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FreeThe Bellringer of Garlan
Anatole Le Braz
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It is an old little parish, there, deep in the Morlaix region, in the direction of the sea, on the southern slope of the Dourdu valley.
A belt of hills surrounds and isolates it. It lies there, as if nestled in a green hollow, away from the passing roads. Were it not for the sharp spire of its bell tower, and above all the graceful carillons that peal out on Sundays and holy days, nothing would reveal its existence to the world. Its pretty name of Garlan comes, it seems, from an old, forgotten saint whose life you would search in vain in the annals of the diocese.
Of Saint Garlan himself, only this saying remains:
An ôtro Sant Garlann A rê cleïer aour gant bleuniô lann.
Which means: “Monsignor Saint Garlan made golden bells with the flowers of the broom.” From this it is permissible to infer that he had a great taste for this kind of music, and that the people of Garlan owe to him, in large part, the tradition of beautiful bell-ringing, which is the very glory of their town.
This town consists, in all, of the church, the presbytery, the mixed school, and a string of low houses scattered around the cemetery, which casts the dense shadow of its great yews over their ancient, mossy meadows.
In one of these houses, half-hidden by a thick clump of elderberries, lived, some fifty or sixty years ago, Agapit Quesseveur, more often known by the affectionate nickname of Gapit—an abbreviation of his strange first name.
He had begun, as a teenager, by apprenticing in Morlaix.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 1 / 23
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
It is an old little parish, there, deep in the Morlaix region, in the direction of the sea, on the southern slope of the Dourdu valley.
A belt of hills surrounds and isolates it. It lies there, as if nestled in a green hollow, away from the passing roads. Were it not for the sharp spire of its bell tower, and above all the graceful carillons that peal out on Sundays and holy days, nothing would reveal its existence to the world. Its pretty name of Garlan comes, it seems, from an old, forgotten saint whose life you would search in vain in the annals of the diocese.
Of Saint Garlan himself, only this saying remains:
_An ôtro Sant Garlann A rê cleïer aour gant bleuniô lann. _
Which means: “Monsignor Saint Garlan made golden bells with the flowers of the broom.” From this it is permissible to infer that he had a great taste for this kind of music, and that the people of Garlan owe to him, in large part, the tradition of beautiful bell-ringing, which is the very glory of their town.
This town consists, in all, of the church, the presbytery, the mixed school, and a string of low houses scattered around the cemetery, which casts the dense shadow of its great yews over their ancient, mossy meadows.
In one of these houses, half-hidden by a thick clump of elderberries, lived, some fifty or sixty years ago, Agapit Quesseveur, more often known by the affectionate nickname of Gapit—an abbreviation of his strange first name.
He had begun, as a teenager, by apprenticing in Morlaix.Morlaix—the city of cigar-makers—is also, as everyone knows, the capital of coopers. In the depths of the tall medieval buildings on Rue des Nobles or Rue des Archers, there are hidden courtyards where the dark masonry that surrounds them maintains a constant, sepulchral humidity and allows only a spectral sliver of daylight to penetrate, falling from the thin skylight cut out by the overhanging roofs. Centipedes, scolopendras, and fragile water ferns cling with their sickly vegetation to the seeping walls. The sour odor of the old walls, piled on a pavement perpetually greasy with a blackish mud, mingles with the mold of the centuries, the stench of decomposition that emanates from the underground cellars, icy and putrid like disused sewers.
For five or six years, Gapit Quesseveur had worked as an apprentice cooper in one of those low-lying cellars, and already word was spreading in Garlan that he was about to receive a journeyman's wage—before even reaching the age of conscription—when one afternoon in September, around the time of the Foire-Haute, he was seen returning to the village by cart, lying on a hay bale and so different from himself that he had become unrecognizable. You would have said he was a ghost. They had to lift him out of the cart and carry him to his bed on their shoulders, like a wounded man, like a dying man...
For a long time he remained unable to move, his limbs afflicted by a secret illness that a healer summoned from Plougaznou declared incurable.
It had happened to him all of a sudden, without his knowing how. One night he had dreamed that his bones were being sawn apart, and the next day he had realized with horror that neither his legs nor his hands obeyed him any longer.
The unanimous feeling was that there was something supernatural about his case. The townspeople must have cast a spell on him.
His mother, a widow who, of four children, had kept only him, nursed him as best she could, with good-wife's ointments, complicated prayers, and pilgrimages to the most renowned sanctuaries in the region, particularly to Notre-Dame du Rélecq, whose chapel she swept, according to the rite, for three consecutive Mondays.
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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Morlaix—the city of cigar-makers—is also, as everyone knows, the capital of coopers. In the depths of the tall medieval buildings on Rue des Nobles or Rue des Archers, there are hidden courtyards where the dark masonry that surrounds them maintains a constant, sepulchral humidity and allows only a spectral sliver of daylight to penetrate, falling from the thin skylight cut out by the overhanging roofs. Centipedes, scolopendras, and fragile water ferns cling with their sickly vegetation to the seeping walls. The sour odor of the old walls, piled on a pavement perpetually greasy with a blackish mud, mingles with the mold of the centuries, the stench of decomposition that emanates from the underground cellars, icy and putrid like disused sewers.
For five or six years, Gapit Quesseveur had worked as an apprentice cooper in one of those low-lying cellars, and already word was spreading in Garlan that he was about to receive a journeyman's wage—before even reaching the age of conscription—when one afternoon in September, around the time of the Foire-Haute, he was seen returning to the village by cart, lying on a hay bale and so different from himself that he had become unrecognizable. You would have said he was a ghost. They had to lift him out of the cart and carry him to his bed on their shoulders, like a wounded man, like a dying man...
For a long time he remained unable to move, his limbs afflicted by a secret illness that a healer summoned from Plougaznou declared incurable.
It had happened to him all of a sudden, without his knowing how. One night he had dreamed that his bones were being sawn apart, and the next day he had realized with horror that neither his legs nor his hands obeyed him any longer.
The unanimous feeling was that there was something supernatural about his case. The townspeople must have cast a spell on him.
His mother, a widow who, of four children, had kept only him, nursed him as best she could, with good-wife's ointments, complicated prayers, and pilgrimages to the most renowned sanctuaries in the region, particularly to Notre-Dame du Rélecq, whose chapel she swept, according to the rite, for three consecutive Mondays.After a few months of this regimen, and thanks to his youth, Gapit Quesseveur recovered.
He recovered, but remained frail and deformed, his body as if broken in two at the waist, his shoulders crooked, his neck bent forward from his torso—a source of astonishment and commiseration for the people of his neighborhood, who were always somewhat disconcerted by the unsettling anomaly of that young man's head on that old man's body.
For weeks he did not dare to venture out of the family courtyard: his misfortune weighed on him like a shame.
The rector brought him the usual consolations from time to time:
—One need only submit to God's will, my child.
He nodded his head, murmuring:
—Still, I will always be good for nothing.
But it was not this thought that tormented him the most: there was another, deep within him, which he would never have confessed, not even in confession on his deathbed, and which, at night, kept him awake for long hours as he sobbed, sobbing endlessly, his face buried in his oat-straw pillow...
Gradually, however, he summoned the courage to go out, to show himself; and, so as not to be a complete burden to his mother, "Gritta the Widow," whose resources were more than modest, he took on some odd domestic jobs, such as carding hemp or spinning flax. Soon, growing stronger, he offered his services in the village, where it was only a matter of lending a little helping hand. He was seen at the forge, pumping the bellows; at the shoemaker's, sharpening the awls and gouges; at the church, waxing the choir or arranging the chairs around the pillars, under the direction of Jannou, the sacristan; but above all, on days of baptisms or funerals, doubling for Justin Lissillour, the bell-ringer, to ring the Te Deum or hammer the funeral bells.
The bells were his friends and confidants: they welcomed his sorrow and soothed it, lulling him to sleep.
By thus exercising his weakness, he felt his strength returning; he dreamed of a possible resurrection: hope and a fierce desire for health rekindled his extinguished energies.
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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# language: en
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After a few months of this regimen, and thanks to his youth, Gapit Quesseveur recovered.
He recovered, but remained frail and deformed, his body as if broken in two at the waist, his shoulders crooked, his neck bent forward from his torso—a source of astonishment and commiseration for the people of his neighborhood, who were always somewhat disconcerted by the unsettling anomaly of that young man's head on that old man's body.
For weeks he did not dare to venture out of the family courtyard: his misfortune weighed on him like a shame.
The rector brought him the usual consolations from time to time:
—One need only submit to God's will, my child.
He nodded his head, murmuring:
—Still, I will always be good for nothing.
But it was not this thought that tormented him the most: there was another, deep within him, which he would never have confessed, not even in confession on his deathbed, and which, at night, kept him awake for long hours as he sobbed, sobbing endlessly, his face buried in his oat-straw pillow...
* * * * *
Gradually, however, he summoned the courage to go out, to show himself; and, so as not to be a complete burden to his mother, "Gritta the Widow," whose resources were more than modest, he took on some odd domestic jobs, such as carding hemp or spinning flax. Soon, growing stronger, he offered his services in the village, where it was only a matter of lending a little helping hand. He was seen at the forge, pumping the bellows; at the shoemaker's, sharpening the awls and gouges; at the church, waxing the choir or arranging the chairs around the pillars, under the direction of Jannou, the sacristan; but above all, on days of baptisms or funerals, doubling for Justin Lissillour, the bell-ringer, to ring the _Te Deum_ or hammer the funeral bells.
The bells were his friends and confidants: they welcomed his sorrow and soothed it, lulling him to sleep.
By thus exercising his weakness, he felt his strength returning; he dreamed of a possible resurrection: hope and a fierce desire for health rekindled his extinguished energies.On a Sunday in July, he even went so far as to dress nicely, as he had before his illness, and appeared at high mass. He thought he noticed, during the service, that he was no longer looked at with the same eyes of pity. For him, this was more than relief; it was almost pride.
In the cemetery, after the ceremony, he mingled with the groups of the other young men, his old comrades, exchanged greetings with familiar faces, and dared not to turn his head when the young girls emerged from the porch to disperse among the graves.
One of them, noticing him, came to him:
—Thank God, you're on your feet again, Gapit Quesseveur, she said in a joyful voice whose timbre penetrated him to the very marrow.
—Yes, Jeanne-Louise, he stammered.
That was all he could answer. He stood before her, pale, his throat dry, all his blood forming a lump in his strangled heart. Then Jeanne-Louise was embarrassed, too, and, pretending to look for someone in the crowd, she said in a hurried tone that revealed a slight hint of embarrassment:
—Since you are here now, if you pass by our door, come in and drink a glass of cider, won't you, Gapit?
He answered for the second time:
—Yes, Jeanne-Louise.
Already she was walking away along a cross-path. He saw her green shawl and her white bonnet disappear behind the yews... "Since you are here now," she had said. Oh! how he wished he could run after her, seize her by the hem of her dress, and cry out to her, hands clasped: "Have pity, Jeanne-Louise! There is no worse suffering than to love! . . ."
II
He had known Jeanne-Louise Mével in catechism class; together they had made their three communions, and, often, on the pretext of looking for birds' nests, he had accompanied her, along with other girls from the same parish, along the sunken path that led from the village to the Kergoz farm where, for generations, the Mévels had been tenant farmers.
Their two fathers had been bound by an old friendship from their time in the regiment. When, at thirteen, Gapit lost his father, Pierre Mével, who carried the cross at the funeral, had offered the widow to take the orphan into his home as a cowherd, provided the boy felt inclined to farm work.
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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# language: en
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On a Sunday in July, he even went so far as to dress nicely, as he had before his illness, and appeared at high mass. He thought he noticed, during the service, that he was no longer looked at with the same eyes of pity. For him, this was more than relief; it was almost pride.
In the cemetery, after the ceremony, he mingled with the groups of the other young men, his old comrades, exchanged greetings with familiar faces, and dared not to turn his head when the young girls emerged from the porch to disperse among the graves.
One of them, noticing him, came to him:
--Thank God, you're on your feet again, Gapit Quesseveur, she said in a joyful voice whose timbre penetrated him to the very marrow.
--Yes, Jeanne-Louise, he stammered.
That was all he could answer. He stood before her, pale, his throat dry, all his blood forming a lump in his strangled heart. Then Jeanne-Louise was embarrassed, too, and, pretending to look for someone in the crowd, she said in a hurried tone that revealed a slight hint of embarrassment:
--Since you are here now, if you pass by our door, come in and drink a glass of cider, won't you, Gapit?
He answered for the second time:
--Yes, Jeanne-Louise.
Already she was walking away along a cross-path. He saw her green shawl and her white bonnet disappear behind the yews... "Since you are here now," she had said. Oh! how he wished he could run after her, seize her by the hem of her dress, and cry out to her, hands clasped: "Have pity, Jeanne-Louise! There is no worse suffering than to love! . . ."
* * * * *
II
He had known Jeanne-Louise Mével in catechism class; together they had made their three communions, and, often, on the pretext of looking for birds' nests, he had accompanied her, along with other girls from the same parish, along the sunken path that led from the village to the Kergoz farm where, for generations, the Mévels had been tenant farmers.
Their two fathers had been bound by an old friendship from their time in the regiment. When, at thirteen, Gapit lost his father, Pierre Mével, who carried the cross at the funeral, had offered the widow to take the orphan into his home as a cowherd, provided the boy felt inclined to farm work.—But, you see, he added, there isn't much left to do in that line, except to suffer. In your boy's place, who is intelligent and has some schooling, I would go to town to seek a livelihood; if not less tiring, at least more profitable.
To support his argument, he cited the example of Yvon Scolan, "the one who was a ploughman's assistant at the Porzamparcs'." One fine morning, the lad had planted his plough there, shaken the clods from his boots at the edge of the field, and set off for Morlaix, armed with the four sous he had in his pocket.
—He is now a master cooper there, owns a shop on the main street and a good plot of land in the sun. As he was a cousin of my late wife, I can, if you agree, put in a word with him about your boy... Cooperage is a trade that will always be in demand... Besides, what is to prevent Gapit, once his apprenticeship is over, from settling in Garlan? In an apple-growing region like ours, he certainly won't lack work.
This last argument had overcome Gritta Quesseveur's reluctance to part with her son. Gapit, for his part, would have preferred to tend Pierre Mével's flocks for the rest of his life, with no other payment than food, provided he was allowed to eat at the same table as his catechism girlfriend. But the farmer of Kergoz, governor of the parish council, was one of those considerable men whose pronouncements are not questioned when they deign to take an interest in you.
It was decided that the orphan would leave home.
—When you earn your three francs a day, come back to Kergoz, Pierre Mével had told him by way of farewell:—if, at that time, you still like bird-catching, there might be a turtledove for you here.
That one sentence was enough to dispel Gapit Quesseveur's melancholy. He left, his heart full of courage, his thin exile's bundle on his shoulder, wrapped in a blue cotton handkerchief.
He had left... And now he was back, alas! ... not he, but the ruin of what he had been, and, what was worse, a ruin in which his first, his only childhood love had taken root, all the more vivid for it! ...
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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--But, you see, he added, there isn't much left to do in that line, except to suffer. In your boy's place, who is intelligent and has some schooling, I would go to town to seek a livelihood; if not less tiring, at least more profitable.
To support his argument, he cited the example of Yvon Scolan, "the one who was a ploughman's assistant at the Porzamparcs'." One fine morning, the lad had planted his plough there, shaken the clods from his boots at the edge of the field, and set off for Morlaix, armed with the four sous he had in his pocket.
--He is now a master cooper there, owns a shop on the main street and a good plot of land in the sun. As he was a cousin of my late wife, I can, if you agree, put in a word with him about your boy... Cooperage is a trade that will always be in demand... Besides, what is to prevent Gapit, once his apprenticeship is over, from settling in Garlan? In an apple-growing region like ours, he certainly won't lack work.
This last argument had overcome Gritta Quesseveur's reluctance to part with her son. Gapit, for his part, would have preferred to tend Pierre Mével's flocks for the rest of his life, with no other payment than food, provided he was allowed to eat at the same table as his catechism girlfriend. But the farmer of Kergoz, governor of the parish council, was one of those considerable men whose pronouncements are not questioned when they deign to take an interest in you.
It was decided that the orphan would leave home.
--When you earn your three francs a day, come back to Kergoz, Pierre Mével had told him by way of farewell:--if, at that time, you still like bird-catching, there might be a turtledove for you here.
That one sentence was enough to dispel Gapit Quesseveur's melancholy. He left, his heart full of courage, his thin exile's bundle on his shoulder, wrapped in a blue cotton handkerchief.
He had left... And now he was back, alas! ... not he, but the ruin of what he had been, and, what was worse, a ruin in which his first, his only childhood love had taken root, all the more vivid for it! ...For he had always loved her, madly loved her, that Jeanne-Louise Mével, and it was the impossibility of ever winning her love that was his inner torment, his true suffering. He would never earn those three francs a day; she would never be his turtledove of Kergoz.
What an appearance, indeed, was Pierre Mével? . . . And why not, after all? Without him, without his fateful advice, wouldn't Gapit Quesseveur be, at this very moment, a man like any other, better-tempered and more "capable" than many others? Wasn't it at the farmer's urging, and to win the hand of Jeanne-Louise, that he had rushed to meet his bad fate? So! . . . One may reign as master in Kergoz, yet one must still reckon with one's Christian conscience, and Pierre Mével's conscience certainly kept repeating to him: "You once promised your daughter to Gapit as a reward; you owe it to him today, as compensation."
Thus mused the unfortunate man, returning to the house after the scene at the cemetery.
Jeanne-Louise's rush toward him had seemed to lift him above himself.
No, indeed, all was not lost.
Would she have shown such sincere joy at seeing him back on his feet, as she had said, if, following his example, she had not remained faithful to their former feelings? Would she have begged him to come to Kergoz to quench his thirst, if only in passing, if the sight of his physical disgrace had inspired in her some aversion?
And, moreover, why wouldn't she leave, just as she had come—this disgrace? Why wouldn't he succeed in overcoming it? Why wouldn't he become again the handsome, robust, and upright human being he had been only yesterday, before the dampness of the Morlaisian cellars had soured his sap and twisted his branches? Who wants can. And he had such a desire, such a fury to want! . . .
Within himself, he vowed:
"The Gapit Quesseveur who returns to Kergoz will no longer have his head turned to one side, nor his body twisted."
That evening, Gritta said to Philomène Jannou, the sacristan's wife, her neighbor:
—Listen to him! . . . I have a feeling it's the virtue of the high mass that is at work in him.
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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For he had always loved her, madly loved her, that Jeanne-Louise Mével, and it was the impossibility of ever winning her love that was his inner torment, his true suffering. He would never earn those three francs a day; she would never be his turtledove of Kergoz.
What an appearance, indeed, was Pierre Mével? . . . And why not, after all? Without him, without his fateful advice, wouldn't Gapit Quesseveur be, at this very moment, a man like any other, better-tempered and more "capable" than many others? Wasn't it at the farmer's urging, and to win the hand of Jeanne-Louise, that he had rushed to meet his bad fate? So! . . . One may reign as master in Kergoz, yet one must still reckon with one's Christian conscience, and Pierre Mével's conscience certainly kept repeating to him: "You once promised your daughter to Gapit as a reward; you owe it to him today, as compensation."
* * * * *
Thus mused the unfortunate man, returning to the house after the scene at the cemetery.
Jeanne-Louise's rush toward him had seemed to lift him above himself.
No, indeed, all was not lost.
Would she have shown such sincere joy at seeing him back on his feet, as she had said, if, following his example, she had not remained faithful to their former feelings? Would she have begged him to come to Kergoz to quench his thirst, if only in passing, if the sight of his physical disgrace had inspired in her some aversion?
And, moreover, why wouldn't she leave, just as she had come—this disgrace? Why wouldn't he succeed in overcoming it? Why wouldn't he become again the handsome, robust, and upright human being he had been only yesterday, before the dampness of the Morlaisian cellars had soured his sap and twisted his branches? Who wants can. And he had such a desire, such a fury to want! . . .
Within himself, he vowed:
"The Gapit Quesseveur who returns to Kergoz will no longer have his head turned to one side, nor his body twisted."
That evening, Gritta said to Philomène Jannou, the sacristan's wife, her neighbor:
--Listen to him! . . . I have a feeling it's the virtue of the high mass that is at work in him.In the fragrant shade of the elder tree, before the golden sunset that was being snipped by flights of swallows, Gapit hummed softly the tune of the jabadaw, which is the dance of the wedding in the land of Garlan.
III
Four or five months later, in the middle of winter, as the son and mother finished supper by the hearth, a faint tinkling of a bell outside made them flinch.
—The Good Lord who comes to visit someone, sighed the widow, crossing herself.
She was still wondering who it might be, when, suddenly, the door opened a crack.
—Gapit! cried a voice from the threshold, which they immediately recognized as that of the rector.
Indeed, Monsieur Guéguen, the parish priest, was standing on the doorstep, clad in his surplice. Gritta hastened to dust off a chair for him with her apron.
—No, no, he protested, I am not sitting down... Just a word... I have just administered the last rites to Justin Lissillour...
The young man could not help uttering a dismayed exclamation:
—What? Justin... Justin the bell-ringer?
—Yes... a stroke... He was an excellent servant, but he drank too much: I had always predicted that he would end up like this... God barely gave him time to repent and to recommend you to me as his successor. D'après lui, you are gifted beyond measure for ringing the bells... Would you be willing to take them on?
Before Gapit could open his mouth, his mother had already replied:
—Could you ask?... Say that he would never have dared to dream of such a blessing!
In fact, it was a guaranteed future.
Although not lucrative, the position brought in, good years and bad, a sum of four hundred pounds. For, while the fixed emoluments were insignificant, there were the occasional payments, and above all the house-to-house collections.
"I have enough to support a household," thought Gapit Quesseveur, as he returned home the day after tomorrow, after attempting his first major ringing for the funeral of Justin Lissillour.
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# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
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In the fragrant shade of the elder tree, before the golden sunset that was being snipped by flights of swallows, Gapit hummed softly the tune of the _jabadaw_, which is the dance of the wedding in the land of Garlan.
* * * * *
III
Four or five months later, in the middle of winter, as the son and mother finished supper by the hearth, a faint tinkling of a bell outside made them flinch.
--The Good Lord who comes to visit someone, sighed the widow, crossing herself.
She was still wondering who it might be, when, suddenly, the door opened a crack.
--Gapit! cried a voice from the threshold, which they immediately recognized as that of the rector.
Indeed, Monsieur Guéguen, the parish priest, was standing on the doorstep, clad in his surplice. Gritta hastened to dust off a chair for him with her apron.
--No, no, he protested, I am not sitting down... Just a word... I have just administered the last rites to Justin Lissillour...
The young man could not help uttering a dismayed exclamation:
--What? Justin... Justin the bell-ringer?
--Yes... a stroke... He was an excellent servant, but he drank too much: I had always predicted that he would end up like this... God barely gave him time to repent and to recommend you to me as his successor. D'après lui, you are gifted beyond measure for ringing the bells... Would you be willing to take them on?
Before Gapit could open his mouth, his mother had already replied:
--Could you ask?... Say that he would never have dared to dream of such a blessing!
In fact, it was a guaranteed future.
Although not lucrative, the position brought in, good years and bad, a sum of four hundred pounds. For, while the fixed emoluments were insignificant, there were the occasional payments, and above all the house-to-house collections.
"I have enough to support a household," thought Gapit Quesseveur, as he returned home the day after tomorrow, after attempting his first major ringing for the funeral of Justin Lissillour.He soon became an incomparable bell-ringer. Suffering had refined his nerves and seemed to have awakened in him the senses of an artist. He developed a veritable cult for his bells. He conversed with them, as if they were Spirits of the Air, initiated himself into the multiple souls enclosed within their metal, and applied himself on every occasion to extracting unheard-of harmonies from them.
"Wouldn't you say he makes them speak, and in the language of angels yet?" exclaimed the people of Garlan on feast days, marveling.
It was literally true.
But when Jeanne-Louise Mével was in high spirits, they did not just talk; they sang, they shouted, they exulted in a magnificent blossoming of harmonies. The big bell in particular, called the Salve, rolled out vibrations so full and so profound that they seemed the sound of an aerial sea, crashing against the shores of space.
Thus Gapit Quesseveur, through the resounding voices of the bronze, proclaimed to all the winds the secret of love that he could neither keep for himself alone nor share with another human being.
Leaning against the wall of the porch, under the bells still agitated by a serpentine undulation, he asked Jeanne-Louise, as she emerged among her companions at the end of the service:
—Did you find it good today?
—Very good, Gapit, admirably good, she replied with a graceful nod that brought back to the young man's mind the image of the turtledove.
Spring arrived. The first hesitant greenery wove its still fragile tendrils through the treetops of the wooded land.
It was the parish custom for the bell-ringer to make, during Holy Week, one of the two rounds he was entitled to; the one that, because of the Easter season, was called "the egg round".
Gapit Quesseveur had promised himself to forgo his round rather than present himself at a disadvantage to the hosts of Kergoz. But after swinging for months, suspended by the bell ropes, something of their elasticity had seemed to seep into his limbs. The knots in his waist and spine had loosened. A living sap welled up, confusingly, even into the most parched parts of his being.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 8 / 23
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
He soon became an incomparable bell-ringer. Suffering had refined his nerves and seemed to have awakened in him the senses of an artist. He developed a veritable cult for his bells. He conversed with them, as if they were Spirits of the Air, initiated himself into the multiple souls enclosed within their metal, and applied himself on every occasion to extracting unheard-of harmonies from them.
"Wouldn't you say he makes them speak, and in the language of angels yet?" exclaimed the people of Garlan on feast days, marveling.
It was literally true.
But when Jeanne-Louise Mével was in high spirits, they did not just talk; they sang, they shouted, they exulted in a magnificent blossoming of harmonies. The big bell in particular, called the _Salve_, rolled out vibrations so full and so profound that they seemed the sound of an aerial sea, crashing against the shores of space.
Thus Gapit Quesseveur, through the resounding voices of the bronze, proclaimed to all the winds the secret of love that he could neither keep for himself alone nor share with another human being.
Leaning against the wall of the porch, under the bells still agitated by a serpentine undulation, he asked Jeanne-Louise, as she emerged among her companions at the end of the service:
--Did you find it good today?
--Very good, Gapit, admirably good, she replied with a graceful nod that brought back to the young man's mind the image of the turtledove.
* * * * *
Spring arrived. The first hesitant greenery wove its still fragile tendrils through the treetops of the wooded land.
It was the parish custom for the bell-ringer to make, during Holy Week, one of the two rounds he was entitled to; the one that, because of the Easter season, was called "the egg round".
Gapit Quesseveur had promised himself to forgo his round rather than present himself at a disadvantage to the hosts of Kergoz. But after swinging for months, suspended by the bell ropes, something of their elasticity had seemed to seep into his limbs. The knots in his waist and spine had loosened. A living sap welled up, confusingly, even into the most parched parts of his being.So, starting on Palm Sunday, he set off; and for the three days that followed, he was the only one encountered along the small, rough paths, the embankments blooming with daffodils and primroses, or the trails beaten from one farm to another in the tender green of the sprouting wheat.
He went from doorstep to doorstep, greeted everywhere by a word of welcome, showered everywhere with rustic offerings.
On Thursday evening, however, he had not yet approached Kergoz. More than once, he stopped at the top of the nearby hills to contemplate, with a singular mixture of pleasure and anxiety, the slender old chimneys, whitewashed with lime, which, like “bitter herbs,” dominated the swell of the young foliage. He yearned with all his soul for that dwelling and, nevertheless, kept putting off the moment, so decisive for him, when he would cross its threshold.
Finally, on Good Friday, he summoned up courage.
It was a radiant morning, exquisitely warmed by the breezes from the sea: a delicate sky, where pink clouds scattered like flower petals—a true spring of betrothal.
In the manor courtyard, the bell-ringer came across Jeanne-Louise, who was heading toward the stables with a bundle of wet alfalfa between her bare arms, the sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
“Ah! It’s you, Gapit,” she said.
And, letting slip the fodder that spread out like a flood of emerald at her feet, she preceded him into the house. Pierre Mével, sitting at the large kitchen table, was having lunch on a slice of rye bread, greased with lard. He wiped his right hand on his knee and extended it to the visitor:
“Good morning,” he said. “Take a seat opposite me and eat . . . You, girl, bring us some fresh cider.”
He poured out two full bowls of it.
“To your health, my lad! . . . I was beginning to think we’d never see you at Kergoz again!”
Gapit, who was about to drink, straightened his neck to reply:
“It wasn’t for lack of wanting to . . . I’ve had a lot of troubles, Pierre Mével.”
“Yes, I know . . . your illness . . . You really weren’t lucky!” We were saying so just the other day, weren’t we, Jeanne-Louise?
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 9 / 23
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
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So, starting on Palm Sunday, he set off; and for the three days that followed, he was the only one encountered along the small, rough paths, the embankments blooming with daffodils and primroses, or the trails beaten from one farm to another in the tender green of the sprouting wheat.
He went from doorstep to doorstep, greeted everywhere by a word of welcome, showered everywhere with rustic offerings.
On Thursday evening, however, he had not yet approached Kergoz. More than once, he stopped at the top of the nearby hills to contemplate, with a singular mixture of pleasure and anxiety, the slender old chimneys, whitewashed with lime, which, like “bitter herbs,” dominated the swell of the young foliage. He yearned with all his soul for that dwelling and, nevertheless, kept putting off the moment, so decisive for him, when he would cross its threshold.
Finally, on Good Friday, he summoned up courage.
It was a radiant morning, exquisitely warmed by the breezes from the sea: a delicate sky, where pink clouds scattered like flower petals—a true spring of betrothal.
In the manor courtyard, the bell-ringer came across Jeanne-Louise, who was heading toward the stables with a bundle of wet alfalfa between her bare arms, the sleeves rolled up above her elbows.
“Ah! It’s you, Gapit,” she said.
And, letting slip the fodder that spread out like a flood of emerald at her feet, she preceded him into the house. Pierre Mével, sitting at the large kitchen table, was having lunch on a slice of rye bread, greased with lard. He wiped his right hand on his knee and extended it to the visitor:
“Good morning,” he said. “Take a seat opposite me and eat . . . You, girl, bring us some fresh cider.”
He poured out two full bowls of it.
“To your health, my lad! . . . I was beginning to think we’d never see you at Kergoz again!”
Gapit, who was about to drink, straightened his neck to reply:
“It wasn’t for lack of wanting to . . . I’ve had a lot of troubles, Pierre Mével.”
“Yes, I know . . . your illness . . . You really weren’t lucky!” We were saying so just the other day, weren’t we, Jeanne-Louise?This allusion to his “illness,” made in a tone of banal pity and in front of the woman he loved, deeply wounded the young man’s pride.
He protested, almost vehemently:
“I’m not in pain anywhere anymore, and for the August harvest I’ll be as spry as if I’d never been ill . . . The rector told me so,” he added more softly, not without blushing a little at this lie.
“God willing!” the farmer articulated. “And, after all, there’s nothing that can’t be cured at your age.”
But in his eyes could be read the incredulity that lay deep within his mind, and his entire demeanor betrayed the robust peasant's unconscious contempt for the infirm man.
There was a painful silence. The young girl, out of compassion for her former friend, intervened:
—What is certain is that you are the opposite of a cripple. Never before has there been a bell-ringer in Garlan like you. There is only one voice in the parish to declare this.
Gapit Quesseveur's pupils shone with a grateful glow.
—Yes, don't my bells obey me? he exclaimed.
—Like servants, to be sure.
Pierre Mével had left his bench. The creak of a cabinet door was heard in the neighboring room. When the farmer reappeared, he held a pistol between his fingers, a ten-franc pistol, which he wanted ostentatiously to place in the bell-ringer's palm.
—You know, there will be the same for you on each of your rounds, he said with a somewhat emphatic cordiality.
But Gapit, instead of extending his hand, shoved it into his pocket.
—Huh? . . . You refuse? . . . stammered the peasant, bewildered.
The bell-ringer had stood up. With a fierce tension of will, fists clutched to the edge of the table, he almost managed to stand straight. His eyes, whose gray-blue tint had suddenly darkened to ink black, focused ardently on the young girl.
—Jeanne-Louise, he pronounced slowly, it is from you, from you alone, that I require my Easter eggs. Please answer me, according to your own feelings. You will be either my life or my death. Without you, nothing matters to me, and what I have come to beg from you is yourself. Tell me with a word, a sign, whether it is yes or no.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 10 / 23
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
This allusion to his “illness,” made in a tone of banal pity and in front of the woman he loved, deeply wounded the young man’s pride.
He protested, almost vehemently:
“I’m not in pain anywhere anymore, and for the August harvest I’ll be as spry as if I’d never been ill . . . The rector told me so,” he added more softly, not without blushing a little at this lie.
“God willing!” the farmer articulated. “And, after all, there’s nothing that can’t be cured at your age.”
But in his eyes could be read the incredulity that lay deep within his mind, and his entire demeanor betrayed the robust peasant's unconscious contempt for the infirm man.
There was a painful silence. The young girl, out of compassion for her former friend, intervened:
--What is certain is that you are the opposite of a cripple. Never before has there been a bell-ringer in Garlan like you. There is only one voice in the parish to declare this.
Gapit Quesseveur's pupils shone with a grateful glow.
--Yes, don't my bells obey me? he exclaimed.
--Like servants, to be sure.
Pierre Mével had left his bench. The creak of a cabinet door was heard in the neighboring room. When the farmer reappeared, he held a pistol between his fingers, a ten-franc pistol, which he wanted ostentatiously to place in the bell-ringer's palm.
--You know, there will be the same for you on each of your rounds, he said with a somewhat emphatic cordiality.
But Gapit, instead of extending his hand, shoved it into his pocket.
--Huh? . . . You refuse? . . . stammered the peasant, bewildered.
The bell-ringer had stood up. With a fierce tension of will, fists clutched to the edge of the table, he almost managed to stand straight. His eyes, whose gray-blue tint had suddenly darkened to ink black, focused ardently on the young girl.
--Jeanne-Louise, he pronounced slowly, it is from you, from you alone, that I require my Easter eggs. Please answer me, according to your own feelings. You will be either my life or my death. Without you, nothing matters to me, and what I have come to beg from you is yourself. Tell me with a word, a sign, whether it is yes or no.Jeanne-Louise had listened to this speech, her lips slightly parted, as if struck by stupor, unable to comprehend. In Gapit Quesseveur, all the springs of the human machine had stopped. He waited in tragic immobility for the young girl's answer. Finally, unable to bear it any longer:
—Jeanne-Louise! . . . he implored in a tone of passionate supplication.
Jeanne-Louise looked at him, untied, then automatically retied the strings of her apron, and ran to hide at the far end of the house, seized by a sort of sudden panic, hunted by a mysterious terror . . .
Gapit Quesseveur made for the door, his knees wobbling like those of a drunken man.
Crossing the courtyard again, he noticed on the ground, in front of him, the bundle of alfalfa that Jeanne-Louise had dropped at the moment of his arrival. In his bewilderment, he picked up a handful of it and began to nibble and chew it all the way along the road, like those fools in the fable whom the delirium of love transformed into beasts.
IV
On Holy Saturday, the day before Easter, after the two days of mournful silence by which Christianity commemorates the death of the Redeemer, the bells, as is well known, return from Rome with a completely new spirit to ring out the great joy of the Resurrection. This return is eagerly awaited by the children of the Breton villages. They have been told that the mystical travelers return laden with papal candies. All one has to do is lie down in their path, belly to the sky, mouth open and eyes closed, to receive on the fly, in a rain of sugar, the bounty they scatter with their ringing.
Therefore, well before the sacramental hour, all the urchins of Garlan were gathered in the square, watching for the bell-ringer to depart for church. Boys and girls cheered him as soon as he appeared.
In Justin Lissillour's time, they had experienced only disappointment. The bells might well have returned from Rome, but no candies escaped from their sides. Apparently, Justin Lissillour did not know how to make them fall: he was too old... But with Gapit Quesseveur, confidence could be restored: showers of Easter candies were about to rain down.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 11 / 23
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
Jeanne-Louise had listened to this speech, her lips slightly parted, as if struck by stupor, unable to comprehend. In Gapit Quesseveur, all the springs of the human machine had stopped. He waited in tragic immobility for the young girl's answer. Finally, unable to bear it any longer:
--Jeanne-Louise! . . . he implored in a tone of passionate supplication.
Jeanne-Louise looked at him, untied, then automatically retied the strings of her apron, and ran to hide at the far end of the house, seized by a sort of sudden panic, hunted by a mysterious terror . . .
Gapit Quesseveur made for the door, his knees wobbling like those of a drunken man.
Crossing the courtyard again, he noticed on the ground, in front of him, the bundle of alfalfa that Jeanne-Louise had dropped at the moment of his arrival. In his bewilderment, he picked up a handful of it and began to nibble and chew it all the way along the road, like those fools in the fable whom the delirium of love transformed into beasts.
* * * * *
IV
On Holy Saturday, the day before Easter, after the two days of mournful silence by which Christianity commemorates the death of the Redeemer, the bells, as is well known, return from Rome with a completely new spirit to ring out the great joy of the Resurrection. This return is eagerly awaited by the children of the Breton villages. They have been told that the mystical travelers return laden with papal candies. All one has to do is lie down in their path, belly to the sky, mouth open and eyes closed, to receive on the fly, in a rain of sugar, the bounty they scatter with their ringing.
Therefore, well before the sacramental hour, all the urchins of Garlan were gathered in the square, watching for the bell-ringer to depart for church. Boys and girls cheered him as soon as he appeared.
In Justin Lissillour's time, they had experienced only disappointment. The bells might well have returned from Rome, but no candies escaped from their sides. Apparently, Justin Lissillour did not know how to make them fall: he was too old... But with Gapit Quesseveur, confidence could be restored: showers of Easter candies were about to rain down.—This is the day to ring your most beautiful peal, eh, Gapit!
—You don't say that so well, children, replied the young man, parting the babbling crowd that rushed toward the cemetery on his heels.
He smiled a strange, sad smile. His body seemed more slumped than usual, his shoulders more uneven, as if the old illness had seized him again. When he entered under the vault of the porch, where the idle bell ropes hung, the urchins, already sprawled out on the mound of the dead, shouted to him in unison:
—Pull on them! Pull hard, Gapit!
He, however, made no sign of wanting to begin.
To their great astonishment, they saw him, instead of grasping the ropes, head toward the narrow staircase of the tower.
—Hey! Why is he climbing up there? asked someone.
—I bet it's to make it sound better, suggested Dorik Mélégan, the acolyte.
They listened to the footsteps of Gapit Quesseveur climb up, disappearing into the dark spiral of stone. A little later, his silhouette appeared in black through the openwork balustrade of the bell gallery, and immediately the three bells began to ring.
Dorik Mélégan was right: it must indeed have been for the sake of better sound that Gapit Quesseveur had adopted this new method, for never, in living memory, had the ears of the parishioners of Garlan heard such miraculous music. It was so close to a miracle that even the rector himself interrupted his reading of the breviary and left the arbor in his garden to come, in the middle of the village, to listen to that enchanting carillon.
It was like a celestial choir spreading thousands of immense wings in the azure sky. The whole cry of human hope resurrected, the whole alleluia of creation restored to light, warmth, and love, palpitated magnificently over the world, in chords at once powerful and sweet, of unparalleled amplitude and suavity. The women, in ecstasy, could only clasp their hands under their chins; Sir Guéguen thought to himself:
—The late Justin Lissillour had not deceived me: this Gapit certainly has the gift! It is as moving as the Song of Songs...
But admiration was suddenly succeeded by fear.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 12 / 23
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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# render_mode: prose
--This is the day to ring your most beautiful peal, eh, Gapit!
--You don't say that so well, children, replied the young man, parting the babbling crowd that rushed toward the cemetery on his heels.
He smiled a strange, sad smile. His body seemed more slumped than usual, his shoulders more uneven, as if the old illness had seized him again. When he entered under the vault of the porch, where the idle bell ropes hung, the urchins, already sprawled out on the mound of the dead, shouted to him in unison:
--Pull on them! Pull hard, Gapit!
He, however, made no sign of wanting to begin.
To their great astonishment, they saw him, instead of grasping the ropes, head toward the narrow staircase of the tower.
--Hey! Why is he climbing up there? asked someone.
--I bet it's to make it sound better, suggested Dorik Mélégan, the acolyte.
They listened to the footsteps of Gapit Quesseveur climb up, disappearing into the dark spiral of stone. A little later, his silhouette appeared in black through the openwork balustrade of the bell gallery, and immediately the three bells began to ring.
Dorik Mélégan was right: it must indeed have been for the sake of better sound that Gapit Quesseveur had adopted this new method, for never, in living memory, had the ears of the parishioners of Garlan heard such miraculous music. It was so close to a miracle that even the rector himself interrupted his reading of the breviary and left the arbor in his garden to come, in the middle of the village, to listen to that enchanting carillon.
It was like a celestial choir spreading thousands of immense wings in the azure sky. The whole cry of human hope resurrected, the whole alleluia of creation restored to light, warmth, and love, palpitated magnificently over the world, in chords at once powerful and sweet, of unparalleled amplitude and suavity. The women, in ecstasy, could only clasp their hands under their chins; Sir Guéguen thought to himself:
--The late Justin Lissillour had not deceived me: this Gapit certainly has the gift! It is as moving as the Song of Songs...
But admiration was suddenly succeeded by fear.The triumphant hymn had changed into a kind of heavy lament, a solemn moan. Gradually, the strokes grew quieter, more spaced out. They rang the tolling bell now, a bell of inexpressible sadness, heavy with tears, swollen with sobs. Then there was a lugubrious pause, followed by a vast sigh of agony in which one could almost hear the soul of the great bell being exhaled.
The whole village, in bewilderment, looked at one another with anxious eyes. What could this possibly mean? There was a foreboding of something dire, perhaps irreparable.
—Jannou, to the tower! to the tower! commanded Sir Guéguen to the sacristan.
The latter hesitated; two willing parishioners, the blacksmith and the carpenter, offered their assistance.
—Monsieur the Rector . . . , come up . . . , come up quickly! . . . We need you! . . .
Monsieur Guéguen rushed towards the porch, as quickly as his age allowed, and, for the first time since he had been the rector of Garlan, climbed the eighty-six steps that led to the top of the building. He was all out of breath when he reached the platform.
—Well! What? What is it? Where is Gapit?
—The poor man wanted to kill himself, you see! said Jannou, whose own face was as pale as a corpse.
The other two stepped aside and revealed to the priest the body of the bell-ringer, lying on his back, his head resting against one of the buttresses of the spire. His face was all mottled with bluish patches: at the corner of his lips a few drops of blood had beaded.
—The unfortunate man! murmured Monsieur Guéguen in a tone in which blame softened into pity.
—The marshal was forced to cut the rope of the large bell almost right at the lever,—continued the sacristan's doleful voice . . . The damage is not considerable, for it was no longer new, he added by way of excuse, no doubt fearing that the priest would reproach him for having allowed the church's property to deteriorate.
—The marshal could not have given a finer mark of intelligence, said Monsieur Guéguen, not without vivacity.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 13 / 23
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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The triumphant hymn had changed into a kind of heavy lament, a solemn moan. Gradually, the strokes grew quieter, more spaced out. They rang the tolling bell now, a bell of inexpressible sadness, heavy with tears, swollen with sobs. Then there was a lugubrious pause, followed by a vast sigh of agony in which one could almost hear the soul of the great bell being exhaled.
The whole village, in bewilderment, looked at one another with anxious eyes. What could this possibly mean? There was a foreboding of something dire, perhaps irreparable.
--Jannou, to the tower! to the tower! commanded Sir Guéguen to the sacristan.
The latter hesitated; two willing parishioners, the blacksmith and the carpenter, offered their assistance.
--Monsieur the Rector . . . , come up . . . , come up quickly! . . . We need you! . . .
Monsieur Guéguen rushed towards the porch, as quickly as his age allowed, and, for the first time since he had been the rector of Garlan, climbed the eighty-six steps that led to the top of the building. He was all out of breath when he reached the platform.
--Well! What? What is it? Where is Gapit?
--The poor man wanted to kill himself, you see! said Jannou, whose own face was as pale as a corpse.
The other two stepped aside and revealed to the priest the body of the bell-ringer, lying on his back, his head resting against one of the buttresses of the spire. His face was all mottled with bluish patches: at the corner of his lips a few drops of blood had beaded.
--The unfortunate man! murmured Monsieur Guéguen in a tone in which blame softened into pity.
--The marshal was forced to cut the rope of the large bell almost right at the lever,--continued the sacristan's doleful voice . . . The damage is not considerable, for it was no longer new, he added by way of excuse, no doubt fearing that the priest would reproach him for having allowed the church's property to deteriorate.
--The marshal could not have given a finer mark of intelligence, said Monsieur Guéguen, not without vivacity.He had knelt down beside the bell-ringer and, with a nimble finger, unbuttoned his clothes, tore off the button of his hemp shirt, laid bare his chest—from which a paper slipped out that no one noticed.
—Help me to prop him up here, against this buttress.
All these country priests of Brittany are, by necessity, doctors of bodies as well as of souls. On feeling the inert body of Gapit Quesseveur, Monsieur Guéguen had the satisfaction of finding that the skin was still warm, that the vertebrae of the neck moved normally, and that the muscles had retained their suppleness. He hastened to perform all the maneuvers prescribed in such a case.
The others watched him do it, motionless and filled with a superstitious unease, convinced deep down that this was some kind of magical operation.
—You'll see that he'll bring him back from the dead, whispered the sacristan.
And almost immediately, indeed, the work of resurrection began.
The thrill of life coursed through the bell-ringer's features; his eyelids fluttered; his throat made a frantic gulp, as if to drink in a single gulp all the regenerative powers scattered in the spring wind.
—Te Deum laudamus! . . . intoned the priest, radiant.
He pulled a cordial from the pocket of his cassock, one that never left his side, and poured a few drops between Gapit's lips.
The man opened his eyes, held them for two or three seconds above him, towards the bells whose bronze rumbled softly to the sonorous caress of the brisk air, then closed them with a brusque blink, doubtless overcome by another bout of faintness.
—We'll have to lower him gently, said Monsieur Guéguen. . . We'll save him, I hope.
Then, turning to the sacristan:
—There, Jannou, did he have any trouble during his quest, by any chance?
—Not that I know of, Monsieur the Rector.
—What reason could he possibly have had, in your opinion, to attempt to take his own life in this way?
—If you want my opinion, whispered the sacristan, ever since you appointed him bell-ringer, Gapit was no longer his usual self.
—What? What did you notice about him that wasn't natural?
Jannou rubbed the tip of his nose:
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 14 / 23
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
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He had knelt down beside the bell-ringer and, with a nimble finger, unbuttoned his clothes, tore off the button of his hemp shirt, laid bare his chest--from which a paper slipped out that no one noticed.
--Help me to prop him up here, against this buttress.
All these country priests of Brittany are, by necessity, doctors of bodies as well as of souls. On feeling the inert body of Gapit Quesseveur, Monsieur Guéguen had the satisfaction of finding that the skin was still warm, that the vertebrae of the neck moved normally, and that the muscles had retained their suppleness. He hastened to perform all the maneuvers prescribed in such a case.
The others watched him do it, motionless and filled with a superstitious unease, convinced deep down that this was some kind of magical operation.
--You'll see that he'll bring him back from the dead, whispered the sacristan.
And almost immediately, indeed, the work of resurrection began.
The thrill of life coursed through the bell-ringer's features; his eyelids fluttered; his throat made a frantic gulp, as if to drink in a single gulp all the regenerative powers scattered in the spring wind.
--_Te Deum laudamus! _. . . intoned the priest, radiant.
He pulled a cordial from the pocket of his cassock, one that never left his side, and poured a few drops between Gapit's lips.
The man opened his eyes, held them for two or three seconds above him, towards the bells whose bronze rumbled softly to the sonorous caress of the brisk air, then closed them with a brusque blink, doubtless overcome by another bout of faintness.
--We'll have to lower him gently, said Monsieur Guéguen. . . We'll save him, I hope.
Then, turning to the sacristan:
--There, Jannou, did he have any trouble during his quest, by any chance?
--Not that I know of, Monsieur the Rector.
--What reason could he possibly have had, in your opinion, to attempt to take his own life in this way?
--If you want my opinion, whispered the sacristan, ever since you appointed him bell-ringer, Gapit was no longer his usual self.
--What? What did you notice about him that wasn't natural?
Jannou rubbed the tip of his nose:—His love for his bells, Monsieur the Rector. . . For they had become his own, and no longer those of the parish. He spoke only of them, lived only for them. Ask him, if he survives, how many times I repeated to him: «Gapit, you spend too much time with the bells. It will bring you misfortune». . . Bells are like sirens: whoever gives them their soul also gives them, sooner or later, their body as well. . . Gapit Quesseveur refused to believe it. . . Still, at this point, Monsieur the Rector, without you, without your prayer. . .
—That's good, that's good, interrupted Monsieur Guéguen. If you're to be believed, it was the bells that tried to hang the bell-ringer. In any case, the main thing is that they didn't completely succeed. . . Watch over the descent, my friends! he continued, turning to the two craftsmen.
They lifted Gapit up, one by the armpits, the other by the legs, and, preceded by the sacristan, who had not neglected to seize the rope, they disappeared with their human burden into the darkness of the staircase. The rector prepared to follow them, when he noticed, lying on the parquet, an envelope, fallen there like a message from above. He stooped to pick it up. It was covered with multicolored sealing wax; on the front, as a superscription, was written this schoolboy formula:
He who finds this paper Shall return it to Gapit Quesseveur, And above all shall not read it, Lest he go to hell.
—"Here is a defense rich in promises," said the old priest. "Let us therefore violate it without scruple, despite the thunderbolts with which it threatens us."
And, putting his words into action, he broke the seals.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 15 / 23
# chapter_page: 15
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
--His love for his bells, Monsieur the Rector. . . For they had become his own, and no longer those of the parish. He spoke only of them, lived only for them. Ask him, if he survives, how many times I repeated to him: «Gapit, you spend too much time with the bells. It will bring you misfortune». . . Bells are like sirens: whoever gives them their soul also gives them, sooner or later, their body as well. . . Gapit Quesseveur refused to believe it. . . Still, at this point, Monsieur the Rector, without you, without your prayer. . .
--That's good, that's good, interrupted Monsieur Guéguen. If you're to be believed, it was the bells that tried to hang the bell-ringer. In any case, the main thing is that they didn't completely succeed. . . Watch over the descent, my friends! he continued, turning to the two craftsmen.
They lifted Gapit up, one by the armpits, the other by the legs, and, preceded by the sacristan, who had not neglected to seize the rope, they disappeared with their human burden into the darkness of the staircase. The rector prepared to follow them, when he noticed, lying on the parquet, an envelope, fallen there like a message from above. He stooped to pick it up. It was covered with multicolored sealing wax; on the front, as a superscription, was written this schoolboy formula:
He who finds this paper Shall return it to Gapit Quesseveur, And above all shall not read it, Lest he go to hell.
--"Here is a defense rich in promises," said the old priest. "Let us therefore violate it without scruple, despite the thunderbolts with which it threatens us."
And, putting his words into action, he broke the seals.What he found was one of those mediocre "First Communion pictures" depicting very pious and well-dressed children kneeling at the Holy Table to receive the Eucharist. The image was faded and yellowed; it was already nearly twelve years old. Yet, to remain almost intact, it must have been the object of what pious care! On the back, an awkward pen had traced, in characters of laborious application, this dedication: "To my catechism classmate (sic), Gapit Quesseveur, a souvenir of our Easter." And it was signed: "Jeanne-Louise Mével, of Kergoz, parish of Garlan, arrondissement of Morlaix, Finistère."
—"Well! well! well! . . ." exclaimed the rector, on three different intonations.
These four lines, in their brief simplicity, had taught him more than all the ramblings of that imbecile Jannou.
His gaze went from the small, childish image to the lever of the large bell, bereft of its rope; it plunged more than a hundred feet below him into the undulating terrain, streaked with valleys, dotted with hills, over which he was the spiritual master; it lingered for a moment on the roofs of Kergoz, recognizable in the tangle of greenery by their white chimneys, gilded by the sun; then it disappeared into the depths of the vast sky, the young, velvety April sky, stretched like an immense silk over the distant splendors.
—"Your ways, Lord, are unfathomable," he murmured, bowing his head with its tuft of gray curls, where the tonsure gleamed like a fountain among willows.
And, after placing the precious envelope in the belt of his cassock, he went downstairs.
VI
Gapit Quesseveur hovered between life and death for three weeks. And, for three weeks, Jeanne-Louise Mével hardly moved from the bedside where he lay, wracked by terrifying bouts of delirium, followed by strange torpor that was even more frightening.
As early as Saturday evening, she had presented herself at the home of Gritta the widow.
—I come on behalf of Monsieur the Rector, she had said without further explanation.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 16 / 23
# chapter_page: 16
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
What he found was one of those mediocre "First Communion pictures" depicting very pious and well-dressed children kneeling at the Holy Table to receive the Eucharist. The image was faded and yellowed; it was already nearly twelve years old. Yet, to remain almost intact, it must have been the object of what pious care! On the back, an awkward pen had traced, in characters of laborious application, this dedication: "To my catechism classmate (_sic_), Gapit Quesseveur, a souvenir of our Easter." And it was signed: "Jeanne-Louise Mével, of Kergoz, parish of Garlan, arrondissement of Morlaix, Finistère."
--"Well! well! well! . . ." exclaimed the rector, on three different intonations.
These four lines, in their brief simplicity, had taught him more than all the ramblings of that imbecile Jannou.
His gaze went from the small, childish image to the lever of the large bell, bereft of its rope; it plunged more than a hundred feet below him into the undulating terrain, streaked with valleys, dotted with hills, over which he was the spiritual master; it lingered for a moment on the roofs of Kergoz, recognizable in the tangle of greenery by their white chimneys, gilded by the sun; then it disappeared into the depths of the vast sky, the young, velvety April sky, stretched like an immense silk over the distant splendors.
--"Your ways, Lord, are unfathomable," he murmured, bowing his head with its tuft of gray curls, where the tonsure gleamed like a fountain among willows.
And, after placing the precious envelope in the belt of his cassock, he went downstairs.
* * * * *
VI
Gapit Quesseveur hovered between life and death for three weeks. And, for three weeks, Jeanne-Louise Mével hardly moved from the bedside where he lay, wracked by terrifying bouts of delirium, followed by strange torpor that was even more frightening.
As early as Saturday evening, she had presented herself at the home of Gritta the widow.
--I come on behalf of Monsieur the Rector, she had said without further explanation.And she settled down permanently at Gapit's bedside. This determination did not seem strange to anyone in the village, since the man of God had inspired it and Pierre Mével himself, far from showing any displeasure, joined in it, in his own way, by harnessing his apple-green tilbury every other day to go to Morlaix to fetch the doctor. For, this time, there was no recourse to the herbalist of Plougaznou, nor to the various ointments of the matrons, Gritta's usual advisers.
—For other ills, other remedies are needed, Jeanne-Louise had declared from the outset, with a gentle but firm authority.
On the bench lined up tiny vials with unintelligible labels, which the young girl handled alone. Did the elixirs contained within them possess a more effective virtue than the water of Rélecq or that of Saint-Laurent-du-Pouldour? What is certain is that one morning—a lovely May morning, fragrant with mint and honeysuckle—the fever subsided. The doctor, after a quick glance at the patient who lay like a child, announced that they were now entering the period of recovery.
Gapit Quesseveur was saved.
All of Garlan, which the drama had deeply moved, although it had no inkling of its true causes, breathed a sigh of relief, as if the destinies of the parish were tied to those of the bell-ringer. But no prayer of thanksgiving equaled in fervor that which Jeanne-Louise Mével uttered in the secret of her thoughts.
The doctor had no sooner taken leave than she said to old Gritta, in a voice that struggled to remain calm but trembled with sobs:
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 17 / 23
# chapter_page: 17
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
And she settled down permanently at Gapit's bedside. This determination did not seem strange to anyone in the village, since the man of God had inspired it and Pierre Mével himself, far from showing any displeasure, joined in it, in his own way, by harnessing his apple-green tilbury every other day to go to Morlaix to fetch the doctor. For, this time, there was no recourse to the herbalist of Plougaznou, nor to the various ointments of the matrons, Gritta's usual advisers.
--For other ills, other remedies are needed, Jeanne-Louise had declared from the outset, with a gentle but firm authority.
On the bench lined up tiny vials with unintelligible labels, which the young girl handled alone. Did the elixirs contained within them possess a more effective virtue than the water of Rélecq or that of Saint-Laurent-du-Pouldour? What is certain is that one morning--a lovely May morning, fragrant with mint and honeysuckle--the fever subsided. The doctor, after a quick glance at the patient who lay like a child, announced that they were now entering the period of recovery.
Gapit Quesseveur was saved.
All of Garlan, which the drama had deeply moved, although it had no inkling of its true causes, breathed a sigh of relief, as if the destinies of the parish were tied to those of the bell-ringer. But no prayer of thanksgiving equaled in fervor that which Jeanne-Louise Mével uttered in the secret of her thoughts.
The doctor had no sooner taken leave than she said to old Gritta, in a voice that struggled to remain calm but trembled with sobs:—Now that your son is out of danger, it is high time for me to return home, where things are a bit neglected. Besides, Gapit will soon regain his senses, and Monsieur the Rector's advice is that I stay away before he looks around, lest, for one reason or another, the sight of a stranger in the room give him a sudden shock... With the sick of his kind, the slightest thing can set things off again... He must not even know that I treated him, do you understand? Do not mention my name first... There may be things within him that it is not good for him to remember too quickly. Let him search within himself, recall... If, then, he inquires about me, but only on that condition, you will please hand him the letter that I am going to write to him immediately.
—Let it be according to your will and that of Monsieur Guéguen, replied with humility the excellent woman who, since Gapit's "accident", venerated the heiress of Kergoz as an incarnation of heavenly goodness, the very angel of devotion.
The inkwell and the pen that the doctor used to write his prescriptions were on the table. Jeanne-Louise took from the front pocket of her apron the sheet of blue-bordered paper that she had obtained from the village schoolteacher, and, with her most steady hand, she wrote:
"This, Gapit Quesseveur, is to let you know that, the day after I unintentionally caused you such great pain, Monsieur the Rector came to Kergoz to bring me the image that is under this fold. 'If he dies,' he told me, 'pin it to the wall near your holy water font, so that, morning and evening, it will remind you to pray for his soul. If he survives, well! Your heart will tell you whether you should keep it or return it.' Thank God, you will survive, Gapit. I am therefore returning it to you. So my heart has advised. But, after what you have suffered because of me, will not your heart have changed its intentions? According to what it dictates to you, I will be your happy or unhappy servant."
And she signed, in large characters, as in the days of their childhood love:
»JEANNE-LOUISE MÉVEL, of Kergoz, parish of Garlan. »
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 18 / 23
# chapter_page: 18
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
--Now that your son is out of danger, it is high time for me to return home, where things are a bit neglected. Besides, Gapit will soon regain his senses, and Monsieur the Rector's advice is that I stay away before he looks around, lest, for one reason or another, the sight of a stranger in the room give him a sudden shock... With the sick of his kind, the slightest thing can set things off again... He must not even know that I treated him, do you understand? Do not mention my name first... There may be things within him that it is not good for him to remember too quickly. Let him search within himself, recall... If, then, he inquires about me, but only on that condition, you will please hand him the letter that I am going to write to him immediately.
--Let it be according to your will and that of Monsieur Guéguen, replied with humility the excellent woman who, since Gapit's "accident", venerated the heiress of Kergoz as an incarnation of heavenly goodness, the very angel of devotion.
The inkwell and the pen that the doctor used to write his prescriptions were on the table. Jeanne-Louise took from the front pocket of her apron the sheet of blue-bordered paper that she had obtained from the village schoolteacher, and, with her most steady hand, she wrote:
"This, Gapit Quesseveur, is to let you know that, the day after I unintentionally caused you such great pain, Monsieur the Rector came to Kergoz to bring me the image that is under this fold. 'If he dies,' he told me, 'pin it to the wall near your holy water font, so that, morning and evening, it will remind you to pray for his soul. If he survives, well! Your heart will tell you whether you should keep it or return it.' Thank God, you will survive, Gapit. I am therefore returning it to you. So my heart has advised. But, after what you have suffered because of me, will not your heart have changed its intentions? According to what it dictates to you, I will be your happy or unhappy servant."
And she signed, in large characters, as in the days of their childhood love:
»JEANNE-LOUISE MÉVEL, _of Kergoz, parish of Garlan_. »
* * * * *A quarter of an hour later, after a brief visit to the presbytery, she hurried down the rocky slope of the hollow path—as lively as hope—which, three weeks earlier, Gapit Quesseveur had climbed like a Calvary, his soul sorrowful to the point of death...
Five days passed—five days long as eternities for the young girl's anxious waiting, five days during which her whole being floated as if adrift, tossed between trust and doubt... Yet, what if he no longer wanted her now! What if, after the abominable sin he had almost committed for love of her, she could no longer be anything but an object of horror and execration in his eyes...
To which Pierre Mével replied in his rough, peasant-proud words:
—One would have to see that, for example, that a bell-ringer earning four sous would be foolish enough to hold a grudge against the sole heiress of Kergoz! ...
The argument, far from calming Jeanne-Louise's fears, exasperated them.
—That fool there, she thought, told you the other day: «I don't want your money!» Why wouldn't he say to me today: «I have no more use for your tenderness»?
And her anguish seized her all over again.
At the sixth dawn, she could bear it no longer.
—It will be what it will be, but I will have peace of mind.
She put on her fringed shawl, as for a «pardon», adjusted her finest headdress on her hair, smoothed into braids, its tendrils fluttering at her temples like two wings; she descended the stairs in her stockings, so as not to wake anyone in the still-asleep house, then, having put on her «claques» by the threshold, set off with a resolute step towards the town.
She was halfway there when the first notes of the Angelus saluted the rising sun. As a devout «daughter of Mary», she began to recite the «Ave Maria»; but suddenly, the Latin verses froze on her lips. As on the ill-fated Saturday when Gapit had tried to perish, the morning bell-ringing, its clear notes barely scattered in the sky, had, almost without transition, grown heavier into a tolling.
Who had died in Garlan?
A terrible thought, a mad thought, crossed Jeanne-Louise's mind.
—Good Lord! May it not be him...
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 19 / 23
# chapter_page: 19
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
A quarter of an hour later, after a brief visit to the presbytery, she hurried down the rocky slope of the hollow path—as lively as hope—which, three weeks earlier, Gapit Quesseveur had climbed like a Calvary, his soul sorrowful to the point of death...
* * * * *
Five days passed—five days long as eternities for the young girl's anxious waiting, five days during which her whole being floated as if adrift, tossed between trust and doubt... Yet, what if he no longer wanted her now! What if, after the abominable sin he had almost committed for love of her, she could no longer be anything but an object of horror and execration in his eyes...
To which Pierre Mével replied in his rough, peasant-proud words:
—One would have to see that, for example, that a bell-ringer earning four sous would be foolish enough to hold a grudge against the sole heiress of Kergoz! ...
The argument, far from calming Jeanne-Louise's fears, exasperated them.
—That fool there, she thought, told you the other day: «I don't want your money!» Why wouldn't he say to me today: «I have no more use for your tenderness»?
And her anguish seized her all over again.
At the sixth dawn, she could bear it no longer.
—It will be what it will be, but I will have peace of mind.
She put on her fringed shawl, as for a «pardon», adjusted her finest headdress on her hair, smoothed into braids, its tendrils fluttering at her temples like two wings; she descended the stairs in her stockings, so as not to wake anyone in the still-asleep house, then, having put on her «claques» by the threshold, set off with a resolute step towards the town.
She was halfway there when the first notes of the Angelus saluted the rising sun. As a devout «daughter of Mary», she began to recite the «Ave Maria»; but suddenly, the Latin verses froze on her lips. As on the ill-fated Saturday when Gapit had tried to perish, the morning bell-ringing, its clear notes barely scattered in the sky, had, almost without transition, grown heavier into a tolling.
Who had died in Garlan?
A terrible thought, a mad thought, crossed Jeanne-Louise's mind.
—Good Lord! May it not be him...And it seemed to her that the fatal blows, falling two by two, rang ominously in her ears:
—It's him! . . . it's him! . . .
She tried to run, driven by an imperious thirst for knowledge . . . But her legs gave way under her. Weakened, she had to lean against the embankment, her forehead damp, her breast heaving. And now she had no desire for anything but to die there, at that very moment, so that her body might be joined to Gapit's and they might be said of them, as in the lament of "Isabelle Le Cam":
They shared the same grave, Even though they did not share the same bed . . .
A sound of bare feet galloping toward her came to snatch her from her prostration. She pretended to resume her walk. From the depths of the green darkness, riddled with drops of light, a small human form, huddled in its haste, burst forth like a hare. The boy almost ran into her. Only then did she recognize Dorik Mélégan, the acolyte. With a voice that stuttered, choking in her throat, she asked him, urgently:
—Is it me you're looking for? Is Gapit dead?
And as the choirboy said not a word, stunned, his breath cut off:
—Speak, in the name of Christ! . . . Speak! . . .
—Gapit? he exclaimed at last, with a grin of guile on his face, full as the moon and sprinkled with freckles, —Gapit? but it is he himself who sends me to tell you to come, to come quickly . . . And he has no intention of dying, no way! . . . The one who passed away that night was . . .
Jeanne-Louise listened no further. What did it matter to her who had passed away, as long as Gapit Quesseveur was alive and wished to see her again!
VII
—You are looking very lovely for a weekday, Jeanne-Louise.
She nodded vaguely in response to the remarks of the gossips who greeted her from one side of the square to the other. Although she had slowed her pace, she seemed to glide above the ground, lifted as if by a fluid.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 20 / 23
# chapter_page: 20
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
And it seemed to her that the fatal blows, falling two by two, rang ominously in her ears:
--It's him! . . . it's him! . . .
She tried to run, driven by an imperious thirst for knowledge . . . But her legs gave way under her. Weakened, she had to lean against the embankment, her forehead damp, her breast heaving. And now she had no desire for anything but to die there, at that very moment, so that her body might be joined to Gapit's and they might be said of them, as in the lament of "Isabelle Le Cam":
They shared the same grave, Even though they did not share the same bed . . .
A sound of bare feet galloping toward her came to snatch her from her prostration. She pretended to resume her walk. From the depths of the green darkness, riddled with drops of light, a small human form, huddled in its haste, burst forth like a hare. The boy almost ran into her. Only then did she recognize Dorik Mélégan, the acolyte. With a voice that stuttered, choking in her throat, she asked him, urgently:
--Is it me you're looking for? Is Gapit dead?
And as the choirboy said not a word, stunned, his breath cut off:
--Speak, in the name of Christ! . . . Speak! . . .
--Gapit? he exclaimed at last, with a grin of guile on his face, full as the moon and sprinkled with freckles, --Gapit? but it is he himself who sends me to tell you to come, to come quickly . . . And he has no intention of dying, no way! . . . The one who passed away that night was . . .
Jeanne-Louise listened no further. What did it matter to her who had passed away, as long as Gapit Quesseveur was alive and wished to see her again!
* * * * *
VII
--You are looking very lovely for a weekday, Jeanne-Louise.
She nodded vaguely in response to the remarks of the gossips who greeted her from one side of the square to the other. Although she had slowed her pace, she seemed to glide above the ground, lifted as if by a fluid.The Quesseveur door stood wide open at the end of the courtyard, lush with wild grass; or, like a white bridal bouquet, the elderflowers were already blooming. About to cross the threshold, the daughter of Kergoz stopped, faltering, overcome by a kind of vertigo of the soul in the emotion of that supreme moment. But, with the mysterious divination of the sick—and of lovers—Gapit had sensed her approach.
He called out as if in a dream:
—Jeanne-Louise! . . .
She entered.
A ray of sunlight, filtered through the parted curtains of thick percale that lined the window, slashed a sparkling golden blade through the religious gloom of the dwelling. Pink flames lit up here and there in the gleams of the old furniture. The discreet song of a spinning wheel alone revealed the presence of Gritta the widow, in the darkest corner of the room, where the bundles of heather were piled up in winter.
From his bed, Gapit extended his hand to Jeanne-Louise, who pressed it lightly. In that solemn moment, those were all their expressions of affection. The heiress sat down on the bench where she had spent so many sleepless nights, expiated so many remorse, and harbored so many dreams. She dared not fix her eyes on Gapit. He, on the other hand, enveloped her, gazing at her entire being with the deep, warm gaze of his pale eyes. And between them there was a silence filled with ineffable things, an enchanted communion.
The young man, at last, spoke:
—So, he murmured in a voice so faint that it seemed like a breath, so, is it true that you consent to be mine?
Instinctively and without effort, he returned with her to the familiar “tu” of their childhood. She replied, her eyelids still lowered:
—Yes, Gapit.
He breathed out longingly; then, after a pause:
—And you will not be ashamed of me, an invalid, cursed... perhaps even more cursed than before... the return of the bells?
She said with quiet assurance, gazing straight into his eyes this time:
—No, Gapit.
—You are a good woman, Jeanne-Louise Mével, as there are few.
And, his voice vibrating with concentrated energy, he continued:
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 21 / 23
# chapter_page: 21
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The Quesseveur door stood wide open at the end of the courtyard, lush with wild grass; or, like a white bridal bouquet, the elderflowers were already blooming. About to cross the threshold, the daughter of Kergoz stopped, faltering, overcome by a kind of vertigo of the soul in the emotion of that supreme moment. But, with the mysterious divination of the sick—and of lovers—Gapit had sensed her approach.
He called out as if in a dream:
--Jeanne-Louise! . . .
She entered.
A ray of sunlight, filtered through the parted curtains of thick percale that lined the window, slashed a sparkling golden blade through the religious gloom of the dwelling. Pink flames lit up here and there in the gleams of the old furniture. The discreet song of a spinning wheel alone revealed the presence of Gritta the widow, in the darkest corner of the room, where the bundles of heather were piled up in winter.
From his bed, Gapit extended his hand to Jeanne-Louise, who pressed it lightly. In that solemn moment, those were all their expressions of affection. The heiress sat down on the bench where she had spent so many sleepless nights, expiated so many remorse, and harbored so many dreams. She dared not fix her eyes on Gapit. He, on the other hand, enveloped her, gazing at her entire being with the deep, warm gaze of his pale eyes. And between them there was a silence filled with ineffable things, an enchanted communion.
The young man, at last, spoke:
--So, he murmured in a voice so faint that it seemed like a breath, so, is it true that you consent to be mine?
Instinctively and without effort, he returned with her to the familiar “tu” of their childhood. She replied, her eyelids still lowered:
--Yes, Gapit.
He breathed out longingly; then, after a pause:
--And you will not be ashamed of me, an invalid, cursed... perhaps even more cursed than before... the return of the bells?
She said with quiet assurance, gazing straight into his eyes this time:
--No, Gapit.
--You are a good woman, Jeanne-Louise Mével, as there are few.
And, his voice vibrating with concentrated energy, he continued:—But I can tell you now: thanks to you, Jeanne-Louise, he will be as healthy, as upright... yes, as upright, do you hear me, as the proudest lout in the parish, the one who, on the evening of your wedding, will lead the jabadaw with you on the dance floor of Kergoz! . . .
She looked at him with worried eyes, wondering if he was still talking in a feverish delirium.
He sensed her feeling.
—Do you think I'm rambling, or spinning some fairy tale? Yet it's the absolute truth. I can feel that, for a month now, my body hasn't been the same. It's as if they'd put brand-new springs in me, replacing the old ones that were broken... Just last night, I put it to the test. While my mother was sleeping, I got out of bed and, on this bench where you are, I stood up... Judge my joy: I was no longer tied up; my limbs were as supple as a colt from your place... And how did this happen? Through you, Jeanne-Louise, because I wanted to die because of you... Where I was going to seek death, you made me find life again, all of life, Jeanne-Louise, just like back when I used to find birds for you in the trees of Kergoz... Look at this!
With a sudden movement, he had risen to his feet, and before the astonished girl could make any attempt to hold him back, he was sitting beside her on the bench, dressed in the wool knit and the burlap trousers that he had himself taken from the wardrobe, unbeknownst to Gritta, during the night.
The deadly crisis from which he was emerging victorious had indeed thoroughly shaken, transformed, renewed, and transfigured him. From the ruins of the old Gapit, an intact Gapit had emerged, still lean and gaunt, but upright, with the proud look of a young wrestler who had just paraded the sheep, the prize of the fight, around the arena.
Jeanne-Louise, who dared not believe her eyes, smiled at him, mute and petrified. He leaned over her and, clasping her to him in a fiery embrace:
—You performed this miracle, sweet and lovely!...
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 22 / 23
# chapter_page: 22
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
--But I can tell you now: thanks to you, Jeanne-Louise, he will be as healthy, as upright... yes, as upright, do you hear me, as the proudest lout in the parish, the one who, on the evening of your wedding, will lead the jabadaw with you on the dance floor of Kergoz! . . .
She looked at him with worried eyes, wondering if he was still talking in a feverish delirium.
He sensed her feeling.
--Do you think I'm rambling, or spinning some fairy tale? Yet it's the absolute truth. I can feel that, for a month now, my body hasn't been the same. It's as if they'd put brand-new springs in me, replacing the old ones that were broken... Just last night, I put it to the test. While my mother was sleeping, I got out of bed and, on this bench where you are, I stood up... Judge my joy: I was no longer tied up; my limbs were as supple as a colt from your place... And how did this happen? Through you, Jeanne-Louise, because I wanted to die because of you... Where I was going to seek death, you made me find life again, all of life, Jeanne-Louise, just like back when I used to find birds for you in the trees of Kergoz... Look at this!
With a sudden movement, he had risen to his feet, and before the astonished girl could make any attempt to hold him back, he was sitting beside her on the bench, dressed in the wool knit and the burlap trousers that he had himself taken from the wardrobe, unbeknownst to Gritta, during the night.
The deadly crisis from which he was emerging victorious had indeed thoroughly shaken, transformed, renewed, and transfigured him. From the ruins of the old Gapit, an intact Gapit had emerged, still lean and gaunt, but upright, with the proud look of a young wrestler who had just paraded the sheep, the prize of the fight, around the arena.
Jeanne-Louise, who dared not believe her eyes, smiled at him, mute and petrified. He leaned over her and, clasping her to him in a fiery embrace:
--You performed this miracle, sweet and lovely!...—Miracles come only from God! a semi-jovial, semi-grumpy voice called out from outside, through the open door. It was Monsieur Guéguen, who, informed by Dorik Mélégan, had taken the pleasure, after his Low Mass, of contemplating his handiwork, catching sight of his two former catechists in their first tête-à-tête as fiancés.
At the Sunday sermon the following week, which was the third Sunday before Pentecost, the people of Garlan were officially informed that “there was a promise of marriage between Agapit Quesseveur, of the town, and Jeanne-Louise Mével, of the Kergoz estate”.
—Those who might know of any impediment to this union, added the rector, according to the canonical formula, are obliged to reveal it to us, under pain of incurring the wrath of the Church.
There was apparently no valid impediment, for it was from the lips of Jeanne-Louise Mével and Agapit Quesseveur’s own son that the details of this true story were gathered, in the Morlaisian region.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-translation-2ba3d072175647c09faadc858c9fd49a
# book_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# chapter_id: 1-the-bellringer-of-garlan
# chapter_title: The Bellringer of Garlan
# book_page: 23 / 23
# chapter_page: 23
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
--Miracles come only from God! a semi-jovial, semi-grumpy voice called out from outside, through the open door. It was Monsieur Guéguen, who, informed by Dorik Mélégan, had taken the pleasure, after his Low Mass, of contemplating his handiwork, catching sight of his two former catechists in their first tête-à-tête as fiancés.
At the Sunday sermon the following week, which was the third Sunday before Pentecost, the people of Garlan were officially informed that “there was a promise of marriage between Agapit Quesseveur, of the town, and Jeanne-Louise Mével, of the Kergoz estate”.
--Those who might know of any impediment to this union, added the rector, according to the canonical formula, are obliged to reveal it to us, under pain of incurring the wrath of the Church.
There was apparently no valid impediment, for it was from the lips of Jeanne-Louise Mével and Agapit Quesseveur’s own son that the details of this true story were gathered, in the Morlaisian region.
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