Midnight Madness - From the New Classics Series

Midnight Madness

By Bill Russo

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)