Zigzag Journeys in Northern Lands - Hezekiah Butterworth (notion reading list .txt) 📗
- Author: Hezekiah Butterworth
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Soon Gautier ascended the two steps of the pulpit, and called the name of their kind, generous townsman.
All waited breathlessly. All eyes were turned towards the organ-loft. The musicians there looked around and at each other. But poor Raoul Tegot could not be seen.
Where was he? The people waited and wondered, but he did not come. Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe was greatly excited, and was wiping the perspiration from his heated face. “Perhaps he was afraid to come,” he ventured to remark to a man near him, at the same time looking out of a window.
Several noticed his agitation; but they only said, “Ah, mon Dieu, how he did play! No wonder that he is nervous.”
The disquiet and confusion in the nave and aisles increased.
A messenger had been sent to look for the missing man; but he could not be found.
What was to be done?
Finally, some friends of Monsieur Lacombe made bold to urge his immediate election, declaring that he had far surpassed all competitors; and they even hinted at cowardice on the part of Raoul Tegot.
This insinuation was indignantly denied by Tegot’s friends, who were very numerous but helpless; they knew their friend too well to believe him capable of such conduct. He was, they said, probably detained somewhere by an accident.
But, wherever he was, he was not present; and when a vote was taken, hastily, by a showing of hands, Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe had ten times as many ballots as any other person, and, of course, poor Monsieur Tegot, not having competed, was not balloted for at all.
The people dispersed to their homes; some in vexation that their favorite had not appeared, others in a little alarm at his strange absence. Young François Tegot had not seen his father since early morning, and could not conjecture where he might be.
The next day the missing organist did not appear, and his friends began to inquire and to search for him; but they were wholly unsuccessful. A little boy said that he had seen him go into the church with Monsieur Lacombe early that morning; but Monsieur Lacombe said, very distinctly and with some vehemence, that the missing man had left the church an hour later to go to a cottage at the edge of the town, where he was to give a lesson in singing.
So the affair lay wrapped in mystery. There were many surmises, but nothing definite was known. A few expressed suspicion of the rival candidate; but the suspicion was too great to be thrown rashly upon anybody. Thus no progress in the inquiry was made. A human life did not mean so much in those stormy days after the Revolution as formerly; and the mysterious disappearance, without being in the least cleared up, gradually faded from men’s minds and passed out of their conversation.
Months and years passed away, and nothing was known of the poor man. His son, now come to the years of manhood, always declared that his father would not have been absent from the trial willingly; and he firmly believed that he had met with a violent death. More than this he would not say; but sometimes when he looked towards Monsieur Baptiste Lacombe,—still the respected organist of the church,—his eyes were observed to flash meaningly.
There was to be a grand fête in the church, and great preparation was made. As the organ needed repairs, it was decided to repair it thoroughly; and one of the builders from Bordeaux was sent for.
He was to come on Thursday; but he chanced to arrive the day before, and was to begin work early the following morning. That night a light glimmered out of the darkness of the gallery of the church.
Two days passed. The repairing of the organ went on; but there was much to be done, and it might take a week. One afternoon, as François passed through the centre of the village, two men came hurriedly out of the town-house, and hastened away towards the church. It was the organ-builder, very much excited, and one of the officials of the town. The young man, venturing on his well-known skill as an organist, followed them; and the three entered the building. A few worshippers were at the great altar, and the sacred edifice seemed unusually quiet and peaceful.
The organ-builder seemed too agitated to answer the questions that the town official asked him, but led the way quickly to the organ-loft. “Put your foot on that pedal!” he said excitedly, pointing to a particular one of the scale.
The official was too bewildered to comply, and François did it for him.
“Now try the next one!” said he.
François did so, but no sound came; only a queer, intermittent rumbling, like a bounding and rebounding.
“It does not sound,” said the organ-builder. “Follow me and I will show you why.”
“It never has sounded since the great trial-day, years ago,” muttered the young man. But he followed on.
They clambered up a rickety staircase, a still more rickety ladder, and came to a platform at a level with the top of the organ; and all around them, reaching up out of the dim light below, were the open pipes. Passing hurriedly around, on a narrow plank, to the back of the organ, their agitated guide paused before a row of immense pedal pipes, and, without allowing his own eyes to look, he held the light that he carried for the others.
Both looked down into the cavernous tube that he indicated, and both started back in surprise and fear.
“It is a man’s legs!” gasped the frightened town official.
After the first moment of surprise had passed, they began to get back their wits; and the young man advised that they send for several strong men and lift out the pipe.
This seemed sensible, and in a half-hour the men were at hand and the pipe was drawn down to the level of the organ-loft and laid horizontally. The workmen had been informed of the nature of their work, and all were under intense excitement. The pipe was very long, and the body was at least five feet from the top. One of the workmen reached in a pole having a hook at the end, and the next minute drew forth the dead body of the sinister old organist, Baptiste Lacombe.
There was a pause of silent horror. Nobody cared particularly for the dead man, but the manner of his death was terrible.
“How did it happen?” whispered one.
“Perhaps it was suicide,” answered another.
They began more closely to examine the huge tube. François Tegot, who, although thus far cooler than the others, now seemed unable to stand, pointed to the hand of the dead man, which was tightly clenched upon a small cord. One of the workmen approached, and with some difficulty drew out the line: and a new thrill of expectation went through the silent company when they saw, attached to the end of the line, an old leather bundle covered with dust.
Young Tegot now seemed to master himself by a great effort, and, motioning the workman back, he advanced, and, lifting the bag tenderly out into a more convenient position, he said solemnly, as if to himself, “I have long suspected something was wrong, and now I shall know.”
Then he examined the bag, and at length took from his pocket a knife and carefully cut open one side.
Despite the fact that he expected the revelation that now came, he started back, for the opening revealed a piece of cloth,—a coat, which even the town official could recollect to be the coat of the long-lost organist, Raoul Tegot, François’s father.
The young man stepped back and sank again into his seat, and the others, coming forward, laid the bag quite open, and drew forth a watch and an embroidered vest; in a pocket of the coat was found a purse. “Here is an odd treasure,” said one of the workmen, holding up a locket of dull gold.
François seized it and opened it. The color forsook his face and his eyes filled with tears. He simply said,—
“My mother.”
The town official now whispered to the surprised organ-builder, that the villanous Lacombe had killed poor Tegot on the morning of the trial, and had secreted the body in some unknown place and hidden the valuables here. Frightened by the fear of discovery, he had attempted to remove the treasures, had fallen into the pipe, and had thus met a horrible death.
“There is nothing secret,” said François, “but shall be revealed. Sin is its own detector, and its secrets cannot rest.”
The excitement among the townspeople was for many days even greater than it had been at the time of Tegot’s disappearance, and many and bitter were the reproaches heaped upon the wicked organist’s memory.
François was immediately chosen organist, and held the position during his entire life.
CHAPTER VIII. EVENING THE FOURTH.Seven Nights on the Rhine:—Heidelberg.—Students.—Student Songs.—The Story of Little Mook.—The Queer Old Lady who went to College.
HEIDELBERG,” said Mr. Beal, “stands bright and clear beside Neckar, a branch of the Rhine, as though it loved the river. It is semicircled with blue mountain-walls, and is full of balmy air and cheerful faces. The streets have an atmosphere of hospitality. Its history dates from the Roman monuments on its hills, and is associated with the romantic times of the counts-palatine of the Rhine.
“The world-wide fame of Heidelberg arises from its university. This was founded in 1386, and is the oldest in Germany. It made Heidelberg a student-town; there art flourished and free thought grew, and it became the gem of German cities.
“The ancient Castle of Heidelberg is one of the wonders of Germany. It is like a ruined town of palaces, and historic and poetic associations are as thick as are the violets among its ruins. It is said that Michael Angelo designed it: we cannot tell. The names of the masters who upreared the pile of magnificence for centuries and peopled it with statues are lost. The ivy creeps over their conceptions in stone and marble, and the traveller exclaims in awe, ‘Can it be that all this glory was created for destruction?’
PALACE AT HEIDELBERG.
“We visited the castle at noon. A ruin green with ivy rose before us. The sunlight fell through the open doorways, and the swallows flitted in and out of the window-frames into roofless chambers.
“I was dreaming of the past: of the counts-palatine of the Rhine, of stately dames, orange-gardens, and splendid festivals, when one of the boys recalled my thoughts to the present.
“‘Where is the tun?’
“‘What tun?’
“‘The one we have come to see,—the big wine-cask. It is said to hold two hundred and thirty-six thousand bottles of wine, or did in the days of the nobles.’
“‘I remember: when I was a boy my mental picture of Heidelberg was a big wine-cask.’
“‘Yes; well, please, sir, I am a boy now.’”
Mr. Beal then gave a brief account of
GERMAN STUDENT LIFE.The town of Heidelberg nestles in one of the loveliest valleys in Europe. The Neckar winds between a series of steep, high, thickly wooded hills.
It is amid such pleasant scenes that the famous university is situated, and that several hundred German students are gathered to pursue their studies.
One of my chief objects in visiting Heidelberg was to see the university, and to observe the curious student customs of which I had heard so much; and my journey was amply repaid by what I saw.
The university itself was far less imposing than I had imagined; compared with the picturesque and hoary old college palaces of Oxford
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