CHAPTER XII

THE CONFESSION

The storm had abated, but the sheen of white lightnings to southward

and the menacing growl of distant thunder that seemed to come from the

bowels of the earth held out promise of renewed upheavals of disturbed

nature.

The streets of Rome were comparatively deserted with the swiftly

approaching dusk, and it occurred to Tristan to seek the Monk of Cluny

in his abode on Mount Aventine whither he had doubtlessly betaken

himself after his sermon in the Basilica of St. Peter's. For ever and

ever the memory of lost Hellayne dominated his thoughts, and, while he

poured out prayers for peace at the shrines of the saints, with the

eyes of the soul he saw not the image of the Virgin, but of the woman

for the sake of whom he had come hither and, having come, knew not

where to find that which he sought.

From a passing friar Tristan learned the direction of Mount Aventine,

where, among the ruins near the newly erected Church of Santa Maria of

the Aventine, Odo of Cluny abode. Tristan could not but marvel at the

courage of the man whose life was in hourly jeopardy and who, in the

face of an ever present menace could put his trust so completely in

Heaven as to brave the danger without even a guard.--

Taking the road indicated by the friar, Tristan pursued his solitary

path. In seeking the Monk of Cluny his purpose was a twofold one,

certainty with regard to his own guilt, in having loved where love was

a crime, and counsel with regard to the woman who, he instinctively

felt, would not stop at her first innuendos.

As Tristan proceeded on his way his feelings and motives became more

and more perplexed, and so lost was he in thought that, without heeding

his way or noting the scattered arches and porticoes, he lost himself

in the wilderness of the Mount of Cloisters. The hush was intensified

rather than broken by the ever louder peals of thunder, which

reverberated through the valleys, and the Stygian darkness, broken at

intervals by vivid flashes of lightning, seemed to hem him in, as a

wall of basalt.

Gradually all traces of a road vanished. On both sides rose woody

acclivities, covered with ruins and melancholy cypresses, whose

spectral outlines seemed to stretch into gaunt immensity, in the sheen

of the lightnings which grew more and more frequent. The wind rose

sobbingly among the trees, and a few scattered rain-drops began to warn

Tristan that a shelter of any sort would be preferable to exposing

himself to the onslaught of the elements.

Entering the first group of ruins he came to, he penetrated through

a series of roofless corridors and chambers into what seemed a dark

cylindrical well at the farther extremity of which there gleamed an

infinitesimal light. Even through the clamor of the storm that raged

outside there came to him the sound of voices from the interior.

Impelled as much by curiosity as by the consideration of his own safety

Tristan crept slowly towards the aperture. As he did so, the light

vanished, but a crimson glow, as of smouldering embers, succeeded,

and heavy fumes of incense, wafted to his nostrils, informed him that

his fears regarding the character of the abode were but too well

founded. He cowered motionless in the gloom until the storm had abated,

determined to return at some time to discover what mysteries the place

concealed.

A fresher breeze had sprung up, driving the thunderclouds to northward,

and from a clear azure the stars shone in undimmed lustre upon the

dreaming world beneath.

For a moment Tristan stood gazing at the immense desolation, the

wilderness of arches, shattered columns and ivy-covered porticoes. The

hopelessness of finding among these relics of antiquity the monk's

hermitage impressed itself at once upon him. Pausing irresolutely,

he would probably have retraced his steps, had he not chanced to see

some one emerge from the adjacent ruins, apparently bound in the same

direction.

Whether it was a presentiment of evil, or whether the fear bred of

the region and the hour of the night prompted the precaution, Tristan

receded into the shadows and watched the approaching form, in whom he

recognized Basil, the Grand Chamberlain. He at once resolved to follow

him and the soft ground aided the execution of his design.

The way wound through a veritable labyrinth of ruins, nevertheless

he kept his eyes on the tall dark form, stalking through the night

before him. At times an owl or bat whirled over his head. With these

exceptions he encountered no living thing among the ruins to break the

hush of the sepulchral desolation.

The distance between them gradually diminished. Tristan saw the other

turn to the right into a wilderness of grottoes, the tortuous corridors

of which were at times almost choked up with weeds and wild flowers,

but when he reached the spot, there was no vestige of a human presence.

Basil had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.

Possessed by a sudden fear that some harm might be intended the monk

and remembering certain veiled threats he had overheard against his

life, he proceeded more slowly and cautiously by the dim light of the

stars.

Before long he found himself before a flight of grass grown steps that

led up to a series of desolate chambers which, although roofless

and choked with rank vegetation, still bore traces of their ancient

splendor. These corridors led to a clumsy door, standing half ajar,

from beyond which shone the faint glimmer of a light.

After having reached the threshold Tristan paused.

High, oval-shaped apertures admitted light and air at once, and the

dying embers of a charcoal fire revealed a chamber, singularly void of

all the comforts of existence. Almost in the centre of this chamber,

before a massive stone table, upon which was spread a huge tome, sat

the Monk of Cluny, shading his eyes with his right hand and reading

half aloud.

For a few moments Tristan regarded the recluse breathlessly, as if he

dreaded disturbing his meditations, when Odo suddenly raised his eyes

and saw the dark form standing in the frame of the door.

The look which he bestowed upon Tristan convinced the latter

immediately of the doubt which the monk harbored regarding the quality

of his belated caller, a doubt which he deemed well to disperse before

venturing into the monk's retreat.

Therefore, without abandoning his position, he addressed the inmate of

the chamber and, as he spoke, the tone of his voice seemed to carry

conviction, that the speaker was sincere.

"Your pardon, father," Tristan stammered, "for one who is seeking you

in an hour of grave doubt and misgiving."

The monk's ear had caught the accent of a foreign tongue. He beckoned

to Tristan to enter, rising from the bench on which he had been seated.

"You come at a strange hour," he said, not without a note of suspicion,

which did not escape Tristan. "Your business must be weighty indeed

to embolden one, a stranger on Roman soil, to penetrate the desolate

Aventine when the world sleeps and murder stalks abroad."

"I am here for a singular purpose, father,--having obeyed the impulse

of the moment, after listening to your sermon at St. Peter's."

"But that was hours ago," interposed the monk, resting his hand on the

stone table, as he faced his visitor.

"I lost my way--nor did I meet any one to point it," Tristan replied,

as he advanced and kissed the monk's hand reverently.

"What is your business, my son?" asked the monk.

Tristan hesitated a moment. At last he spoke.

"I came to Rome not of my own desire,--but obeying the will of another

that imposed the pilgrimage. I have sinned, father--and yet there are

moments, when I would almost glory in that which I have done. It was

my purpose, while at St. Peter's to confess to the Grand Penitentiary.

But--I know not why--I chose you instead, knowing that you would give

truth for truth."

The monk regarded his visitor, wondering what one so young and

possessed of so frank a countenance might have done amiss.

"You are a pilgrim?" he queried at last.

"For my sins--"

"Of French descent, yet not a Frenchman--"

Tristan started at the monk's penetration.

"From Provence, father," he stammered, "the land of songs and flowers--"

"And women--" the monk interposed gravely.

"There are women everywhere, father."

"There are women and women. Perchance I should say 'Woman.'"

Tristan bowed his head in silence.

The monk cast a penetrating glance at his visitor. He understood the

gesture and the silence with that quick comprehension that came to him

who was to reform Holy Catholic Church from the abuse of decades--as an

intuition.

"But now, my son, speak of yourself," said the monk after a pause.

"I lived at the court of Avalon, the home of Love and Troubadours."

"Of Troubadours?" the monk interposed dreamily. "A worldly lot--given

to extolling free love and what not--"

"They may sing of love and passion, father, but their lives are pure

and chaste," Tristan ventured to remonstrate.

"You are a Troubadour?" came the swift query.

"In my humble way." Tristan replied with bowed head.

The monk nodded.

"Go on--go on!"

"At the court of Avalon I met the consort of Count Roger de Laval. He

was much absent, on one business or another,--the chase--feuds with

neighboring barons.--He chose me to help the Lady Hellayne to while

away the long hours during his absence--"

"His wife! What folly!"

"The Count de Laval is one of those men who would tempt the heavens

themselves to fall upon him rather than to air himself beneath them.

That his fair young wife, doing his will among men given to the chase

and drinking bouts, and the society of tainted damsels, should long for

something higher, she, whom he regarded with the high air of the lord

of creation--that she should dare dream of some intangible something,

for which she hungered, and craved and starved--"

"If you are about to confess, as I conceive, to a wrong you have done

to this same lord," interposed the monk, "your sin is not less black if

you paint him you have wronged in odious tints."

"Nevertheless I am most sorry to do so, father," Tristan interposed,

"else could I not make you understand to its full extent his folly and

conceit by placing me, a creature of emotion, day by day beside so

fair a being as his young wife. Therefore I would explain."

"It needs some explanation truly!" the monk said sternly.

"The Count de Laval is a man whose conceit is so colossal, father, that

he would never think it possible that any one could fail in love and

admiration at the shrine which he built for himself. A man of supreme

arrogance and self-righteousness."

"Sad, indeed--" mused the monk.

"Our thoughts were pagan, drifting back to the days when the world was

peopled with sylvan creatures--with the deities of field and stream--"

"Mere heathen dreams," interposed the monk. "Go on! Go on!"

"I then felt within myself the impulse to throw forth a minstrelsy

prophetic of a new world resembling that old which had vanished. It was

not to be a mere chant of wrath or exultation--it was to sound the joy

of the earth, of the air, of the sun, of the moon and the stars,--the

song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers--"

"Words that have but little meaning left in this stern world wherein we

dwell--"

"They had meaning for me, father. Also for her. They were to both of

us a bright and mystical ideal, in the fumes of which we steeped our

souls,--our very selves, till our natures seemed to know no hurt,

seemed incapable of evil--"

"Alas--the greater the pity!"

"I was sure of myself. She was sure of me. I loved her. Her presence

was to me as some intoxication of the soul--some rare perfume that

captivates the senses, raising the spirit to heights too rarefied for

breath--"

"And you fell?"

The words came from the monk's lips, slowly, inexorably, as the knell

of fate.

"I--all, but fell!" stammered Tristan. "One day in a chamber far

removed from the inhabited part of the castle we sat and read. And

suddenly she laid her face close to mine and with eyes in whose mystic

depths lurked something more than I had ever seen in them before asked

why, through Fate's high necessity, two should forever wander side by

side, longing for each other--their longing unsatisfied--when the hour

was theirs--"

Again Tristan paused.

The monk regarded him in silence.

"You fell?" the question came again.

"In that moment, father, I was no more myself, no more the one whose

art is sacred and alone upon the mountain summit of his soul. Its

freedom and aspirations were no more. I was undone, a tumbled, wingless

thing. My pride had fled. Long, long I looked into her eyes, and when

she put her wonderful white arms about me, I, in a dizzy moment of

desire, dropped my face to hers. Then was love all uttered. Straightway

I arose. I clasped her in my arms. I kissed--I kissed her--"

The monk regarded him sternly, yet not unkindly.

"It was a sin. Yet--there is more?"

Tristan's hands were clasped.

"One evening in the rose garden--at dusk--the evening on which she sent

me from her--bade me go to Rome to obtain forgiveness for a sin of

which I could not repent."

The monk nodded. "Go on! Go on!"

"The world had fallen away from us. We stood in a grove, our arms about

each other. Suddenly I saw a face. I withdrew my arm, overwhelmed by

all the shame of guilt. The face vanished and, passion overmastering

once more, we touched our lips anew. It was the last time we were to

see each other. I left behind the wondrous silken hair my hands had

touched in our last mad caress. I left behind that tender face and

form. She made no attempt to follow, or to call me back. I hastened

to my chamber, and there I fought anew with all that evil impulse of

my youth, to face the shame, as long as joy endured. If I had sinned

in mind against my high ideal might I not some day recover it and be

purified?"

"What of God and Holy Church?" queried the monk.

"To them I gave no heed, but to my honor. This upheld me."

The monk gave a nod.

"I left Avalon. It seemed as if without her my life were ebbing away. I

joined a pilgrim party, and now my pilgrimage is ended. What must I do

to still this inward craving that will not leave my soul at peace?"

He ended in a sob.

The monk had relapsed into deep thought, and Tristan's eyes were

riveted on the ascetic form in silent dread, as to what would be the

verdict.

At last Odo broke the heavy silence.

"You have committed a grievous sin--adultery--nay, speak not!" he said,

as Tristan attempted to remonstrate against the dire accusation. "The

seed of every act slumbers in the mind ere its pernicious shoots are

manifest in deeds. He who looks upon a woman with the desire to possess

her has already committed adultery with her. Yet--not one in a thousand

would have done so nobly under such temptation!"

The monk's voice betrayed some feeling as he placed his hand on

Tristan's bowed head.

"I shall consider what penances are most fit for one who has

transgressed as you have, my son. It is for your future life--perchance

Holy Orders--"

Tristan raised his head imploringly.

"Not that, father,--not that! I am not fit!"

The monk regarded him quizzically.

"The lust of the eye is mighty and the fever of the world still burns

in your veins, my son, rebelling against the passion that chastens and

purifies. Nevertheless, the Church desires no enforced service. She

wishes to be served through love, not with aversion and fear. Continue

to do penance, implore His forgiveness, and that He may take from you

this worldly desire."

Kissing anew the hand which the monk extended, Tristan arose, after Odo

had made upon him the holy sign.

"I shall obey your behest," he said in a low, broken voice, then

withdrew, while the Monk of Cluny returned to his former pursuit,

unconscious that another had witnessed and overheard the strange

confession from a recess in the wall.

As one in a trance Tristan left the Monk of Cluny, his heart filled

with gratitude for the man who, in the midst of a world of strife and

unrest, had listened to his tale and had not dealt harshly with him,

but had received him sympathetically, even while rebuking the offence.

While the penances imposed upon him were not severe, Tristan chafed

nevertheless under the restraint they laid upon his soul.

What was his future life to be? What new vistas would open before him?

What new impressions would superimpose themselves upon the memories of

the past--the memory of Hellayne?

As he passed the church of Santa Maria of the Aventine, Tristan saw

the portals open. Puzzled over the problems he was face in the days to

come, he entered the dim shadows of the sanctuary.

All that night Tristan knelt in solitary prayer.

The great church was empty and silent, unlit save for the lamp upon the

altar. There Tristan kept his vigil, his tired, tearful eyes upon the

crucifixion, searching his own heart.

The night of silence brought him no vision and shed no light upon his

path. The pale dawn found him still upon his knees before the altar,

his eyes upon the drooping form of the crucified Christ.

Thus the monks found him when they entered for early Matins. At last he

arose, in his sombre eyes a touching resignation and infinite regret.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST

BOOK THE SECOND