This is the Second item in a new series of tales
intended to serve as companions to the popular E-book
Christmas Classics Refreshed https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/731417
The Silent Midnight Mass
(C) 2019 by Bill Russo
In the ancient Church of St. Eulalie in the city of Bordeaux
in
Southern France, miracles sometimes happen. During a
service attended by
hundreds of the faithful, an image of
Christ appeared on a wafer used in the
Catholic Mass.
As the Priest and the worshippers looked on in stunned
silence the face of Jesus remained on the ‘Host’ for more
than 20 minutes.
A
voice emanating from the small disc
delivered a message, apparently referring
to the Priest.
Witnesses to the Miracle
of 1820 say the voice belonged to
Jesus and he spoke these five words, “I am
who he is.”
Eglise de St.
Eulalie. Photo by B. Vincent: French Wikipeda
The account that follows may or may not represent a
miracle
of a different sort. After you
read the facts of the case, feel
free to make the determination for yourself.
The story takes place in 2020 or perhaps 1920. Then again,
it may have occurred in 1820 shortly
after ‘He’ said “I am who
he is.”
The time is irrelevant, for there is no time in this
narrative.
Starting at midnight, it finishes some hours later
at the same point in time - midnight, the
exact time it started.
Though the narrative is set in a city where a quarter
of a
million people make their homes, it actually takes place in a
little
village on the fringe of Bordeaux. It is a place of such
minor import that it
has no name other than the little village
on the edge of town.
The residents of the township were of even less import
than
the dreary hamlet. Least significant of all was the much
derided and
disrespected old maid named Mademoiselle
Marie Chabot.
Thin as a broomstick, her arms and legs were overrun
with
snaky blue veins protruding from parchment skin. People
taunted the
ancient lady and called her a witch for her
hawkish nose and the stringlike
white hair that ran from the
top of her head all the way to her toes where it
mingled with
the dirt of the streets and began to gather filth in the same
manner as a single flake of snow becomes a snowball.
She lived in the turret at the top of an antiquated
Maison de
Briques (Brick House) at the end of La Rue Solitaire (Lonely
Street).
Mademoiselle Chabot lived in the tower on
the top floor
of the old Brick House on Lonely Street.
Photo by Dave Sousa Wiikipedia
When the sun managed to pierce the thick glass of the
single
window in her turret, which it did for eight to ten hours most
days, she
worked diligently at making her intricate lace
creations. Hand crafted lace items from France were
known
throughout the world for their quality and beauty.
Laugh at her though they did, the merchants of
Bordeaux
nonetheless paid her well for her work, which today would
be highly
sought after and sold to collectors for many
thousands of dollars.
Intricate Lace samples framed and ready for wealthy
aficionados willing to spend up to $25,000 for a single piece
Working with thin, delicate strands, sometimes it took
months
for the old woman to create a single example of her craft.
Though she received reasonable reimbursement,
her low
output meant that times could be lean between paydays.
In the village, no one knew if she had relatives. They knew
she had no friends and her only
acquaintances other than the
priests, were the lace merchants to whom she sold
her
wares, and the landlord of her building.
It was said that as a young girl she had been engaged
to be
married to gallant Georges Chassot, a Knight of the French
Legion of Honor.
It was speculated by all who knew him, that
the young Chevalier was sure to be
promoted to the next
rank in the Legion, that of officer.
Though the townspeople talked about it, they found it
hard to
believe that the withered old beldame could ever have held
the interest
of a Knight of the Legion for anything more than a
drunken nocturnal encounter
after a battle.
Still, there were a few, a very few mind you, who said
they
were able to see vestiges of beauty under the wrinkles and
the degraded
face which seemed to be little more than a
mask made of paper.
Giving some weight to the theory that she may indeed have
been betrothed to the Knight Chassot, was a ring she wore
on her fourth finger,
left hand. It was thought at the time, the
little finger had a vein leading
directly to the heart. It was
called the
‘veine de l’amour’, the vein of love. A
tiny band of
gold, the ring was shaped into two miniature hands clasped
together, signifying the engagement of the wearer.
Old Marie Chabot had few comforts in life. The crafting of
the lace was a source of
pride, but certainly not comfort. The
work was long and tedious. It pained her
fingers and eyes, as
well as putting a strain on her neck and her back.
Her abode, a damp and drafty sphere in a turret with
walls of
coarse stone inside and out, certainly gave her no ease and
only a
fitful rest during the cold nights.
Tranquillity and satisfaction came to her only when
she was
in the church of miracles, La Eglise de St. Eulalie. She
attended services every day of the year,
even in winter when
she had to plod through the snow. Her spindly legs barely
supported
her during the hour it took to make the half mile
trek from the turret to the
communion rail at the six a.m.
morning Mass.
Less than a week before Christmas, Marie Chabot woke
to
the peal of the bells of St. Eulalie.
Peering through the
solitary window in the tower she saw only darkness.
No
stars, no street lamps. She was unable
to distinguish even
the walls of the other buildings in the Rue Solitaire,
(Lonely
Street).
She assumed the bells
were calling her to the
morning service at six. Had she been able to see the
clock in
the steeple, she would have seen that the time was midnight.
She made herself ready for church, wearing her best
dress. It
was the only one she owned that was not tattered and
patched.
Walking into the street, she was chilled not
only by
the frigid air, but by the desolation of the village.
Every house had disappeared into the shadows. The
shops
too, were missing, having vanished into obscurity. No lights
shone on the street or in the
windows of buildings.
Not a sound penetrated the void, not the squawk of a
rooster,
or even the call of a wolf from the distant forest. Though she
was
always alone, she now felt absolute separation from
everything around her – the
houses, the shops, the factories
and even from the enmity of the neighbors.
Actually this isolation was nearly a comfort to the
aged
madamoiselle, for it meant that on her way to church she
would not have to
bear up to the open hostility of the
villagers.
As for the darkness, even blindfolded, dear old
Marie would have been
able to trudge to the St. Eulalie
without a single mis-step.
Walking faster than usual despite the cold and the
snow, the
spinster traversed Lonely Street and marched onto La Rue
Nonnes, (The
Nuns’ Street). Ten minutes later, she
fairly
leapt over a snow-bank and landed on the Rue de la
Paroisse, (The Parish
Road).
At the end of her sight-line the void was split open
by a
radiant brightness. Moving closer,
she discovered the
illumination was emanating from the open doors of the
church. Spread wide, the doors revealed the inside of the
church. It was entirely full - almost.
Every single seat but
one, was taken.
She did not recognize anyone among the
hundreds filling the straight-backed
wooden benches.
They looked at her from
the pews, but not with the usual
scorn or revulsion.
She took the only seat remaining, in the row nearest the
altar rail. She noticed that every man
and every woman in
St.Eulalie’s was dressed elegantly, but in the style of a
half
century before! The cleric entered the altar from a side room
and
though he began the service, the pervasive hush
continued. The priest spoke the
mass but no sound came
from his mouth. Above, she could see the church bells
moving but their ringing was silent.
Marie Chabot was well acquainted with every priest in
the
parish but the white bearded ‘Father’ mutely leading the
prayers was a
stranger. Every altar boy in Bordeaux at one
time or another had taunted Marie
and called her a witch,
but the two youths assisting at this eerie service were
unfamiliar. She was certain she had
never seen them before.
Every pair of eyes but one was focused on the priest
preaching his sermon from soundless lips. The drifting eyes
belonged to a
handsome young man in the full uniform of an
officer of the French Legion of
Honor.
Marie felt those moving eyes. They were staring at her. She
could feel them as they bore in on her. Wandering up her
thin frame they stopped
momentarily at her waist, before
moving on upwards where they stopped at her
face, as if
obsessed with her looks.
The
eyes were like strong magnets.
Marie was compelled to turn her head and look at
the face from which shone those forceful, penetrating orbs.
Instantly she knew that it was her love, the warrior
Georges
Chassot, who had fallen in battle a half century ago.
But now, he was alive and merely one pew
distant.
Certain she was, that the soldier lived, and that it
was
Georges. The small heart-shaped mark
on the man’s
forehead above his left eyebrow could belong to no other
person, than
her fiancé.
His uniform was identical to the one he wore fifty
years prior,
on the night when he proposed marriage to Marie. One
more battle he had to wage, he informed
her, and then he
would have his annual leave and they would be wed.
They shared that one night together before Georges
went off
to war and she went back home. During a siege in some
distant land, he
attempted to rescue six members of his
command who were being held prisoner in
a farm house.
All by himself he charged
the building. Entering through a
cellar window he engaged the enemies and
overpowered all
but one. Though he
perished in the skirmish, his soldiers
escaped and the information they held eventually
resulted in
complete victory for the Legion of Honor.
As she looked at him, the Knight of the Legion smiled
at her
with a full set of youthful, glistening teeth. Georges alive and
still
young Marie thought, and nearly swooned.
“Georges? Is it really you?” Marie murmured, but because of
the stillness of the cathedral, her whisper sounded like a
shout. “I
loved you Georges and gave you the one thing a girl
saves for only the most
special man on earth. I have never
given that gift again. Not once in the fifty years that you
have been gone.”
“I have spent my life in many regrets Georges, but
even
under penalty of Mortal Sin, I do not apologize for our love.
It was so strong that it helped me through
the 18,000 nights
since we parted. Though
I am old and all about me has
become dim, my light for you still shines as
bright as the
sun.”
Marie felt giddy.
A wave of dizziness nearly swept her from
her seat. Georges leaped over
the pew and sat beside her.
She leaned against him and closed her eyes. Comforted,the
frail old woman gained strength from the
vibrant young
soldier.
“Georges? Who
are these people in the church? I come here
every day but I do not know them?”
“They are people from the place where I now live. They are
friends Marie. They have come here tonight because the
time
for our wedding has finally come.”
“Old and wasted as I am, I cannot marry you now Georges.
I’m ready for death dear, not for love.
I would happily
die this instant if I could match your youth and once
again
give you my love.”
“Dear Marie I love you still. Always will you be, young and
lovely to me.
Quiet now, they are collecting the offerings for
this special Midnight Mass.”
Old men with long beards, from the back of the church
came
toward the pews, with long poles that had baskets attached
to the
ends. People began placing money in the
baskets as
the elderly collectors pushed the poles in front of them.
Every single parishioner dropped coins or bills into
the
receptacle, except Marie Chabot. The
dear old lady had no
money. She had nothing
of value, except her ring, that
wonderful gift from Georges 50 years prior.
As the coins and bills were dropped into the collection
basket, there was still not a sound in the church except for
the conversation
between Georges, the young lover and
Marie, the old maid.
Marie looked at the basket being held before her. It
contained many bills and a pile of
coins. She arrived at a
decision. It was
a hard choice, but one she willingly made –
slipping the tiny clasped hands
engagement ring from her
finger she dropped it in with the other offerings.
Breaking the silence with a shockwave of vibration and
sound, the bells overhead clanged so loudly they could be
heard five miles distant.
The people in the pews who had
been mute
began shouting loud congratulations to Marie,
who was now standing next to the
young soldier, who
secured his arm around her narrow shoulders.
In less than a second, everything disappeared into
darkness.
Gone was the church, the parishioners,
the altar boys, the
priest, and the gallant soldier, Georges Chassot.
Gone too, was the once beautiful, now withered old lady,
Mademoiselle Marie Chabot.
-0-
In the morning the landlord, who lived in an apartment
on the
bottom floor of the Brick House, climbed the stairs to the
turret at top
of the house and knocked on Marie’s door.
He
banged on the portal forty times yelling, “I know you’re in
there you
old hag. Open the door, it’s rent day.”
Still getting no response he used his key and went
inside
where he found Marie Chabot dead in her bed with a great
smile upon her
face.
The greedy old landholder noticed something else; Marie’s
stringy white hair was gone. The old lady’s face still carried
the
wrinkles of seven decades, but her hair was thick,
abundant, silky, and golden!
At the same time, during the six o’clock morning mass at St.
Eulalie,one of the old gentlemen who pass the baskets for
offerings noticed
something shiny, in what should have been
an empty receptacle. Putting on his
glasses, he peered into
the collection basket and shouted in surprise –
“Why there’s a tiny gold band in the basket. It’s an
engagement ring, with two miniature clasped
hands at the
top!”
-0-
This is the latest installment from Bill Russo's 'New Classics Series'. This new collection of stories is intended to be a companion to 'Christmas Class Refreshed'.
The Christmas stories are published on this blog and have been many thousands of times. The complete collection is available as a free E-book exclusively on Smashwords and Barnes & Noble.
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/731417
Feel free to contact the author Bill Russo, at Billrrrrr@yahoo.com
Other books by Bill include Ghosts of Cape Cod and the Creature from the Bridgewater Triangle
(You can see Bill for free in the Amazon Prime offering of the Bridgewater Triangle Documentary)
