before all! It is that indeed. Before being daughter! before being wife!
before being mother! the Church, the priest first; the rest only comes
after. The Mass, the Church! the Church, the Mass! With that they cover
every vileness. Well, do you want me to tell you what I think of women who
frequent churches? They are either lazy, or hypocrites, or idiots, or
finally hussies in love with the Curé. There are no others. In which
category do you want to be placed, my daughter?
--And all that because I discharge my religious duties!
--You have spoken to that Curé? I see it. Where have you spoken to him?
--I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not
given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe.
--So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in
secret.
--I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I
was accustomed to do at school.
--Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal,
after what I have told you concerning all his like!
--All priests are not alike.
--Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the
model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know
that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model
of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me
say too much.
--I don't understand you.
--I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from
my daughter?
--You have every right, father.
--Well, I forbid you for the future to put your foot inside the church.
--In truth, father, would not one say that you were talking of some
ill-reputed place?
--Worse than that. Those who enter a place of ill-repute, know beforehand
where they go and to what they expose themselves, which the little fools
who frequent churches never know.
Suzanne made no reply and went down into the garden.
The old governess who bad brought her up and who loved her tenderly, came
to meet her.
--Your father is after the Curés again. What can these poor people of God
have done to the man?
They walked a long time round the kitchen-garden, then they sat down under
an arbour of honeysuckle.
--What time is it, Marianne? the young girl said all at once, fixing her
eyes on the window of her father's room.
--It is late, my child, it is ten o'clock at least; everybody in the
village has gone to bed. Come, your father has finished his newspaper,
there is no longer any light in his room; he has just blown out his lamp.
Let us go in.
They were near the little back-gate which led out to the meadows. Suzanne
opened it cautiously: "No, let us go out," she said.
XXXV.
THE SHELTER.
"Is it a chance? No. And besides;
chance, what is it after all but the
effect of a cause which escapes us?"
ERCHMAN-CHATRIAN (_Contes fantastiques_).
As soon as Marcel had recognized Suzanne, he did not take time to reflect,
and say to himself:
"What is it you are going to do, idiot?" He ran downstairs, stumbling like
a drunken man, and gently opened the door. What did he intend? He did not
know. Was he going to call these women? He did not know. He opened his
door, that was all, and his thought went no further.
The same morning at church, he had seen Suzanne, and said to himself, "I
will not look at her." He did not look at her. He kept his eyes lowered
when he turned towards the nave, but he could have said how many times
Suzanne lifted hers, if she were joyous or sad, and if she had a red ribbon
or a blue ribbon at her neck.
Oh! the eternal contradiction of mankind. He had not wanted to look at her
by day, and here he is throwing himself in her path in the middle of the
night.
The steps approached and his heart beat with violence; he was so agitated
that, at the moment when the two women passed before his door to reach the
lane which led to the bottom of the hill, he could hardly articulate in a
hesitating voice:
"Mademoiselle Durand."
They uttered a cry.
--It is I, he said coming forward. Is it possible? You here at such an hour
and in the rain?
--I had gone out with my maid, said Suzanne, and the rain has surprised us.
--Do not go farther. Shelter yourselves under my door. It is an April
shower; it will soon have passed.
At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne's
hand. Never had he felt such boldness.
--I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a
refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof.
Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs
and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the
first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind.
The Curé shut the door again and, passing near the two women, drawn up
against the wall, he brushed against the young girl's damp dress with his
hand.
--But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be
wise to remain in this cold passage. Should I dare to ask you to go
upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire?
His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near
hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne's. He seized it
therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: "Go up, I pray, go up,"
he said.
She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was
his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his
dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a
cheerful flame lighted up the hearth.
XXXVI.
THE HOT WINE.
"I looked at her; she tried to show
nothing of what she felt in her heart.
She held herself straight, like an
oarsman who feels that the current is
carrying him away, and her nostrils
quivered."
CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Contes flamands et wallons_).
Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of
the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while
Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast
around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on
the ground, was drawing up the fire.
--Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close,
Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don't you find it
so?
He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this
blazing fire.
Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one
of the fire-dogs. The priest's eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line,
the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of
her dress.
--I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at
such an hour.
--Ought not the priest's house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour?
It is open to the poor man who passes by; it is open sometimes to the
vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter
against the storm?
--It is true, it is the house of God, said Marianne. The young girl looked
at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no
longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained
standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran
through her frame.
Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety.
--Are you in pain? he said.
She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed
her and answered with a kind of hesitation:
--No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself
here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of
me?
--But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here
because Monsieur le Curé has had the goodness to bring us in. Don't you
hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we
are at Monsieur le Curé's.
--Reassure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because
you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the
good Marianne has just said, in the house of God, and I will say in my
turn, beneath the eye of God. These are very great words about so small a
matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a
cold already.
He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to
be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant.
Marianne opposed this with all her power.
--Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady,
she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica!
what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right.
--Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is
necessary.
They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to
disturb Veronica's slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of
dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes.
--Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne
alone.
He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of
the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly
remounted the stair-case.
XXXVI.
TÊTE-À-TÊTE.
"'Tis yours to use aright the hour
Which destiny may leave you,
To drain the cup of oldest wine,
And pluck the morning's roses."
A. BUSQUET (_La poésie des heures_).
He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to
commit a crime.
He passed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What!
Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his
own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was
it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he
remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of
seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her
charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing
through her fingers.
He sprang towards her.
--Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these
tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to
you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them.
--You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes.
--I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things;
he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not
hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend.
He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent;
he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which
raged in his own heart.
At length he broke the silence.
--Mademoiselle, dear young lady, he said with his most insinuating voice,
do you lack confidence then in me? Ah! I see but too well, your father's
prejudices have left their marks.
--Do not believe it, she cried eagerly, do not believe it.
--Thank you, dear young lady. I should so much wish to have your
confidence. And in whom could you better repose it? What others could
receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings? Ah,
that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account
that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those
who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the
afflicted. Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is
the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness.
Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our
arms to you, to me, who now say to you: "Open your heart to me, confide
to me your troubles. However sick your soul may be, mine will understand
it."
The priest's voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne's
heart. She cast on him a look full of compassion: You are unhappy, she
asked.
--Do not say that, do not say that! Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but
now I am so no longer. Are you not there? Has not your presence caused all
the dark clouds to fly away? No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a
blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of
his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my
hearth!
--Happiness! I bring happiness to you! But who am I? a little girl just out
of school, who knows nothing of life.
--And that is what makes you more charming. You are a rose which the breath
of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched. Life! dear child, do not
seek to know it too soon. It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best
are those who have suffered most deception and weeping.
--But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows....
--Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know
all that passes at the bottom of a man's heart.
Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the
difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you
cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can
open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no
loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your
intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all
families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and
no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have
no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our
weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I
mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little
disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ...
speak.
--Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I
used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go
out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my
father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don't
believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my
father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met
you.
Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl's hand, but he quickly dropped
it, fearing she might observe his agitation.
--Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my
companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the
under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I
must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner
then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me
here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties.
That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this
evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I
grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my
life.
She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence.
Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without
comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him,
but he only thought of one thing. She had said: "Your looks avoided mine."
When she had finished speaking, he was surprised to hear her no longer and
listened afresh.
--I have spoken with open heart to my confessor, said Suzanne timidly,
astonished at this silence.
--To the confessor! no, no, dear child; to the friend, to the friend, is it
not? Do you want him? Will you trust yourself to me? Will you let yourself
be guided by me? I will bring you by a way from which I will remove all the
thorns.
--But my father?
This was like the blow from a club to Marcel.
--Your father! Ah, yes! your father! Well, but what are we going to do?
--I have just asked you.
--It is written in the Gospel: "No one can serve two masters at the same
time." You have a master who is God. Your father places himself between God
and your duty. You must choose.
Suzanne did not reply.
--Consult your conscience, my child. What says your conscience?
--My conscience says nothing to me.
Marcel thought perhaps he had gone a little too far, he added:
--You must decide nevertheless. It is also written, "Render unto Caesar the
things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's."
--How am I to unite the respect and submission which I owe to my father
with my duties as a Christian? That, repeated Suzanne, is what I wanted to
ask you.
--And we will solve the problem, dear child. Yes, we will come forth from
this evil pass, to our advantage and to our glory. Nothing happens but by
the will of God, and it is He, doubt it not, who has guided you into my
path in order that I may take care of your young and beautiful soul. The
ancients were in the habit of marking their happy days; I count already two
days in my life which I shall never obliterate from my memory, two days
marked in the golden book of my remembrances. The one is that on which I
saw you for the first time. You were in the gallery of our church. The
light was streaming behind you through the painted windows and surrounded
you with a halo. I said to myself: "Is it not one of the virgins detached
from the window?" The other is to-day.--Do you believe in presentiments,
Mademoiselle?
--Sometimes.
--Well! I had a presentiment as it were of this visit. Yes, shall I dare to
tell you so? The whole day I have been wild with joy! I had an intuition of
an approaching happiness, a very rare event with me, Mademoiselle.
--Of what happiness?
--Why of this, of this which I enjoy at this moment; this of seeing you
sitting at my hearth, in front of me, near to me, this of hearing your
sweet voice, and reading your pure eyes. But what am I saying? Pardon me,
Mademoiselle. See how happiness make us egotistic! I talk to you about
myself, while it is about you that we ought to occupy ourselves, of you,
and of your future.
And he looked at her with such glowing eyes, that she was a little
frightened.
XXXVIII
THE KISS.
"That strange kiss makes me shudder
still."
A. DE MUSSET (_Premières poesies_).
--Are you not cold? said Marcel; and he stooped down to draw up the fire.
But on sitting down again it happened that his seat was quite close to that
of Suzanne, so close that their knees were touching, and that he had only
to make a slight movement to take one of her hands.
--Dear, dear child.
And he began to talk to her of God in his unctuous voice. He talked to her
also of her duties as a Christian, and of the probable struggles she would
have to undergo. He talked to her again of the purity of her heart and
compared her to the angels.
And while he talked, he began to fondle this little soft white hand,
lifting delicately the slender fingers with their rosy nails, drawing over
the soft and satiny tips his brown and muscular fingers.
Soon his warm hand became burning. Magnetic influences were evolved.
Invisible sparks broke forth suddenly at the contact of these two
epidermises, ran through his veins, inflamed his heart and set his brain
a-blaze.
[PLATE II: THE KISS. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent
over it, and pressed it to his lips.]
[Illustration]
He lost his presence of mind, his will wavered and sank in the molten lava
of his desires; he lost perception of his surroundings, of all those
formidable things which until then had bound him with the strong bands of
moral authority; he thought no longer of anything, he paused no longer at
anything, he saw nothing but this fair young girl whom he coveted, who was
alone with him, her hand in his, sitting by his fire-side, in the silence
and the mystery of the night. His clasp became convulsive. Under the fire
of his burning gaze Suzanne raised her head, and a second time fell back in
dismay. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent over it, and
pressed it to his lips.
The door opened wide.
--Don't get impatient, said Marianne, there is the hot wine. I have been a
long time, but the wood was green. Are you better?
But Suzanne, trembling all over, remained silent.
XXXIX.
THE DEVIL IN PETTICOATS.
"I know an infallible means of
drawing you back from the precipice
on which you stand."
CHARLES (_Des Illustres Françaises_).
--Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all
loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base
Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My
priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my
iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer
master of myself.
Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of
my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!... It must have happened.
Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is
the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to
subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God.
They tried at the seminary by means of _nenuphar_ and _infusions of nitre_
to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain
efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain
you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God
to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all
your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in
its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not
recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling
into an abyss of iniquity.
Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me?
How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written
there?... She, she, what will she think of me?... To kiss her hand, her
soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going?
I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me.
So spoke the Curé, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his
conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent
rapture.
--Yes, it is shame, it is shame.
--Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice.
Marcel turned round, terror-struck.
His servant was behind him.
She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange,
green eyes.
--Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that
pretty young lady will hold her tongue.
She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the
priest's heart like a steel blade.
Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a
passion.
--You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then?
What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening
then at the doors?
--That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously.
--What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it?
--There are many others who ought to blush and yet don't blush.
--What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want?
--Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne
Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn.
--What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say?
--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so.
--You are, at the very least, most indiscreet.
--Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a
witness of what passed.
--Eh! what has passed then?
--Sir, don't question me, she said in a pitying tone, _I have heard and
seen_.
--You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen
then, wretched woman?
And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon
the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door.
--Please, Monsieur le Curé, she implored, don't hurt me.
These words recalled the priest to himself.
--No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I
flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am
calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me.
--I will do so. Ah! you frighten me....
--It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion?
--It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very
peaceably, like the _other_, it is so nice.
--Please, enough of that subject.
--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is just about that I want to speak to you.
--Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable
indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any
more.