour. He knew that the soft, slow chantings of the pardon never struck a chord in those frozen memories, meagre and monotonous as their store had been; nor

creeching engine, that would shake the earth which held them and rend the peaceful air with such discordant sounds that neither dead nor living could sleep! His

screaming by, shaking the earth and rattling the windows of th

sprinkled every grave, rising sometimes from a bed of pain, at other times defying wind and rain and hail. And for a while he believed th

e would be no wrecks to-night, and all the world seemed at peace. The lights were out in the village. One burned in the tower of Crois

day! If it kills me, mon père, make him lay me in the cemetery by the road, that twice a day I may hear the train

hose like he seldom dealt, and hastened back to his dead. He mused, as he toiled along the da

those who suffer while alive should have all they desire after death, and I am afraid the count neglects her. But I pray

the graves with the holy-wate

its unused tones for forgotten notes, "ar

an?ois? Thank the good God they spared us to die in our beds with our grandchildren about us and only the little wind sighing in the Bois d'Amour. Ah, the poor comrades that died in their manhood, that went to the grande pêche once too often! Dost thou rememb

w-here in the grave where it ma

t down that I thought as the living breath went out o

my son to pay it, but death had come suddenly and I could not speak.

ars after thee and men remember not so long in Finisterre. But

hat of him? Is

rned no more, and she washed in the river for the dames of Croisac, and by-and-by she died. I would have married her, but she said it was enough t

ou an old man when

irst, like many wives.

sus Christ's? What miracle is this? I though

s. When the trump sounds we shall have wings and robes of l

ed? Is it time for purgato

ould that I could hold thy hand, as when thou didst slip f

hollow as it is from the mould of the grave. Thank the good God thou didst b

coffin had rotted, "why are we awakened before our time? What foul fiend was it that thundered and screamed throu

now and always. It is but a punishment He

Shall we lie like this for an eternity, perhaps? On earth we longed for death, but feared the grave. I would that

. "I cannot tell thee what this is that has rudely shaken us in our graves and freed our spirits of their blessed thraldom, and I like not the

, and from a grave beyond came a mo

e and find my child and go to my Ignace, my Ignace whose bones lie white on the floor of the sea. Will h

priest; "all will b

alone in a little box in the ground. If I could claw my wa

tell your beads, all of you. All ye that have not

hat night, and went into the church to pray till dawn. He was sick with horror and terror, but not for himself. When the sky was pink and the air full of the sweet scents of morning, and a piercing scream tore a rent in the early silences, he

rie; "but as he passed I felt as if the finger

imed the old priest. "And I!" "And I!" "An

dly down the road to the castle. He forgot that he had not broken his fast nor slept. The

tchen, he was told that he could speak with Monsieur l'évêque. He followed the servant up the wide spiral stair of the tower, and from its twenty-eighth step entered a room hung with purple cloth stamped with golden fleurs-de-lis. The bishop lay six fee

op, in his cold weary voice. "Is the

m that what he said sounded wild and unnatural, real as it was to him. But he was not prepared for its effect on the bishop. He was standing in the middle of the room, whose gloom was softened and gilded by the waxen lights of a

this string of foolish lies I am kept from my rest, as if I were another old lunatic

had fled, wri

re of the six feet of carved cupids and lilies that upheld her. On high pedestals at head and foot of her magnificent couch the pale flames rose from tarnished golden candlesticks. The blue hangings of the room, with their white fleurs-de-lis, were faded, like the rugs on the old dim floor; f

t. "And you will bury her in the old

day before, and his imagination was active. He wondered if the soul up there rejoiced in the death of the beautiful restless body, the passionate brooding mind. He could not see her face from where he knelt, only the waxen hands clasping a crucifix. He wondered if the face were peaceful in death, or peevish and angry as when he had seen it last. If the great change had smoothed and sealed it, then perhaps the soul would sink deep under the dark waters, grateful for oblivion, and that cursed train could not awaken it for years to come. Curiosity succeeded wonder. He cut his

she wish to. I will not sprinkle holy-water on her grave. It is wondr

yed more fervently. But when the watchers came an hour later

church. But it was four days before they would let him rise to go

d soaked the ground in the Bois d'Amour. It was wet about the graves, too; but the priest had given little heed to the elements in his long life of crucified

h him was filled with lamentation. They wailed for mercy, for peace, for rest; they cursed the foul fiend who had shattered the locks of death; and among the voices of men and children the priest dis

ened with punishment of our sins not a hint did we have of this. To sleep for a few hours, haunted with the moment of awakening! Then

monster of night and dawn, a note of content in this terrible chorus of despair which he believed would drive him mad. He vowed that o

ve, then pressed it more closely and held his breath. A long rumblin

k to them? Perhaps they would forget their plight were she to tell them of the world they have left so long. But

, then a gasping shriek, and another; all

his hands, looking to the

eath, and that monster of iron and fire and the frantic dead about her are tormenting a soul so tormented in life. T

leamed through the rain. On the bank of the river he met a fisherman and begged to be taken by boat. The fisherman wondered, but pick

y father," he said; and the priest ble

had comforted nobles and monarchs in the days of Croisac splendor. He sank into a chair beside the stove while a maid hastened to th

ry and the water, when he could not chase the boar or the stag in the forests. But he often went to Paris, where he could afford the life of a bachelor in a wing of his great hotel; he had known too much of the extravagance of women to give his wife the key of the faded salons. He had loved the beautiful girl when he married her, but her repinings and bitter dis

anded his respect; moreover, he had performed many offices and rites in his family. He moved a

ll me that I am an old lunatic, as did Monsieur l'évêque. Yet I must

bishop, followed by a statement that a young curé should be sent, gently

l ever show you disrespect. Say what you wish; have

ir and fixed his eyes a

the train shrieked by shaking the nails out of the coffins. I hurried back, but the mischief was done, the dead were awake, the dear sleep of eternity was shattered. They thought it was the last trump and wondered why they still were in their graves. But they talked together and it was not so

ange of countenance, convinced that he was facing a madman. But the farce we

go by to Paris, so I sprinkled no holy-water on her grave. But she, too, is wretched and horror-stricken, monsieur. She moans and screams. Her coffin is new and strong, a

d shaking from head to foot, had staggered from his chair and w

rd-?" he

ans and shrieks in a terrible, smother

nly recovered himself and dashed from the room. The priest pa

thought, as he fell asleep, "and to-morro

out him. For the Count and Countess of Croisac, who adore his memory, hastened to give him in death what he most had desired in t