_The same to the same._
NOIRMOUTIERS,... _February_, 1845.
You must be burning to hear the story of that preciously preserved
bouquet; but, the fact is, I dare not ask him about it. In the first
place it is more than probable that there is no story underneath; then,
if there is one, perhaps it would be a story which he did not like to
talk about. As for me, I am quite convinced that ... but come, don't let
us tell fibs! You know that I cannot keep any secrets from you. I know
this story, and I will tell it you in a few words; nothing easier. "How
did it come about, Monsieur l'abbé," I said to him one day, "that with
your brains and education you resigned yourself to the care of a little
village?" He replied, with a sad smile: "It is easier to be the pastor
of poor peasants than of townspeople. Everyone must cut his coat
according to his cloth." "That is why," said I, "you ought to be in a
better position." "I was once told," he went on, "that your uncle, the
Bishop of N----, had deigned to notice me in order to offer me the cure
of Sainte-Marie; it is the best in the diocese. My old aunt, who is my
only surviving relative, and who lives at N----, said that it was a very
desirable position for me. But I am all right here, and I learnt with
pleasure that the bishop had made another choice. What does it matter to
me? Am I not happy at Noirmoutiers? If I can do a little good here it is
my place; I ought not to leave it. Besides, town life reminds me...." He
stopped, his eyes became sad and dreamy, then, recovering himself
suddenly, he said, "We are not working at our botany...." I could not
think any longer of the litter of old hay on the table, and I continued
my questions. "When did you take orders?" "Nine years ago." "Nine years
... but surely you were then old enough to be established in a
profession? I do not know, but I have always imagined it was not a
youthful call which led you to the priesthood." "Alas! no," he said, in
an ashamed manner; "but if my vocation came late, it was determined by
causes ... by a cause...." He became embarrassed and could not finish.
As for me, I plucked up courage. "I will wager," I said, "that a certain
bouquet which I have seen had some part in that determination." Hardly
had the impertinent question escaped me than I could have bitten out my
tongue rather than have uttered such a thing, but it was too late. "Why,
yes, Madam, that is true; I will tell you all about it, but not
to-day--another time. The Angelus is about to ring." And he had left
before the first stroke of the bell. I expected some terrible story. He
came again the next day, and he himself took up the conversation of the
previous day. He confessed to me that he had loved a young person of
N----, but she had little fortune, and he, a student, had no other
resources besides his wits. He said to her: "I am going to Paris, where
I hope to obtain an opening; you will not forget me while I am working
day and night to make myself worthy of you?" The young lady was sixteen
or seventeen years old, and was very sentimental. She gave him her
bouquet as a token of faith. A year after he heard of her marriage with
the lawyer of N---- just when he had obtained a professorship in a
college. He was overwhelmed by the blow, and renounced the chair. He
told me that during these years he could not think of anything else, and
he seemed as much moved whilst reciting this simple love story as though
it had only just happened. Then he took the bouquet out of his pocket.
"It was childish of me to keep it," he said, "perhaps even it was
wrong," and he threw it on the fire. When the poor flowers had finished
crackling and blazing, he went on in a calmer voice: "I am grateful to
you for having asked me to tell this story. I have to thank you for
making me part with a souvenir which it is scarcely suitable I should
keep." But his heart was full, and it was easy to see how much the
sacrifice had cost him. Poor priests! what a life is theirs! They must
forbid themselves the most innocent thoughts, and must banish from their
hearts every feeling which makes the happiness of other men ... even
those recollections which are a part of life itself. Priests remind us
of ourselves, of all unfortunate women to whom every living feeling is
forbidden as criminal. We are allowed to suffer, but even in that we
must hide our pain. Good-bye, I reproach myself for my ill-advised
curiosity, but it was indulged in on your behalf.
(We omit here several letters which do not contain any reference to the
Abbé Aubain.)