CONTENT WARNING

The Tragedy of Montague Bellot

by Ryan Fleming

War and pestilence I may have endured with the steadfastness of the saints, but to witness continual desecration of innocents by a man, such as this, bred a disquiet of faith I could not shake. “How many, o’ God? How many lives must be destroyed by Montague Bellot before You will be moved?”

Blood from my knuckles pounding the cobble or my utterance of the Proverbs did little for my prayers. I should have felt certainty from my lifelong convictions that the sins of Bellot would not go unnoticed by a Holy God who would inexorably grant the wages of this vile mortal’s transgressions just as to the pagan kings of old. And yet, no such retribution came.

This abominable Montague Bellot, his atrocities too oft dismissed as rumors, danced with the devil. No person was beyond the whims of his repugnant pleasures. He strolled, jeweled cane in stride, along the Notre-Dame de Lorrette or lurked at the crossroads of Crimee and Lorraine. His preying hands indiscriminate of the baker, farmer’s wife, child poor or noble, for they were his toys – objects of his wrath and damned for the sake of sating his lust. Should accusation arise, the court found its gaze diverted, by coin or coercion, from the feline smile of Bellot.

As a priest, I seek redemption for all. However, even I could not expel from my fervent prayers the desire for reckoning, still further, the damnation of Bellot. My prayers went unanswered as neither sword nor plague scourged this depraved creature, and the dam of God’s anger was tightly sealed. This heavenly passivity hastened my faith into ruin, and I remained in seething silence within my wooden confessional as Bellot prowled freely.

I admit that in my wavering, I dared to wonder if I should have followed my father’s trade as a butcher all those years ago rather than as a shepherd of wandering souls. That vocation, at least, would not have required me to wrestle incessantly with the judgments of Almighty God.

A point I must make, if you will, my doubts never precluded me from my duty. A holy man I was and a holy man I would remain. I performed Mass with fervor, and furrowed brow. Both the poor and rich received my blessings, and such tender graces were always unbridled. And even when Bellot strutted from his carriage to walk along the Seine, flashing the brilliance of his jeweled cane, I bid him a courteous, “Be warm and filled.” Yet behind my veiled disdain, a nightly fantasy, a secret confession I dared not speak, the immolation of Montague Bellot burned within my heart.

However, by divine comedy, I found an alliance in a most ungodly individual. Oh, how our dear Savior must have laughed at this union.

In the amber glow of dusk, just before I closed the day’s penance, a prostitute, her raiment undeniable, entered my shriving booth. Scarcely had I begun the ritual when she spoke.

“Father, I come not for blessing. Forgiveness shan’t be given if sin be not confessed. I have many sins, and of them, few I would consider repenting.” I noted a quiver within her voice. “And yet, I have a bitter inquiry.”

“What is your name, child?”

“Lucianna, Father.”

“What troubles you, Lucianna?”

Between her sobs, she began, “Father, does God not restrain evil? Why does God not bring justice to those who have been wronged?”

I dared not interrupt her with doctrinal platitudes. “What evil has beset you, my child?”

“I am no saint, Father.” Her voice hardened now with anger. “But how can God grant leniency upon one such as Montague Bellot?”

The utterance of this vermin’s name cracked my sanctimonious veneer.

The offense was against her sister and brother, her only family. By her carnal trade, Lucianna had provided for them, but the youthful beauty of her sister could not escape the ravenous eyes of Bellot. Her brother, not a day older than ten, fought bravely to defend his sister from the grasp of Bellot and was skewered as a bale of hay and cast aside to stain the wildflowers. Bellot’s handiwork was unmistakable as Lucianna recounted the violated and broken remains of her younger sister.

“Father, Monsieur Bellot roams free. Free from accusation. Free from consequence. Free from punishment. Must I sit and wait for God to do nothing? In my many sins, might I be absolved of one that brings forth justice?”

My beleaguered spirit feasted on her rage and sorrow. The sun had set, and darkness filled my confessional, blessing me with new clarity – a new purpose. I would no longer sit idly whilst this demon tormented God’s children. Nay, if God would do nothing, content to simply listen to my prayers, then I would do what he would not. And I would not be alone in my crusade.

“Lucianna, in Romans, Chapter Nine, God employs all His children to do His will. Some He created to be His objects of mercy and others to be His hand of judgment, the executors of His divine wrath.”

I vacated my post and opened the adjoining chamber. The flickering candlelight of the humble abbey hid most of Lucianna’s face, yet I found her violet eyes within the darkness.

“Should He call you to act on His righteous retribution, would you accept?”

Stepping out of the confessional into the dim light, she clenched her jaw and bowed her head. “Aye. What is one more unpunished sin? If Hell should be my payment, gladly shall I accept it for the death of Montague Bellot.”

I extended my hand to her, saying “Together then, we shall be the arbiters of God’s righteous judgment.”

Our companionship must have appeared a delicious scandal, a wrinkled man of the cloth and a woman of the night. But our fleshly desires were to be agents of conviction, and we would only find our satisfaction in wielding God’s wrath to smite the villainous Montague Bellot.

Our contrivance would be the vice of Bellot – his lust. His snare would be of his own making. Lucianna was to inflame his desires, and I, the keeper of the Book, would deliver his sentence. As I had with my disturbed faith, I hid all intent of my premeditation from my order.

Had it not been for our righteous cause, I might have balked at Lucianna’s plan, for she possessed a uniqueness of skill that would make any man blush, and tenfold for a man of God. Chains, whips, and shackles adorned her den of iniquity.

My extraordinary ally smiled ruefully upon me. “You would know better than most, Father. Don’t all men desire to be ruled, to be dominated by something…or someone? My patrons are the ones who find release in such admittance. Their payment, a tithe to me. Are we so different?”

As it were, our scheme fell on the night of The Grande Mascarade. All of Paris was set aglow. The masked carnival filled the streets, giving us perfect anonymity, and Bellot’s thirst would certainly be at its peak. We had not an ounce of apprehension that we could pick out the stench of his rotting soul from underneath his wooden veil.

Before we embarked into the city, we met in secret within the church, where I dared to beseech a Holy God to deliver this sinner into our ambuscade. Lifting up our final ‘amens,’ we lowered our carved disguises – the vixen and the fox.

Among the dancers and revelers of celebration, God, seemingly only now hearing my plea, brought the wicked Bellot to us. With brandished jeweled cane in hand, he perused through the music and wine-filled rues of Paris, searching to satisfy his hunger, and ignorant of the danger that enclosed him. Lucianna swayed like water, her arms enveloping his person, offering up what could be his next meal. As a guardian angel, I stood meters away with the tool of my earthly father and the Word of our heavenly One, tucked within my robe.

At this late hour, Bellot’s intoxication forced him to lean heavily upon his cane, and beneath that demonic mask, the torchlight betrayed his lust-filled eyes, yearning for Lucianna. Hooked within our grasp, he seized her, but not before she slithered around to his ear.

I know not her final temptation, no doubt a night of untapped pleasure. As simply as a fly to honey, trapped we then our sinner within his vice. As specters, they then slipped betwixt the carnival shadows, and I followed closely behind.

Now within my companion’s bowers, as our climax drew near, I prayed that in this delicate moment, no happenstance unforeseen would steal this righteous victory. I, hidden within the room of restraints, watched Lucianna lead Bellot to her altar. Removing his devilish mask, she betrayed him with a kiss, and, undressing him, bade her trembling acolyte follow to her Holy of Holies. His moans of anticipation mirrored my own, yet I kept silent, waiting for the agreed-upon phrase.

“My dear Bellot, how wicked you are indeed. Punishment shall be your reward. Yet, am I to be its only distributor?”

Whether Bellot had sensed his impending doom, I shall never know. However, the sheer terror that crossed his face as I, still masked as a fox, leaped from my hiding spot was a delicious hors d’oeuvre.

With deft hands, I and my accomplice shackled with chain and rope the credulous Montague Bellot. In his inebriated state, he gave no struggle. We stepped back and admired our naked prey, caught within our tangled web.

He blinked in feeble attempts to comprehend these sudden events. “I say, what is this injurieux?” I lifted the wooden mask from my face, revealing the clerical collar at my neck. Again, he squinted, trying to grasp this unnamed horror before him. “A priest?”

“A judge, jury, and executioner. Tonight, Monsieur Bellot, you stand trial for your transgressions,” I intoned and withdrew the holy scripture from my robe. “For we shall bring forth God’s righteous wrath.”

“Enough of this charade, whore. Unchain me at once,” said Monsieur Bellot.

Lucianna reached out and stroked the unblemished face of Montague Bellot. “Who am I to resist the Will of God?”

“Now, see here,” he said as he yanked on his bonds.

With the swiftness of a snake, my hidden blade sliced across his bare flesh. “Bribery!” I yelled. I brought down the knife again. “Malice!”

The parade passed outside of the house and the cheers of the masked muffled Bellot’s shrieks of painful torment. His squeals brought me back to bygone days in my father’s butcher’s shop. “Lust!” I screamed again, slashing the foul wretch’s left eye.

With each committed sin, I produced a spurting gash upon his evil person.

“Adultery!”

“Lying!”

“Brutality!”

“Conceit!”

“Fornication!” My cut removed what manhood he barely possessed.

I put all my force into a laceration over his stomach. “Murder!”

I pulled back, gasping in ragged breaths. Deep veins of crimson flowed from the writhing Bellot, pooling beneath his chains. After thousands of prayers of ‘Thy Will be done’ and sleepless nights of vengeful supplication, this egregious sinner’s time of judgment had come. Though he was the throbbing thorn in my belief, I had not been the one whom he had afflicted.

I watched Lucianna revel in the blood splattered across her breast as I handed her the knife. “For your sister and brother,” I said with a bow.

Her cold eyes and hands grasped upon my outstretched blade, and with a steady steel tip did she lift the slumped chin of Monsieur Bellot. His remaining eye fluttered, attempting to focus on his executioner.

“I fear not that Hell shall continue what we have begun.”

“For my sister, Jolie.” With both hands, Lucianna drove the blade into Monsieur Bellot’s heart, and in one, fluid motion, she withdrew the knife and slid it over the dying man’s throat. “And for Jules. Where you are going, neither will you see. Au revoir, Montague Bellot.”

By the time we unshackled our fiend, dawn was close at hand. Instead of breaking day, darkness gathered above us as we dragged the corpse through the alley’s shadows. With what strength remained us, we heaved him onto a manure cart. This sight, the embodiment of my spiritual turmoil, discarded in the excrement of beasts, produced from me a manic laughter from the depths of my being. Jubilation transformed to convulsive weeping as blackened rain broke from the heavens with the crash of thunder.

Lucianna, who I could have simply granted forgiveness for evil thoughts and never embarked on this journey of vengeance, slowly turned her head to face me. Tears or rain, I could not tell, but a peace rested on her countenance. Lightning ripped through the sky, striking some distance away.

“Bless me, Father. For I have sinned,” she said and closed her eyes.

Rain dripped from my robe, washing away the splattered blood. I nodded and forced my response, “Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good.”

“His mercies endure forever.”

Though I had spoken these words a myriad of times, I reflected on this call and response. His mercies…like the mercy He bestowed to Bellot when He ignored our cries for justice? Like the mercy he showed Bellot’s ravished victims? No. It was we who chose to deliver mercy to all those now safe from Bellot's malice.

I raised my hands to the violent sky, looking up towards the heavens for one final prayer. "God, will You be content simply to hear the pleas of Your children? Must I continue to enact what You refuse? Will You do nothing?"

The response came with a sudden flash of illumination as the lightning found its mark. The glorious light electrified the surroundings, searing all it touched, its thunder drowning out any sound of repentance.

“Merci.”