St. Bertrand de Comminges is a decayed town on the spurs of the Pyrenees, not very far from Toulouse, and still nearer to Bagnres-de-Luchon. It was the site of a bishopric until the Revolution, and has a cathedral which is visited by a certain number of tourists. In the spring of 1883 an Englishman arrived at this old-world place--I can hardly dignify it with the name of city, for there are not a thousand inhabitants. He was a Cambridge man, who had come specially from Toulouse to see St. Bertrand's Church, and had left two
friends, who were less keen archologists than himself, in their hotel at Toulouse, under promise to join him
on the following morning. Half an hour at the church would satisfy them, and all three could then pursue their
journey in the direction of Auch. But our Englishman had come early on the day in question, and proposed to
himself to fill a note-book and to use several dozens of plates in the process of describing and photographing
every corner of the wonderful church that dominates the little hill of Comminges. In order to carry out this
design satisfactorily, it was necessary to monopolize the verger of the church for the day. The verger or
sacristan (I prefer the latter appellation, inaccurate as it may be) was accordingly sent for by the somewhat
brusque lady who keeps the inn of the Chapeau Rouge; and when he came, the Englishman found him an
unexpectedly interesting object of study. It was not in the personal appearance of the little, dry, wizened old
man that the interest lay, for he was precisely like dozens of other church-guardians in France, but in a curious
furtive, or rather hunted and oppressed, air which he had. He was perpetually half glancing behind him; the
muscles of his back and shoulders seemed to be hunched in a continual nervous contraction, as if he were
expecting every moment to find himself in the clutch of an enemy. The Englishman hardly knew whether to
put him down as a man haunted by a fixed delusion, or as one oppressed by a guilty conscience, or as an
unbearably henpecked husband. The probabilities, when reckoned up, certainly pointed to the last idea; but,
still, the impression conveyed was that of a more formidable persecutor even than a termagant wife.
However, the Englishman (let us call him Dennistoun) was soon too deep in his note-book and too busy with
his camera to give more than an occasional glance to the sacristan. Whenever he did look at him, he found
him at no great distance, either huddling himself back against the wall or crouching in one of the gorgeous
stalls. Dennistoun became rather fidgety after a time. Mingled suspicions that he was keeping the old man
from his djeuner, that he was regarded as likely to make away with St. Bertrand's ivory crozier, or with the
dusty stuffed crocodile that hangs over the font, began to torment him.
'Won't you go home?' he said at last; 'I'm quite well able to finish my notes alone; you can lock me in if you
like. I shall want at least two hours more here, and it must be cold for you, isn't it?'
'Good heavens!' said the little man, whom the suggestion seemed to throw into a state of unaccountable
terror, 'such a thing cannot be thought of for a moment. Leave monsieur alone in the church? No, no; two
hours, three hours, all will be the same to me. I have breakfasted, I am not at all cold, with many thanks to
'Very well, my little man,' quoth Dennistoun to himself: 'you have been warned, and you must take the
Before the expiration of the two hours, the stalls, the enormous dilapidated organ, the choir-screen of Bishop
John de Maulon, the remnants of glass and tapestry, and the objects in the treasure-chamber, had been well
and truly examined; the sacristan still keeping at Dennistoun's heels, and every now and then whipping round
as if he had been stung, when one or other of the strange noises that trouble a large empty building fell on his ear. Curious noises they were sometimes.
'Once,' Dennistoun said to me, 'I could have sworn I heard a thin metallic voice laughing high up in the
tower. I darted an inquiring glance at my sacristan. He was white to the lips. 'It is he--that is--it is no one; the
door is locked,' was all he said, and we looked at each other for a full minute.'
Another little incident puzzled Dennistoun a good deal. He was examining a large dark picture that hangs
behind the altar, one of a series illustrating the miracles of St. Bertrand. The composition of the picture is
well-nigh indecipherable, but there is a Latin legend below, which runs thus:
'Qualiter S. Bertrandus liberavit hominem quem diabolus diu volebat strangulare.' (How St. Bertrand
delivered a man whom the Devil long sought to strangle.)
Dennistoun was turning to the sacristan with a smile and a jocular remark of some sort on his lips, but he was
confounded to see the old man on his knees, gazing at the picture with the eye of a suppliant in agony, his
hands tightly clasped, and a rain of tears on his cheeks. Dennistoun naturally pretended to have noticed
nothing, but the question would not away from him, 'Why should a daub of this kind affect any one so
strongly?' He seemed to himself to be getting some sort of clue to the reason of the strange look that had been
puzzling him all the day: the man must be monomaniac; but what was his monomania?
It was nearly five o'clock; the short day was drawing in, and the church began to fill with shadows, while the
curious noises--the muffled footfalls and distant talking voices that had been perceptible all day--seemed, no
doubt because of the fading light and the consequently quickened sense of hearing, to become more frequent
The sacristan began for the first time to show signs of hurry and impatience. He heaved a sigh of relief when
camera and note-book were finally packed up and stowed away, and hurriedly beckoned Dennistoun to the
western door of the church, under the tower. It was time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope,
and the great bell Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak, and swung her voice up among the pines and
down to the valleys, loud with mountain-streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to remember and
repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet
seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, and Dennistoun and the sacristan went out of the
On the doorstep they fell into conversation.
'Monsieur seemed to interest himself in the old choir-books in the sacristy.'
'Undoubtedly. I was going to ask you if there were a library in the town.'