absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead
him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness.
But he was soon obliged to renounce this means.
The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Curé
pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt,
the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full
of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened
with a start by terrible noises during the night.
He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and
threatened to leave him.
--You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had
enough of it.
--Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if
I were not afraid of your cursed tongue.
Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and
smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant's manners changed
directly.
She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive.
Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the
same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to
conceal.
He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her
usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place
remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed
without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing
gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the _Laudate pueri dominum_ with
the voice of the _De profundis_.
Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from
coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before
upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and
with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He
saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him
in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were
astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he
forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church,
and whom he would meet again at his house.
Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a
moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague
which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his
life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a
month ago; only a stranger.
Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be
aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their
sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under
these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the
commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but
wishes to see the world at her feet.
And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more
irritating and more insupportable.
In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far,
very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant's gaze following him, and
weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted
jealousy.
He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when
he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the
width of the village and the depth of the woods.
She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye
searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds
of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to
strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts.
XLIV.
THE GARRET WINDOW.
"Do I direct my love? It directs me.
And I could abide it if I would!...
And I would, after all, that I could not."
V. SARDOU (_Nos Intimes_).
Other days passed, and then others.
From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view
of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain
Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several
times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet
object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he
forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts.
Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream
edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with
the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne.
Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber
and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with
that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable
complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the
tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul.
But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of
observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught
one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under
the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in
that loft?
He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his
pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his
flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled
his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment.
He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers,
that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he
heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot.
And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which
he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again
Suzanne's emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without
anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a
second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left
there.
XLV.
TREACHEROUS MANOEUVRE.
"He stepped more lightly than a
bird; love traced out his progress."
CHAMPFLEURY (_La Comédie Académique_).
"I must know," he said to himself, "where I stand."
And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village.
He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But
after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being
watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged
with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the
circuit of Althausen.
Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the
Captain's house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect,
resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could
suspect his secret agitation.
He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the
other.
To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though
it would break.
In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine
argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever
under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating.
Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its
nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever
increasing, consumed it.
To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat
crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to
inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat.
And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the
load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was
filled with a wild hope.
A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the
little house, always so smart and white.
Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind
it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a
goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore.
There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which
crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed
of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than
once he had caught sight of a crabbed face.
Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour
embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern.
What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her?
Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look
is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he
hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young
girl? Is he not her Curé? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has
he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the
disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another
blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after
what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore
rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is
enough.
He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the
old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise.
What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose,
and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh,
that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of
love, into that chaste virgin conch.
Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of
footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it
she?
He turns round.
Veronica is behind him.
XLVI.
THE LETTER.
"Let them take but one step within
your door. They will soon have taken
four."
LA FONTAINE (_Fables_).
She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the
bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: "Ah,
ah, I have caught you here."
--Come, Monsieur le Curé, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been
looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody
is waiting for you.
--Who!
But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards
home. The Curé followed her hanging his head.
He reached the parsonage directly after her.
--Who is waiting for me then? he said again.
--It's the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait
till to-morrow. He had a letter for you ... for _you_ only, she added,
lingering over these words with a scornful smile.
Marcel blushed.
--Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of
mysteries there are here. Really it's worse than the Catechism. Your
letters for you only! Isn't that enough to humiliate me? You have reason
then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your
letters to _yourself only_. Holy Virgin! it's a pretty thing. What can they
think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your
letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don't matter to me. Would
they not say...? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in
this way?
--There you are with your recrimination again!
-Oh, Monsieur le Curé, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I
certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that
way with me.
--Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish.
--I see very well, that you don't ask advice from anyone.... And with the
insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added:
You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has
happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself?
--Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I
consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions.
--My business! Well, Monsieur le Curé, yours is mine just a bit, since I am
your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I
know.
--Insolent woman.
--Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Curé. I let you do as you like with
me.
--Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded
with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you
want to arrive at?
And the Curé approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes.
--Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired.
--I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica.
Marcel's wrath passed all bounds.
--Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying;
tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless
narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you.
Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman,
beware of doing it a third time.
--Be quiet, Monsieur le Curé, said Veronica softly, be quiet.
--Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an
arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands.
The servant came near him:
--It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with
solicitude: shall I make you a little tea?
--I don't want anything.
--Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am
not.
--It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica.
--Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Curé, you will
understand it one day.
--Leave me, I say.
The servant withdrew.
--It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a
horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation!
Ah, the apostle is right: "As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall
into the abyss." And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this
servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of
her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has
discovered.... Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a
dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!... dear
Suzanne ... no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so
loudly.
He waited with feverish impatience for the postman's return.
Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant's
inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his
letters to himself only.
He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too
discovered excellent reasons for not going out.
She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the
mysterious letter.
Marcel's countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read
on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy.
XLVII.
GOOD NEWS.
"Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia
O filii et filiae...
Et Maria Magdalena
Et Jacobi, et Salome!
Alleluia."
(_Easter-Mass Hymn_).
"Rejoice, my son, and sing with me _Hosannah! Hosannah!_ The ways of the
Lord are infinite.
"Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest,
Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, _non tum
vilis quam nullus_, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a
guilty wretch as he is.
"Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It
is written: 'If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.' Anastasius Gobin
has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it.
_Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu_, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you
will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will
relate the matter to you in private.
"_Ergo_. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now
only a question of regaining Monseigneur's favour. The serpent is no longer
there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When
the beast is dead, the venom is dead.
"I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it
costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has
been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope,
experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. _Filii Sion exultate et
laetimini in Domino Deo nostro_.
"I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will
form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend,
you will do honour to your old master. _Tu quoque Marcellus eris_!
"As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is
worth more, I am going to stir up the arrière-ban of the sacristies.
"I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything
in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de
Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that
before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbé Marcel alone.
"That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an
Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure--that at
length you shall leave your Thebaid.
"Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to
dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your
wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will
discuss what is best to do.
"Have patience then till then. _Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis,
fratres_, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you.
"I embrace you tenderly,
"Your spiritual Father
"MARCEL RIDOUX
"_Curé of St. Nicholas_."
XLVIII.
RECONCILIATION.
"The fair Eglé chooses her part on a sudden
In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming."
CHAMPFORT (_Contes_).
"Here is salvation," said Marcel to himself, "the solution of the problem,
the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot
which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!"
And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him:
--Good news! Veronica.
--I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you
nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit?
--Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbé
Ridoux, gives notice of his.
--Monsieur le Curé of Saint Nicholas?
--Himself. Do you know him?
--Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul)
regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it
appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in
the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the
world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It's
he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a
little diversion, for we don't often laugh.
--That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest's
house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where
there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness.
Our Saviour has said: "Every house divided against itself shall perish."
--He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Curé.
--We must not perish, Veronica.
--I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war.
--Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle
might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic
differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We
are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself,
it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica?
--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we can come to an understanding directly, if you
wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice.
--Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after
supper.
--I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service.
--And we will celebrate the good news.
--I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you do not
know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I
am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another's, and when we
must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to
laugh, and do not give up my share.
--Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only
way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to
my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my
secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is
at the bottom of your bag of iniquity.
XLIX.
CONFIDENCES.
"To thee I wish to confide this secret,
Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet
They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age."
BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_).
That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Curé of Althausen had
coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups.
--You have asked somebody then? she enquired.
--Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica.
The woman smiled.
She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the
shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed
partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her
master.
--We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us.
Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his
servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he
thought, and he answered quietly:
--We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do
anything wrong.
--Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your
table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would
begin to chatter.
--It is true.
--And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so,
Monsieur le Curé?
Marcel bent his head:
--You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one
cannot usually with a ... common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand
me. Then, after a moment's hesitation:
--Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a
serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it.
--Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Curé, I deserved everything that you
have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly
towards you.
--I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate
all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely.
--Monsieur le Curé is too good.
--No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved
differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of
ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered,
and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we
can come to an understanding.
--Yes, I am easy to accommodate.
--Let us save appearances, that is essential.
--You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could
ever reproach me for setting a bad example.
--I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is
well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we
must wash our dirty linen at home.
--Poor Monsieur Fortin.
--That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my
disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and
you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little
confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little
brandy? There! now sit close to me.
--Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees.
--At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I
mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets,
but by right of a friend.
--I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé.
--There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish,
but not a priest. Are you willing?
--I am quite willing.
--You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to
you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say
regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me.
--What do you want me to tell you?
--They committed faults then?...
--I have told you so, sir,--sometimes--like you.
--Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day.
--Seven times!
--Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but
I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater
saints?