Part 53 (2/2)
The demeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place and the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty drama of the ages.
The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart from the wors.h.i.+ppers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup of content was now full. He had felt convinced that if the tailor had but been within these bounds during the past three days, a work were begun which should end only at the altar of their parish church. To-day the play became to him the engine of G.o.d for the saving of a man's soul.
Not long before the last great tableau was to appear he went to his own little tent near the hut where the actors prepared to go upon the stage.
As he entered, some one came quickly forward from the shadow of the trees and touched him on the arm.
”Rosalie!” he cried in amazement, for she wore the costume of Mary Magdalene.
”It is I, not Paulette, who will appear,” she said, a deep light in her eyes.
”You, Rosalie?” he asked dumfounded. ”You are distrait. Trouble and sorrow have put this in your mind. You must not do it.”
”Yes, I am going there,” she said, pointing towards the great stage.
”Paulette has given me these to wear”--she touched the robe--”and I only ask your blessing now. Oh, believe, believe me, I can speak for those who are innocent and those who are guilty; for those who pray and those who cannot pray; for those who confess and those who dare not! I can speak the words out of my heart with gladness and agony, Monsieur,” she urged, in a voice vibrating with feeling.
A luminous look came into the Cure's face. A thought leapt up in his heart. Who could tell!--this pure girl, speaking for the whole sinful, unbelieving, and believing world, might be the one last conquering argument to the man.
He could not read the agony of spirit which had driven Rosalie to this--to confess through the words of Mary Magdalene her own woe, to say it out to all the world, and to receive, as did Paulette Dubois, every day after the curtain came down, absolution and blessing. She longed for the old remembered peace.
The Cure could not read the struggle between her love for a man and the ineradicable habit of her soul; but he raised his hand, made the sacred gesture over leer, and said: ”Go, my child, and G.o.d be with you.”
He could not see her for tears as she hurried away to where Paulette Dubois awaited her--the two at peace now. At the hands of the lately despised and injurious woman Rosalie was made ready to play the part in the last act, none knowing save the few who appeared in the final tableau, and they at the last moment only.
The bell began to toll.
A thousand people fell upon their knees, and with fascinated yet abashed and awe-struck eyes saw the great tableau of Christendom: the three crosses against the evening sky, the Figure in the centre, the Roman populace, the trembling Jews, the pathetic groups of disciples. A cloud pa.s.sed across the sky, the illusion grew, and hearts quivered in piteous sympathy. There was no music now--not a sound save the sob of some overwrought woman. The woe of an oppressed world absorbed them. Even the stolid Indians, as Roman soldiers, shrank awe-stricken from the sacred tragedy. Now the eyes of all were upon the central Figure, then they s.h.i.+fted for a moment to John the Beloved, standing with the Mother.
”Pauvre Mere! Pauvre Christ!” said a weeping woman aloud.
A Roman soldier raised a spear and pierced the side of the Hero of the World. Blood flowed, and hundreds gasped. Then there was silence--a strange hush as of a prelude to some great event.
”It is finished. Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit,” said the Figure.
The hush was broken by such a sound as one hears in a forest when a wind quivers over the earth, flutters the leaves, and then sinks away--neither having come nor gone, but only lived and died.
Again there was silence, and then all eyes were fixed upon the figure at the foot of the cross-Mary the Magdalene.
Day after day they had seen this figure rise, come forward a step, and speak the epilogue to this moving miracle-drama. For the last three days Paulette Dubois had turned a sorrowful face upon them, and with one hand upraised had spoken the prayer, the prophecy, the thanksgiving, the appeal of humanity and the ages. They looked to see the same figure now, and waited. But as the Magdalene turned, there was a great stir in the mult.i.tude, for the face bent upon them was that of Rosalie Evanturel.
Awe and wonder moved the people.
Apart from the crowd, under a clump of trees, knelt a woodsman from Vadrome Mountain, and the tailor of Chaudiere stood beside him.
When Charley, touched by the heavy scene, saw the figure of the Magdalene rise, he felt a curious thrill of fascination. When she turned, and he saw the face of Rosalie, the blood rushed to his face; then his heart seemed to stand still. Pain and shame travelled to the farthest recesses of his nature. Jo Portugais rose to his feet with a startled exclamation.
Rosalie began to speak. ”This is the day of which the hours shall never cease--in it there shall be no night. He whom ye have crucified hath saved you from the wrath to come. He hath saved others, Himself He would not save. Even for such as I, who have secretly opened, who have secretly entered, the doors of sin--”
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