"I thought your box seemed empty just now," said I; "will you try a pinch out of mine?"The offer was accepted with an almost youthful alacrity of gesture.The Capuchin took the largest pinch I ever saw held between any man's finger and thumb--inhaled it slowly without spilling a single grain--half closed his eyes--and, wagging his head gently, patted me paternally on the back.
"Oh, my son," said the monk, "what delectable snuff! Oh, my son and amiable traveler, give the spiritual father who loves you yet another tiny, tiny pinch!""Let me fill your box for you.I shall have plenty left for myself."The battered tin snuff-box was given to me before I had done speaking; the paternal hand patted my back more approvingly than ever; the feeble, husky voice grew glib and eloquent in my praise.I had evidently found out the weak side of the old Capuchin, and, on returning him his box, I took instan t advantage of the discovery.
"Excuse my troubling you on the subject again," I said, "but Ihave particular reasons for wanting to hear all that you can tell me in explanation of that horrible sight in the outhouse.""Come in," answered the monk.
He drew me inside the gate, closed it, and then leading the way across a grass-grown courtyard, looking out on a weedy kitchen-garden, showed me into a long room with a low ceiling, a dirty dresser, a few rudely-carved stall seats, and one or two grim, mildewed pictures for ornaments.This was the sacristy.
"There's nobody here, and it's nice and cool," said the old Capuchin.It was so damp that I actually shivered."Would you like to see the church?" said the monk; "a jewel of a church, if we could keep it in repair; but we can't.Ah! malediction and misery, we are too poor to keep our church in repair!"Here he shook his head and began fumbling with a large bunch of keys.
"Never mind the church now," said I."Can you, or can you not, tell me what I want to know?""Everything, from beginning to end--absolutely everything.Why, Ianswered the gate-bell--I always answer the gate-bell here," said the Capuchin.
"What, in Heaven's name, has the gate-bell to do with the unburied corpse in your house?""Listen, son of mine, and you shall know.Some time ago--some months--ah! me, I'm old; I've lost my memory; I don't know how many months--ah! miserable me, what a very old, old monk I am!"Here he comforted himself with another pinch of snuff.
"Never mind the exact time," said I."I don't care about that.""Good," said the Capuchin."Now I can go on.Well, let us say it is some months ago--we in this convent are all at breakfast--wretched, wretched breakfasts, son of mine, in this convent!--we are at breakfast, and we hear _bang! bang!_ twice over.'Guns,' says I.'What are they shooting for?' says Brother Jeremy.'Game,' says Brother Vincent.'Aha! game,' says Brother Jeremy.'If I hear more, I shall send out and discover what it means,' says the father superior.We hear no more, and we go on with our wretched breakfasts.""Where did the report of firearms come from?" I inquired.
"From down below--beyond the big trees at the back of the convent, where there's some clear ground--nice ground, if it wasn't for the pools and puddles.But, ah! misery, how damp we are in these parts! how very, very damp!""Well, what happened after the report of firearms?""You shall hear.We are still at breakfast, all silent--for what have we to talk about here? What have we but our devotions, our kitchen-garden, and our wretched, wretched bits of breakfasts and dinners? I say we are all silent, when there comes suddenly such a ring at the bell as never was heard before--a very devil of a ring--a ring that caught us all with our bits--our wretched, wretched bits!--in our mouths, and stopped us before we could swallow them.'Go, brother of mine,' says the father superior to me, 'go; it is your duty--go to the gate.' I am brave--a very lion of a Capuchin.I slip out on tiptoe--I wait--I listen--Ipull back our little shutter in the gate--I wait, I listen again--I peep through the hole--nothing, absolutely nothing that I can see.I am brave--I am not to be daunted.What do I do next?
I open the gate.Ah! sacred Mother of Heaven, what do I behold lying all along our threshold? A man--dead!--a big man; bigger than you, bigger than me, bigger than anybody in this convent--buttoned up tight in a fine coat, with black eyes, staring, staring up at the sky, and blood soaking through and through the front of his shirt.What do I do? I scream once--Iscream twice--and run back to the father superior!"All the particulars of the fatal duel which I had gleaned from the French newspaper in Monkton's room at Naples recurred vividly to my memory.The suspicion that I had felt when I looked into the outhouse became a certainty as I listened to the old monk's last words.
"So far I understand," said I."The corpse I have just seen in the outhouse is the corpse of the man whom you found dead outside your gate.Now tell me why you have not given the remains decent burial.""Wait--wait--wait," answered the Capuchin."The father superior hears me scream and comes out; we all run together to the gate;we lift up the big man and look at him close.Dead! dead as this (smacking the dresser with his hand).We look again, and see a bit of paper pinned to the collar of his coat.Aha! son of mine, you start at that.I thought I should make you start at last."I had started, indeed.That paper was doubtless the leaf mentioned in the second's unfinished narrative as having been torn out of his pocketbook, and inscribed with the statement of how the dead man had lost his life.If proof positive were wanted to identify the dead body, here was such proof found.
