The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(25)
The commanding officer – I recognized his voice – said, ‘Who is your Mother Superior?’
‘I am Sister Clothilde, Mother Superior of Sacré-Coeur.’
‘Then, Sister, we are taking over your convent. Belgium is claimed by the Kaiser – it is his route into France – and this place is to be the headquarters of this battalion until our task is complete.’ He paused, then with relish said, ‘Until Belgium falls.’
He spoke in extremely bad French – even I could tell that – and some of the words were German, but the nuns understood him.
There was a silence, then several of the older nuns came to stand with the formidable Sister Clothilde, their faces white and set, although the younger ones still cowered back in fear.
Clothilde was not afraid, though. She said, sharply, ‘Belgium will never fall. Leave our chapel. This is God’s house, and we will not submit to the brutality of you or your Emperor.’
I dare say she could not have found anything that would have infuriated and insulted the soldiers more. I’m not actually sure if she cared, though, and she delivered the words with a precision and authority that would not have shamed Bernhardt or Duse.
The officer was certainly infuriated. He turned to his men and issued a series of orders, speaking too rapidly for me to follow. Whether the nuns followed it I don’t know, but as the soldiers moved towards them, their rifles raised threateningly, they seemed to square their shoulders in readiness, and they stood their ground. I stood my ground as well, frantically looking round the chapel to find a means of creating a diversion.
The young nuns were still huddled together in a frightened bunch, but when Sister Clothilde turned to look at them, they responded as one, going to stand with her. Sister Jeanne stood up again, but Clothilde called out to her – I think this time it was something about maintaining the silver cord of prayer to the Lord – and Jeanne nodded. The music began again, and after the first few notes, the singing started once more. The soldiers were momentarily disconcerted and I was not surprised, because while the organ music seemed to be a natural part of the chapel, that cool, intricate chant, apparently coming from nowhere, had an other-world quality to it. But the officer gestured impatiently, and they went purposefully towards the small inner door, which presumably led through to the main convent.
Sister Clothilde was ahead of them. She whisked across the chapel and took up a stance in front of the door.
‘Stand aside,’ said the officer, angrily.
‘I will not.’
‘You force us to use violence against you, Sister.’
‘Then do so. I shall not flinch.’
Clothilde stood her ground, and I felt deeply shamed that I was still cowering in the shadows and not rushing out there to slay the soldiers. But to do so would be useless; they would shoot me at once. Instead, I began to edge stealthily towards a massive statue on a stone plinth – Christ displaying his glowing heart, with all the love and compassion that traditional image conveys. The plinth was easily four feet high, the statue itself another three; if I could topple the statue to the ground it would create such a crashing disturbance that the nuns might be able to make a run for it.
The older ones had followed Clothilde’s lead, ranging themselves with her, effectively blocking off the door. The music and the singing were continuing, but Jeanne’s hands were stumbling over the chords, and sobbing broke out from behind the rood screens, splintering the music into ugly fragments. At this, Clothilde turned towards the screens and issued another of her ringing commands. This time I heard and understood better – she was ordering the sisters and the singers to hold fast to the prayer, for the prayer and the music were the sure and certain bonds through which would come God’s help. God would not fail them, she cried. There was the ascending note of the fanatic in her voice, and there was certainly the gleam of the zealot in her eyes, and it was clear she meant to defy the invaders no matter the cost.
But even the most extreme of militant Christianity was not going to fell ten or a dozen trained soldiers, all of them armed, none of them particularly sympathetic to women – at least, not these women – and the soldiers moved towards the door, their rifles held out.
The singing was still struggling to maintain its momentum, and there was something so heart-rending about those frightened, determined voices that renewed determination washed over me. A dozen more steps – perhaps a dozen and a half – and I would be within reach of the stone plinth. I would have to trust to luck that the statue was not cemented down, and I would also have to trust to luck that the nuns and whatever was behind the rood screens would respond fast enough for an escape.
I am not sure if Sister Clothilde was entirely sane at that point. From where I stood I could not hear very clearly, nor could I entirely follow what she was saying, but I think it was something about not yielding to the emissaries of Satan and standing firm in the face of Satan’s armies. Mad or sane, she had a grandiloquent line in rhetoric.
The officer said, in a cold voice, ‘You expect us to shoot you, Sister?’
‘We will die in God’s love.’
‘So you have a hankering for the Martyr’s Crown,’ he said, very sarcastically. ‘Well, we shall disappoint you over that, for we do not commit murder if we can avoid it, at least not against religieuses. But there are other methods of persuasion, Sister.’ There was a gloating lasciviousness in his voice, and he rapped out another of the orders to the soldiers. I thought one of them hesitated, but the others moved at once, grabbing the arms of the two youngest nuns and pulling them into the main aisle.