Was not that the least one might expect of an institution intended to celebrate the great massacres of the boys born in the same year as Jesus?

But that was not all. A renowned artist was commissioned to cover the chapel walls with a vast fresco depicting that bloody episode in St Matthew’s gospel. The artist had spared no detail and his vision was all the more striking in that, according to the practice of the time, he had costumed his figures like the men, women, and children of his own period, and placed them in a village that was supposed to be Bethlehem, but in which everybody could recognize the houses of Machecoul. So the villeins who ventured into the chapel might well think that they recognized themselves on its walls, and not only themselves, but also the soldiers of the castle and even their lord Rais behind the features of the cruel King of the Jews. And the anguished chants of the angel-faced choirboys moved Gilles all the more intensely when he saw those children against the background of such horror and slaughter. Overcome with emotion, he would stand there leaning against a pillar, murmuring between sobs, ‘Pity, pity, pity!’ And this compassion that he felt became so ardent that he began to feel scruples about it and, one day, he opened his heart to his confessor, Father Eustache Blanchet.

‘Father, is pity a Christian feeling?’ he asked. Blanchet was an uncomplicated soul and sincerely believed that there was a simple, obvious answer to all questions of faith and morals.

‘Certainly, certainly, my son, for is not pity the sister of mercy and therefore the cousin of charity?’ Gilles wiped away his tears and reflected for a moment.

‘The sister of mercy and the cousin of charity perhaps, but, all the same, it is a quite different feeling. What disturbs me in the pity I feel is . . .’ Blanchet came to the assistance of his spiritual son, who seemed to be on the verge of making some confession that was difficult to put into words.

‘Do not hesitate, my child, open your great heart to your confessor, as to your Holy Mother the Church.’

‘What disturbs me, yes, what disturbs me in pity is the immense pleasure I find in it.’

Blanchet felt at once that he was beginning to get out of his depth.

‘Immense pleasure? Explain, my son!’

‘I have pity on those boys that are slaughtered, I weep over their tender, panting bodies, and yet I feel such pleasure in it! It is so moving to see a child suffering! A tiny bloodstained body in its death throes is such a beautiful sight!’

Blanchet really was at a loss how to reply. Gilles then gripped him by the arm, leaned towards him as if to whisper some secret into his ear and asked: ‘Father, is such pity from God or from the Devil?’


The condition of the confessor is ambiguous, sometimes dizzily so! He is only God’s medium before the penitent. The ear with which he listens to the penitent’s avowals and revelations is not human. And the duty of absolute secrecy by which he is bound ― and no pressure or persuasion, no threats or promises, no tortures can break it ― derives from that equivocal situation. As soon as he is outside the confessional, as soon as he has taken off his stole, the confessor becomes once more a poor man like other men. Not only can he not divulge what he has just heard, but has he even the right to remember it in his dealings with his penitents, once they have become once more ordinary companions, subordinates and masters? And yet, and yet . . . His earthly ear had heard and remembered!

Gilles had made avowals to Eustache Blanchet that, taken together with certain rumours that had been heard and certain scenes that had been glimpsed, might have enabled the confessor to see more clearly. But Blanchet refused to mix what he had heard in confession with what profane life brought him on its impure tide. And anyway the truth that he sensed prowling around him was so terrible, it would have required of him such far-reaching decisions that he preferred as long as possible ― but for how many days more could it last? ― to retreat timidly to his daily tasks as chaplain.

It all started with these boys that had to be recruited and examined for entry to the choir school. Gradually Gilles had taken such pleasure in this sort of prospecting that he pursued it well beyond the needs of the community, beyond all reasonable measure, even to the extent of abandoning the pleasure of hunting ― which had formerly played such an important role in his life ― in order to chase that other game, which was so special and so delicious. And as he was such a powerful man, with such large forces at his disposal, he soon gathered together a handful of beaters and strong-arm men who scoured the woods and countryside. Fantastic stories spread regarding their activities. Dark, cruel scenes were inscribed with all the power of legend in popular imagery.

There was shown, for example, against a stormy sky, the dark outline of a horseman galloping through plains and forests. He passes through a hamlet: the inhabitants flee and lock themselves in their houses. A woman rushes out after a young boy, seizes him and takes him into her house. The horseman is swathed in a large cloak, which floats around the horse. With loud beating of hooves he crosses the castle drawbridge. He is now standing, motionless, legs apart, at the entrance to the armoury. The lord’s voice is heard.

‘Well?’

The horseman opens his cloak. A young boy is clinging to him. He falls down, then tries to rise clumsily.

‘Well done!’ says the voice.

Or another picture comes to mind. The lord and his retinue are slowly riding through some wretched hamlet.