The Wedding Ring

The Wedding Ring By A. Le Braz © 2007 by http://www.HorrorMasters.com

Marie Cornic of Bréhat had married a captain who made long voyages. She loved him with all her heart. Unfortunately his calling obliged him to be much away from her. Marie Cornic passed her days and nights in thinking of her absent husband. No sooner had he sailed than she shut herself up in her house with her mother for her sole companion. Her mother who lived with her would now and then lecture her upon her inordinate affection for her husband. She would say to her: “It does not do to love too well, Marie, at least, so say the wise, too much is never good in any thing.” To this Marie would reply also by a proverb: “Naught on earth is so sweet as to love and to be loved again.” The young wife never went out except to the church every morning, where she attended all the Masses, beseeching God, the Blessed Virgin, and all the Saints of Brittany to watch over her husband and to bring him back safe and sound to Bréhat. The garden of her house adjoined the churchyard. She had an entrance made in the wall that divided them, and was thus enabled to go and come from her home to the church without being obliged to go through the little town under the eyes of its gossips. One night she awoke with a start. She thought she heard a bell. “Can it be the first Mass,” she said to herself; “the Mass at daybreak?” The room was visible to her in a shadowy light. It was winter, but she thought it must be the dawn. She arose and dressed herself hastily, and sped towards the church. On entering she was surprised to find the nave full of people, and more astonished still to see that a strange priest was officiating. She turned towards someone who knelt near her: “Pardon me,” she said, “if I disturb you, but what is the reason of this function? I was at High Mass last Sunday and I do not recollect to have heard any special festival announced for this week.” But her neighbour was so deeply absorbed in her prayers that Marie Cornic could obtain no reply from her. At this moment there was a sort of stir in the assembly. It was the beadle who was making his way through the crowd. In one hand he held his staff, in another a copper plate which he thrust before each person, reiterating in a doleful tone, “For L’Anaon,1 if you please, for L’Anaon.” Heavy pence fell in showers into the copper plate. Marie Cornic gazed upon the advancing collector. “Strange,” thought she, “I recognise no one here, not even the beadle, yet I did not know that anyone had been put into Pipi-Laur’s place. Last Sunday he had the staff. Surely I am dreaming!” Hardly had she made this reflection than the beadle came towards her. Quickly she slipped her hand into her pocket, but unluckily, in her haste she had forgotten to bring her purse. The collector of the offertory shook his plate in desperation. “For L’Anaon, for the poor, dear Dead,” he clamoured.

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The suffering souls.

“Alas,” murmured Marie Cornic, who felt ready to faint with shame, “I have not a penny with me!” The beadle answered in a hard voice: “It is not well to come to this Mass without bringing a mite for the souls of the departed.” The poor woman turned out her pockets to show him they were empty. “You see,” she said, “that I have not a single coin!” “Nevertheless, you must give something. You must!” “What can. I give you?” she asked in a faint voice. “You have your wedding ring, put it into the plate.” She dared not say “No.” She felt as if every eye was fixed upon her. She slipped her wedding ring from off her finger, but no sooner had she laid it in the plate than a strange sensation of misery seized upon her heart. She buried her face in her hands and wept silently. How long she remained thus she knew not. It had, however, just struck six o’clock. The Rector of Bréhat, upon opening one of the doors of the church, was not a little surprised to see a woman kneeling by one of the pillars. He soon recognised her, and, going up to her, touched her on the shoulder, “What are you doing here, Marie Cornic?” She started up from her chair. “Reverend sir, I have been hearing mass.” “You could not possibly have heard it before it began!” Then Marie Cornic glanced round the church. Of the large congregation that had lately filled it not one remained. She was overcome with amazement. The Rector spoke kindly to her. “Tell me, Marie,” he said, “what has taken place.” She told him all, just as it had occurred, without omitting a single detail. When her story was ended, the Rector said sadly, “Come with me, Marie; he who has deprived you of your wedding-ring cannot have carried it far away. So saying, he passed on up the steps to the altar, and raised the cloth. The wedding-ring lay on the altar-stone. “Take it,” he said, restoring it to the young wife, “and return home. You have loved much, and you will weep much.” A fortnight later Maria Cornic learned that she was a widow. The ship which her husband commanded had sunk off the English coast during the night on which she had attended that strange Mass, and at the very time when the Collector for the Dead had forced her to give up her wedding ring! (Related to lit. le Bras by Jeanne Marie Bénard, wtje of a Custom House official at Bréhat.)