CHAPTER XXIII

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

With the end of the century there has come in France a great revival

of the struggle between religion and free thought which has so long

been waged there; and the stupendous effort put forth by the Roman

Catholic Church to annihilate the Third Republic has placed the country

in a condition of unrest such as it has only known on the eve of its

chief Revolutions. Behind the notorious Dreyfus case, behind the shouts

of 'Long live the army!' and 'Death to the Jews!' behind all the

so-called Nationalism and Militarism, the Church has been steadily,

incessantly working, ever fanning the flames of discord, ever promoting

and fostering coalitions of malcontents, by whose help it hopes to

recover its old-time paramountcy. Time alone can reveal the outcome

of this great effort, this 'forlorn hope' assault upon institutions

which have hitherto kept Catholicism in check and tended so largely to

the diffusion of free thought; but personally I am inclined to think,

with all due allowance for partial successes achieved here and there,

that this Clerical movement, however skilfully engineered under the

cloak of patriotism, and however lavishly financed by the bulk of the

money derived from the Lourdes 'miracles,' over which the Assumptionist

Fathers preside, and the offerings of zealots throughout the country,

will ultimately result in failure, for France is not at heart a

religious country, and when faith has departed from a nation can it be

restored?

The meaning of the Clerical movement to which I have referred is

twofold. In the first place there is the perfectly natural and

legitimate desire of the French Catholics to recover lost ascendancy;

and in the second place there is the conviction of the Vatican and the

French episcopate generally that France is the only country which under

favourable circumstances might be in a position to restore the temporal

power of the Holy See. In that respect the Pope can hope for nothing

from Spain or Austria or the Catholic States of Germany. In France

rests the sole hope of the Papacy; and thus on political as well as

religious grounds the establishment of a Catholic _régime_ in place of

the present-day free-thought Republic is the one great dream of those

who direct the fortunes of the Holy Roman and Apostolic Church.

All who know anything of modern history are aware that in 1849 a French

army overthrew the Roman Republic and reinstated Pius IX. in possession

of the so-called patrimony of St. Peter, and that in after years, until

France indeed was vanquished at Sedan, the presence of French forces

alone enabled the Pope to continue in the exercise of his territorial

sway. Both the Royalist reactionaries who sat in the National Assembly

of the Second Republic, and the Prince-President of that time,

afterwards Napoleon III., lent support to Pius IX., and in return

expected to receive the countenance and help of the French clergy in

their various designs upon France. But the clergy always seeks its own

ends, and more than once its policy varied, now being in favour of the

Royalists and now in favour of Louis Napoleon, according as it seemed

likely to secure greater benefits from one or the other.

Even when the contest for supremacy was over, when the Republic had

been murdered at the Coup d'État, and the hopes of the Count de

Chambord had been destroyed by the triumph of Napoleon the Little,

the clergy did not give unqualified support to the new government.

True, on the 1st of January, 1852, Monseigneur Sibour, Archbishop of

Paris, officiated at a solemn 'Te Deum' at Notre Dame in honour of the

triumph of a bribed and drunken soldiery over the defenders of the

Constitution; but Louis Napoleon had scarcely become Emperor before

a large section of the clergy began to protest that the new _régime_

was by no means sufficiently Clerical. The course adopted in these

circumstances was very characteristic and significant. An education

law had been passed in 1850, giving many privileges and advantages to

the clergy, such indeed as they had not possessed since the downfall

of Charles X. But comparative liberty in educational matters was

more than the French episcopate, eager for domination as the price

of its adhesion to imperialism, could willingly allow, and before

long a celebrated and remarkably well written newspaper, 'L'Univers,'

initiated a campaign against the Empire, taking as its standpoint that

the Pope was the virtual sovereign of the world, and that everything

must be subservient to the interests of the Roman Church. Half the

French episcopate actively supported the view which followed, _i.e._

that the education of the young ought to be entirely under priestly

control, the priests being the vicars of the Pope, even as he (the

Pope) was the vicar of the Deity. There were some curious and even

amusing incidents in the course of that now forgotten campaign.

For instance, it was actually proposed to abolish the study of the

Greek and Latin classics in France, a suggestion which many of the

Bishops vigorously upheld, though others of a scholarly turn pleaded

plaintively in favour of Horace and a few others, whose writings, if

edited in a Christian spirit, might yet, they thought, be allowed among

young men of proved morality!

With the educational controversy many political matters soon became

blended. The Italian revolutionaries were at that time doing their

utmost to frighten Napoleon III. into fulfilment of his early promises

respecting the liberation of Italy; and the Vatican, anxious for the

maintenance of the old order of things, since any change must help on

its own fall, made desperate efforts to prevent the interference of

France in Italian affairs, unless indeed it were for the consolidation

of the Papal power. Even as in recent times the Assumptionist Fathers

have intrigued for the overthrow of the Third Republic, so did the

Société de St. Vincent de Paul--which nominally was a mere charitable

organisation--seek to turn the Empire into a priestly _régime_, or in

default thereof to overthrow it. The position of Napoleon III. was the

more difficult since his own wife, the Empress Eugénie, acted as the

Vatican's spy and agent. Matters at last reached such a pass that the

Emperor's Minister, Billault, had on the one hand to prohibit political

allusions in sermons, under pain of fine and imprisonment, and on the

other to break up and scatter the intriguing religious societies.

Nevertheless the Empire's position remained a difficult one to the

very last, and Napoleon III. was often sorely puzzled how to steer

a safe course between the claims of the Pope and the clergy and the

aspirations of Italy and its well-wishers; to say nothing of the views

of all those who, thinking of France alone, by no means approved of

priestly power in politics.

It is on the state of affairs to which I have alluded, the hostility

of a part of the French clergy to the Empire in its earlier years,

that M. Zola has based his novel, 'The Conquest of Plassans.' The

priests, subservient to the Vatican, lead the town into a course of

opposition against imperial institutions, and the Government then

despatches thither an impecunious and unscrupulous priest, one Abbé

Faujas, for the purpose of winning it back again. Such tactics were not

infrequently employed at that time. Whilst a part of the clergy simply

followed its own inclinations, others venally took pay from the Empire

to do its dirty work. As often as not they subsequently betrayed their

paymaster, using the positions into which they were thrust for the

satisfaction of their personal ambition. Still, for a while these needy

hangers-on at the Ministry of Public Worship proved useful allies, and

the Empire was only too ready to employ them. It will be seen, then,

that the theme chosen by M. Zola rests upon historical fact, and it

may be taken that his story embodies incidents which actually occurred

under such conditions as those that I have described.

The 'Conquest of Plassans' may well be read in conjunction with 'The

Fortune of the Rougons,' M. Zola's earlier work, as the scene in

both instances is the same, and certain personages, such as Félicité

Rougon and Antoine Macquart, figure largely in both books. In the

earlier volume we see the effect of the Coup d'État in the provinces,

almost every incident being based upon historical fact. For instance,

Miette, the heroine of 'The Fortune of the Rougons,' had a counterpart

in Madame Ferrier, that being the real name of the young woman who,

carrying the insurgents' blood-red banner, was hailed by them as the

'Goddess of Liberty' on their dramatic march. And in like way the

tragic death of Silvère, linked to another hapless prisoner, was

founded by M. Zola on an incident that followed the rising, as recorded

by an eyewitness.[1] Amidst all the bloodshed, the Rougons, in M.

Zola's narrative, rise to fortune and power, and Plassans (really

Aix-en-Provence) bows down before them. But time passes, the revolt of

the clergy supervenes, by their influence the town chooses a Royalist

Marquis as deputy, and it becomes necessary to conquer it once again.

Abbé Faujas, by whom this conquest is achieved on behalf of the Empire,

is, I think, a strongly conceived character, perhaps the most real

of all the priests that are scattered through M. Zola's books. I do

not say this because he happens to be anything but a good man. M.

Zola has sketched more than one good priest in his novels, as, for

instance, Abbé Rose in 'Paris;' but in this one, Faujas, there is more

genuine flesh and blood than in all the others. True, his colleagues,

Bourrette and Fenil, are admirably suggested; the Bishop, too, an

indolent prelate who surrenders the government of his diocese to his

vicar-general, and spends his time in translating Horace (for he is

one of the few who favour the classics), leaves on one an impression

of reality; yet no other priestly creation of M. Zola's pen can to my

thinking vie with the stern, chaste, authoritative, ambitious Faujas,

the man who subdues Plassans, and who wrecks the home of the Mouret

family, with whom he lives.

Leading parts in the story are assigned to Mouret and his wife

Marthe, both of whom are extremely interesting figures. The genesis

of the former's career and fate is contained in one of M. Zola's

short stories, 'Histoire d'un Fou,' which he contributed to the Paris

'Événement' before he took to book writing. The idea, so skilfully

worked out, is that of a man who, although perfectly sane, is generally

believed to be mad, and who by force of being thus regarded does

ultimately lose his wits. In Marthe his wife, the grand-daughter of

a mad woman, we find the hereditary flaw turning to hysteria, in a

measure of a religious character, such as subsequently becomes manifest

in her son Serge, the chief character of 'Abbé Mouret's Transgression,'

which work proceeds directly from 'The Conquest of Plassans.'

In the latter book, as in 'The Fortune of the Rougons,' M. Zola

skilfully depicts all the life of a French provincial town such as it

was half a century or so ago, and in this respect he has simply drawn

upon his own recollections of Aix, where he spent so many years of

his boyhood. Much that he records might be applied to such towns even

nowadays, for electric lighting, and tramcars, and motor-cars, and

increased railway facilities, have made little change in provincial

society. There are still rival _salons_ and _coteries_ and petty

jealousies and vanities all at work; and if new parties have succeeded

old ones, their intrigues have remained of much the same description

as formerly. The many provincials who in M. Zola's narrative gravitate

around the chief characters are pleasantly and skilfully diversified,

and seem very life-like with their foibles and 'fads' and rivalries and

ambitions. Possibly the most interesting are the Paloques, husband and

wife, whom envy, hatred and all uncharitableness incessantly consume.

Again, Madame Faujas, the priest's mother, is a finely-drawn character,

but perhaps the failings of her daughter Olympe, and of Trouche,

Olympe's husband, verge slightly upon caricature. As for old Rose, the

Mourets' servant, though her ways are very amusing, and the part she

plays in the persecution of her master renders her an indispensable

personage in the narrative, it may be pointed out that she is virtually

the same woman who has done duty half a dozen times in M. Zola's

books--for instance, as Martine in 'Dr. Pascal,' as Véronique in 'The

Joy of Life,' and so forth. It is rather curious, indeed, that M. Zola,

so skilful in portraying diversity of character and disposition among

his other personages, should have clung so pertinaciously to one sole

type of an old servant-woman.

It is not my purpose here to analyse in detail the plot of 'The

Conquest of Plassans,' but, having dealt at some length with the

historical incidents on which the work is based, it is as well that

I should point out that politics are not obtruded upon the reader in

M. Zola's pages. Indeed, the book largely deals with quite another

matter, that of 'the priest in the house,' showing as it does how the

Mourets' home was wrecked by the combined action of the Faujases and

the Trouches. In this connection the dolorous career of the unhappy

Marthe is very vividly pictured. A fairly contented wife and mother at

the outset of the story, she is won over to religion by Faujas, whose

purpose is to utilise her as an instrument for the furtherance of his

political and social schemes. But religion for her becomes a mysticism

full of unrealisable yearnings, for she expects to taste the joys of

Heaven even upon earth. Carried away by her religious fervour, she soon

neglects her home; and her husband, it must be admitted, takes anything

but the right course to win her back. She begins to loathe him and to

indulge in an insane passion for the priest by whom she is spurned.

Then hysteria masters her and consumption sets in; and between them

those fell diseases bring her to an early grave. There are some finely

conceived scenes between Marthe and Faujas; but the climax only comes

towards the end of the volume, when Mouret, the husband who has been

driven mad and shut up in a lunatic asylum, returns home and wreaks

the most terrible vengeance upon those who have wronged him. The

pages which deal with the madman's escape and his horrible revenge are

certainly among the most powerful that M. Zola has ever written, and

have been commended for their effectiveness by several of his leading

critics.

E. A. V.

MERTON, SURREY: _Sept._ 1900.

THE CONQUEST OF PLASSANS

I

Désirée clapped her hands. She was fourteen years old and big and

strong for her age, but she laughed like a little girl of five.

'Mother! mother!' she cried, 'look at my doll!'

She showed her mother a strip of rag out of which she had been trying

for the last quarter of an hour to manufacture a doll by rolling it and

tying it at one end with a piece of string. Marthe raised her eyes from

the stockings that she was darning with as much delicacy of work as

though she were embroidering, and smiled at Désirée.

'Oh! but that's only a baby,' she said; 'you must make a grown-up doll

and it must have a dress, you know, like a lady.'

She gave the child some clippings of print stuff which she found in her

work-table, and then again devoted all her attention to her stockings.

They were both sitting at one end of the narrow terrace, the girl on a

stool at her mother's feet. The setting sun of a still warm September

evening cast its calm peaceful rays around them; and the garden below,

which was already growing grey and shadowy, was wrapped in perfect

silence. Outside, not a sound could be heard in that quiet corner of

the town.

They both worked on for ten long minutes without speaking. Désirée was

taking immense pains to make a dress for her doll. Every few moments

Marthe raised her head and glanced at the child with an expression in

which sadness was mingled with affection. Seeing that the girl's task

seemed too much for her, she at last said:

'Give it to me. I will put in the sleeves for you.'

As she took up the doll, two big lads of seventeen and eighteen came

down the steps. They ran to Marthe and kissed her.

'Don't scold us, mother!' cried Octave gaily. 'I took Serge to listen

to the band. There was such a crowd on the Cours Sauvaire!'

'I thought you had been kept in at college,' his mother said, 'or I

should have felt very uneasy.'

Désirée, now altogether indifferent to her doll, had thrown her arms

round Serge's neck, saying to him:

'One of my birds has flown away! The blue one, the one you gave me!'

She was on the point of crying. Her mother, who had imagined this

trouble to be forgotten, vainly tried to divert her thoughts by showing

her the doll. The girl still clung to her brother's arm and dragged him

away with her, while repeating:

'Come and let us look for it.'

Serge followed her with kindly complaisance and tried to console her.

She led him to a little conservatory, in front of which there was a

cage placed on a stand; and here she told him how the bird had escaped

just as she was opening the door to prevent it from fighting with a

companion.

'Well, there's nothing very surprising in that!' cried Octave, who

had seated himself on the balustrade of the terrace. 'She is always

interfering with them, trying to find out how they are made and what it

is they have in their throats that makes them sing. The other day she

was carrying them about in her pockets the whole afternoon to keep them

warm.'

'Octave!' said Marthe, in a tone of reproach; 'don't tease the poor

child.'

But Désirée had not heard him; she was explaining to Serge with much

detail how the bird had flown away.

'It just slipped out, you see, like that, and then it flew over yonder

and lighted on Monsieur Rastoil's big pear-tree. Next it flew off to

the plum-tree at the bottom, came back again and went right over my

head into the big trees belonging to the Sub-Prefecture, and I've never

seen it since; no, never since.'

Her eyes filled with tears.

'Perhaps it will come back again,' Serge ventured to say.

'Oh! do you think so? I think I will put the others into a box, and

leave the door of the cage open all night.'

Octave could not restrain his laughter, but Marthe called to Désirée:

'Come and look here! come and look here!'

Then she gave her the doll. It was a magnificent one now. It had a

stiff dress, a head made of a pad of calico, and arms of list sewn on

at the shoulders. Désirée's eyes lighted up with sudden joy. She sat

down again upon the stool, and, forgetting all about the bird, began to

kiss the doll and dandle it in her arms with childish delight.

Serge had gone to lean upon the balustrade near his brother, and Marthe

had resumed her darning.

'And so the band has been playing, has it?' she asked.

'It plays every Thursday,' Octave replied. 'You ought to have come to

hear it, mother. All the town was there; the Rastoil girls, Madame de

Condamin, Monsieur Paloque, the mayor's wife and daughter--why didn't

you come too?'

Marthe did not raise her eyes, but softly replied as she finished

darning a hole:

'You know very well, my dears, that I don't care about going out. I am

quite contented here; and then it is necessary that someone should stay

with Désirée.'

Octave opened his lips to reply, but he glanced at his sister and kept

silent. He remained where he was, whistling softly and raising his eyes

now towards the trees of the Sub-Prefecture, noisy with the twittering

of the sparrows which were preparing to retire for the night--and

now towards Monsieur Rastoil's pear-trees behind which the sun was

setting. Serge had taken a book out of his pocket and was reading it

attentively. Soft silence brooded over the terrace as it lay there in

the yellow light that was gradually growing fainter. Marthe continued

darning, ever and anon glancing at her three children in the peaceful

quiet of the evening.

'Everyone seems to be late to-day,' she said after a time. 'It is

nearly six o'clock, and your father hasn't come home yet. I think he

must have gone to Les Tulettes.'

'Oh! then, no wonder he's late!' exclaimed Octave. 'The peasants at Les

Tulettes are never in a hurry to let him go when once they get hold of

him. Has he gone there to buy some wine?'

'I don't know,' Marthe replied. 'He isn't fond, you know, of talking to

me about his business.'

Then there was another interval of silence. In the dining-room, the

window of which opened on to the terrace, old Rose had just begun to

lay the table with much angry clattering of crockery and plate. She

seemed to be in a very bad temper, and banged the chairs about while

breaking into snatches of grumbling and growling. At last she went to

the street door, and, craning out her head, reconnoitred the square in

front of the Sub-Prefecture. After some minutes' waiting, she came to

the terrace-steps and cried:

'Monsieur Mouret isn't coming home to dinner, then?'

'Yes, Rose, wait a little longer,' Marthe replied quietly.

'Everything is getting burned to cinders! There's no sense in it all.

When master goes off on those rounds he ought to give us notice! Well,

it's all the same to me; but your dinner will be quite uneatable.'

'Ah! do you really think so, Rose?' asked a quiet voice just behind

her. 'We will eat it, notwithstanding.'

It was Mouret who had just arrived.[2] Rose turned round, looked her

master in the face, and seemed on the point of breaking into some angry

exclamation; but at the sight of his unruffled countenance, in which

twinkled an expression of merry banter, she could not find a word to

say, and so she retired. Mouret made his way to the terrace, where he

paced about without sitting down. He just tapped Désirée lightly on the

cheek with the tips of his fingers, and the girl greeted him with a

responsive smile. Marthe raised her eyes, and when she had glanced at

her husband she began to fold up her work.

'Aren't you tired?' asked Octave, looking at his father's boots, which

were white with dust.

'Yes, indeed, a little,' Mouret replied, without, however, saying

anything more about the long journey which he had just made on foot.

Then in the middle of the garden he caught sight of a spade and a rake,

which the children had forgotten there.

'Why are the tools not put away?' he cried. 'I have spoken about it a

hundred times. If it should come on to rain they would be completely

rusted and spoilt.'

He said no more on the subject, but stepped down into the garden,

picked up the spade and rake himself, and put them carefully away

inside the little conservatory. As he came up to the terrace again

his eyes searched every corner of the walks to see if things were tidy

there.

'Are you learning your lessons?' he asked, as he passed Serge, who was

still poring over his book.

'No, father,' the boy replied; 'this is a book that Abbé Bourrette has

lent me. It is an account of the missions in China.'

Mouret stopped short in front of his wife.

'By the way,' said he, 'has anyone been here?'

'No, no one, my dear,' replied Marthe with an appearance of surprise.

He seemed on the point of saying something further, but appeared to

change his mind, and continued pacing up and down in silence. Then,

going to the steps, he cried out:

'Well, Rose, what about this dinner of yours which is getting burnt to

cinders?'

'Oh, indeed! there is nothing ready for you now!' shouted the cook in

an angry voice from the other end of the passage. 'Everything is cold.

You will have to wait, sir.'

Mouret smiled in silence and winked with his left eye, as he glanced

at his wife and children. He seemed to be very much amused by

Rose's anger. Then he occupied himself in examining his neighbour's

fruit-trees.

'It is surprising what splendid pears Monsieur Rastoil has got this

year,' he remarked.

Marthe, who had appeared a little uneasy for the last few minutes,

seemed as though she wanted to say something. At last she made up her

mind to speak, and timidly inquired:

'Were you expecting someone to-day, my dear?'

'Yes and no,' he replied, beginning to pace the terrace again.

'Perhaps you have let the second floor?'

'Yes, indeed, I have let it.'

Then, as the silence became a little embarrassing, he added, in his

quiet way:

'This morning, before starting for Les Tulettes, I went up to see Abbé

Bourrette. He was very pressing, and so I agreed to his proposal. I

know it won't please you; but, if you will only think the matter over

for a little, you will see that you are wrong, my dear. The second

floor was of no use to us, and it was only going to ruin. The fruit

that we store in the rooms there brings on dampness which makes the

paper fall from the walls. By the way, now that I think of it, don't

forget to remove the fruit the first thing to-morrow. Our tenant may

arrive at any moment.'

'We were so free and comfortable, all alone in our own house,' Marthe

ventured to say, in a low tone.

'Oh, well!' replied Mouret, 'we shan't find a priest in our way.

He will keep to himself, and we shall keep to ourselves. Those

black-gowned gentlemen hide themselves when they want to swallow even

a glass of water. You know that I'm not very partial to them myself. A

set of lazybones for the most part! And yet what chiefly decided me to

let the floor was that I had found a priest for a tenant. One is quite

sure of one's money with them, and they are so quiet that one can't

even hear them go in and out.'

Marthe still appeared distressed. She looked round her at the happy

home basking in the sun's farewell, at the garden which was now growing

greyer with shadows, and at her three children. And she thought of all

the happiness which this little spot held for her.

'And do you know anything about this priest?'she asked.

'No; but Abbé Bourrette has taken the floor in his own name, and that

is quite sufficient. Abbé Bourrette is an honourable man. I know that

our tenant is called Faujas, Abbé Faujas, and that he comes from the

diocese of Besançon. He didn't get on very well with his vicar there,

and so he has been appointed curate here at Saint-Saturnin's. Perhaps

he knows our bishop, Monseigneur Rousselot. But all this is no business

of ours, you know; and it is to Abbé Bourrette that I am trusting in

the whole matter.'

Marthe, however, did not seem to share her husband's confidence, but

continued to stand out against him, a thing which seldom happened.

'You are right,' she said, after a moment's silence, 'Abbé Bourrette is

a worthy man. But I recollect that when he came to look at the rooms he

told me that he did not know the name of the person on whose behalf he

was commissioned to rent them. It was one of those commissions which

are undertaken by priests in one town for those in another. I really

think that you ought to write to Besançon and make some inquiries as to

what sort of a person it is that you are about to introduce into your

house.'

Mouret was anxious to avoid losing his temper; he smiled complacently.

'Well, it isn't the devil, anyhow. Why, you're trembling all over! I

didn't think you were so superstitious. You surely don't believe that

priests bring ill luck, as folks say. Neither, of course, do they bring

good luck. They are just like other men. But, when we get this Abbé

here, you'll see if I'm afraid of his cassock!'

'No, I'm not superstitious; you know that quite well,' replied Marthe.

'I only feel unhappy about it, that's all.'

He took his stand in front of her, and interrupted her with a sharp

motion of his hand.

'There! there! that will do,' said he. 'I have let the rooms; don't let

us say anything more about the matter.'

Then, in the bantering tones of a _bourgeois_ who thinks he has done a

good stroke of business, he added:

'At any rate one thing is certain, and that is that I am to get a

hundred and fifty francs rent; and we shall have those additional

hundred and fifty francs to spend on the house every year.'

Marthe bent her head and made no further protestations except by

vaguely swinging her hands and gently closing her eyes as though to

prevent the escape of the tears which were already swelling beneath her

eyelids. Then she cast a furtive glance at her children, who had not

appeared to hear anything of her discussion with their father. They

were, indeed, accustomed to scenes of this sort in which Mouret, with

his bantering nature, delighted to indulge.

'You can come in now, if you would like something to eat,' said Rose in

her crabby voice, as she came to the steps.

'Ah, that's right! Come along, children, to your soup!' cried Mouret

gaily, without appearing to retain any trace of temper.

The whole family rose. But Désirée's grief seemed to revive at the

sight of everyone stirring. She threw her arms round her father's neck

and stammered:

'Oh, papa, one of my birds has flown away!'

'One of your birds, my dear? Well, we'll catch it again.'

Then he began to caress and fondle her, but she insisted that he, also,

should go and look at the cage. When he brought her back again Marthe

and her two sons were already in the dining-room. The rays of the

setting sun, streaming in through the window, lighted up the porcelain

plates, the children's plated mugs, and the white cloth. The room was

warm and peaceful with its green background of garden.

But just as Marthe, upon whom the tranquillity of the scene had had a

soothing effect, was smilingly removing the cover from the soup-tureen,

a noise was heard in the passage.

Then Rose rushed into the room with a scared look and stammered:

'Monsieur l'Abbé Faujas has come!'

II

An expression of annoyance passed over Mouret's face. He had not

expected his tenant till the following morning at the earliest. He was

just rising hastily from his seat when Abbé Faujas himself appeared at

the door. He was a tall big man, with a square face, broad features,

and a cadaverous complexion. Behind him, in the shadow, stood an

elderly woman, who bore an astonishing resemblance to him, only that

she was of smaller build and wore a less refined expression. When they

saw the table laid for a meal, they both hesitated and stepped back

discreetly, though without going away. The priest's tall black figure

contrasted mournfully with the cheerfulness of the whitewashed walls.

'We must ask your pardon for disturbing you,' he said to Mouret. 'We

have just left Abbé Bourrette's; he, no doubt, gave you notice of our

coming!'

'Not at all!' Mouret exclaimed. 'The Abbé never behaves like other

people. He always seems as though he had just come down from paradise.

Only this morning, sir, he told me that you would not be here for

another couple of days. Well, we must put you in possession of your

rooms all the same.'

Abbé Faujas apologised. He spoke in a deep voice which fell very softly

at the end of each sentence. He was extremely distressed, said he, to

have arrived at such a moment. And when he had expressed his regret in

a very few well-chosen words, he turned round to pay the porter who

had brought his trunk. His large well-shaped hands drew from the folds

of his cassock a purse of which only the steel rings could be seen.

Keeping his head bent, he cautiously fumbled in it for a moment. Then,

without anyone having seen the piece of money which he had received,

the porter went away, and the priest resumed in his refined way:

'I beg you, sir, sit down again. Your servant will show us the rooms,

and will help me to carry this.'

As he spoke, he stooped to grasp one of the handles of his trunk. It

was a small wooden trunk, bound at the edges with iron bands, and one

of its sides seemed to have been repaired with a cross-piece of deal.

Mouret looked surprised, and his eyes wandered off in search of other

luggage, but he could see nothing excepting a big basket, which the

elderly lady carried with both hands, holding it in front of her, and

despite her fatigue obstinately determined not to put it down. From

underneath the lid, which was a little raised, there peeped, amongst

some bundles of linen, the end of a comb wrapped in paper and the neck

of a clumsily corked bottle.

'Oh! don't trouble yourself with that,' said Mouret, just touching the

trunk with his foot; 'it can't be very heavy, and Rose will be able to

carry it up by herself.'

He was quite unconscious of the secret contempt which oozed out from

his words. The elderly lady gave him a keen glance with her black eyes,

and then let her gaze again fall upon the dining-room and the table,

which she had been examining ever since her arrival. She kept her lips

tightly compressed, while her eyes strayed from one object to another.

She had not uttered a single word. Abbé Faujas consented to leave his

trunk where it was. In the yellow rays of the sunlight which streamed

in from the garden, his threadbare cassock looked quite ruddy; it was

darned at the edges; and, though it was scrupulously clean, it seemed

so sadly thin and wretched that Marthe, who had hitherto remained

seated with a sort of uneasy reserve, now in her turn rose from her

seat. The Abbé, who had merely cast a rapid glance at her, and had then

quickly turned his eyes elsewhere, saw her leave her chair, although he

did not appear to be watching her.

'I beg you,' he repeated, 'do not disturb yourselves. We should be

extremely distressed to interfere with your dinner.'

'Very well,' said Mouret, who was hungry, 'Rose shall show you up. Tell

her to get you anything you want, and make yourselves at home.'

Abbé Faujas bowed and was making his way to the staircase, when Marthe

stepped up to her husband and whispered:

'But, my dear, you have forgotten----'

'What? what?' he asked, seeing her hesitate.

'There is the fruit, you know.'

'Oh! bother it all, so there is!' he exclaimed with an expression of

annoyance.

And as Abbé Faujas stepped back and glanced at him questioningly, he

added:

'I am extremely vexed, sir. Father Bourrette is a very worthy man, but

it is a little unfortunate that you commissioned him to attend to your

business. He hasn't got the least bit of a head. If we had only known

of your coming, we should have had everything ready; but, as it is, we

shall have to clear the whole place out for you. We have been using the

rooms, you see; we have stowed all our crop of fruit, figs, apples and

raisins, away on the floors upstairs.'

The priest listened with a surprise which all his politeness did not

enable him to hide.

'But it won't take us long,' Mouret continued. 'If you don't mind

waiting for ten minutes, Rose will get the rooms cleared for you.'

An anxious expression appeared on the priest's cadaverous face.

'The rooms are furnished, are they not?' he asked.

'Not at all; there isn't a bit of furniture in them. We have never

occupied them.'

Thereupon the Abbé lost his self-control, and his grey eyes flashed as

he exclaimed with suppressed indignation:

'But I gave distinct instructions in my letter that furnished rooms

were to be taken. I could scarcely bring my furniture along with me in

my trunk.'

'Well, that just fits in with what I have been saying!' cried Mouret,

in a louder voice. 'The way that Bourrette goes on is quite incredible.

He certainly saw the apples when he came to look at the rooms, sir, for

he took up one of them and remarked that he had rarely seen such fine

fruit. He said that everything seemed quite suitable, that the rooms

were all that was necessary, and he took them.'

Abbé Faujas was no longer listening to Mouret; his cheeks were flushed

with anger. He turned round and stammered in a broken voice:

'Do you hear, mother? There is no furniture.'

The old lady, with her thin black shawl drawn tightly round her, had

just been inspecting the ground-floor, stepping furtively hither and

thither, but without once putting down her basket. She had gone to the

door of the kitchen and had scrutinised the four walls there, and then,

standing on the steps that overlooked the terrace, she had taken in all

the garden at one long, searching glance. But it was the dining-room

that seemed more especially to interest her, and she was now again

standing in front of the table laid for dinner, watching the steam of

the soup rise, when her son repeated:

'Do you hear, mother? We shall have to go to the hotel.'

She raised her head without making any reply; but the expression of

her whole face seemed to indicate a settled determination to remain

in that house, with whose every corner she had already made herself

acquainted. She shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly, and again

her wandering eyes strayed from the kitchen to the garden and then from

the garden to the dining-room.

Mouret, however, was growing impatient. As he saw that neither the

mother nor her son seemed to make up their minds to leave the place, he

said:

'We have no beds, unfortunately. True, there is, in the loft, a

folding-bedstead, which perhaps, at a pinch, madame might make do until

to-morrow. But I really don't know how Monsieur l'Abbé is to manage to

sleep.'

Then at last Madame Faujas opened her lips. She spoke in a curt and

somewhat hoarse voice:

'My son will take the folding-bedstead. A mattress on the floor, in a

corner, will be quite sufficient for me.'

The Abbé signified his approval of this arrangement by a nod. Mouret

was going to protest and try to think of some other plan, but, seeing

the satisfied appearance of his new tenants, he kept silence and merely

exchanged a glance of astonishment with his wife.

'To-morrow it will be light,' he said, with his touch of _bourgeois_

banter, 'and you will be able to furnish as you like. Rose will go up

and clear away the fruit and make the beds. Will you wait for a few

minutes on the terrace? Come, children, take a couple of chairs out.'

Since the arrival of the priest and his mother, the young people had

remained quietly seated at the table, curiously scrutinising the

new-comers. The Abbé had not appeared to notice them, but Madame Faujas

had stopped for a moment before each of them and stared them keenly in

the face as though she were trying to pry into their young heads. As

they heard their father, they all three hastily rose and took some

chairs out.

The old lady did not sit down; and when Mouret, losing sight of her,

turned round to find out what had become of her, he saw her standing

before a window of the drawing-room which was ajar. She craned out her

neck and completed her inspection with all the calm deliberation of a

person who is examining some property for sale. Just as Rose took up

the little trunk, however, she went back into the passage, and said

quietly:

'I will go up and help you.'

Then she went upstairs after the servant. The priest did not even turn

his head; he was smiling at the three young people who still stood in

front of him. In spite of the hardness of his brow and the stern lines

about his mouth, his face was capable of expressing great gentleness,

when such was his desire.

'Is this the whole of your family, madame?' he asked Marthe, who had

just come up to him.

'Yes, sir,' she replied, feeling a little confused beneath the clear

gaze which he turned upon her.

Looking again at her children, he continued:

'You've got two big lads there, who will soon be men--Have you finished

your studies yet, my boy?'

It was to Serge that he addressed this question. Mouret interrupted the

lad as he was going to reply.

'Yes, he has finished,' said the father; 'though he is the younger of

the two. When I say that he has finished, I mean that he has taken his

bachelor's degree, for he is staying on at college for another year to

go through a course of philosophy. He is the clever one of the family.

His brother, the elder, that great booby there, isn't up to much. He

has been plucked twice already, but he still goes on idling his time

away and larking about.'

Octave listened to his father's reproaches with a smile, while Serge

bent his head beneath his praises. Faujas seemed to be studying them

for a moment in silence, and then, going up to Désirée and putting on

an expression of gentle tenderness, he said to her:

'Will you allow me, mademoiselle, to be your friend?'

She made no reply but, half afraid, hastened to hide her face against

her mother's shoulder. The latter, instead of making her turn round

again, pressed her more closely to her, clasping an arm around her

waist.

'Excuse her,' she said with a touch of sadness, 'she hasn't a strong

head, she has remained quite childish. She is an "innocent," we do not

trouble her by attempting to teach her. She is fourteen years old now,

and as yet she has only learned to love animals.'

Désirée's confidence returned to her with her mother's caresses, and

she lifted up her head and smiled. Then she boldly said to the priest:

'I should like you very much to be my friend; but you must promise me

that you will never hurt the flies. Will you?'

And then, as every one about her began to smile, she added gravely:

'Octave crushes them, the poor flies! It is very wicked of him.'

Abbé Faujas sat down. He seemed very much tired. He yielded for a

moment or two to the cool quietness of the terrace, glancing slowly

over the garden and the neighbouring trees. The perfect calmness and

solitude of this quiet corner of the little town seemed somewhat to

surprise him.

'It is very pleasant here,' he murmured.

Then he relapsed into silence, and seemed lost in reverie. He started

slightly as Mouret said to him with a laugh:

'If you will allow us, sir, we will now go back to our dinner.'

And then, catching a glance from his wife, Mouret added:

'You must sit down with us and have a plate of soup. It will save

you the trouble of having to go to the hotel to dine. Don't make any

difficulty, I beg.'

'I am extremely obliged to you, but we really don't require anything,'

the Abbé replied in tones of extreme politeness, which allowed of no

repetition of the invitation.

The Mourets then returned to the dining-room and seated themselves

round the table. Marthe served the soup and there was soon a cheerful

clatter of spoons. The young people chattered merrily, and Désirée

broke into a peal of ringing laughter as she listened to a story which

her father, who was now in high glee at having at last got to his

dinner, was telling. In the meantime, Abbé Faujas, whom they had quite

forgotten, remained motionless upon the terrace, facing the setting

sun. He did not even turn his head, he seemed to hear nothing of what

was going on behind him. Just as the sun was disappearing he took off

his hat as if overcome by the heat. Marthe, who was sitting with her

face to the window, could see his big bare head with its short hair

that was already silvering about the temples. A last red ray lighting

up that stern soldier-like head, on which the tonsure lay like a

cicatrised wound from the blow of a club; then the ray faded away and

the priest, now wrapped in shadow, seemed nothing more than a black

silhouette against the ashy grey of the gloaming.

Not wishing to summon Rose, Marthe herself went to get a lamp and

brought in the first dish. As she was returning from the kitchen, she

met, at the foot of the staircase, a woman whom she did not at first

recognise. It was Madame Faujas. She had put on a cotton cap and looked

like a servant in her common print gown, with a yellow kerchief crossed

over her breast and knotted behind her waist. Her wrists were bare, she

was quite out of breath with the work she had been doing, and her heavy

laced boots clattered on the flooring of the passage.

'Ah! you've got all put right now, have you, madame?' Marthe asked with

a smile.

'Oh, yes! it was a mere trifle and was done directly,' Madame Faujas

replied.

She went down the steps that led to the terrace, and called in a

gentler tone:

'Ovide, my child, will you come upstairs now? Everything is quite

ready.'

She was obliged to go and lay her hand upon her son's shoulder to

awaken him from his reverie. The air was growing cool, and the Abbé

shivered as he got up and followed his mother in silence. As he

passed before the door of the dining-room which was all bright with

the cheerful glow of the lamp and merry with the chatter of the young

folks, he peeped in and said in his flexible voice:

'Let me thank you again, and beg you to excuse us for having so

disturbed you. We are very sorry----'

'No! no!' cried Mouret, 'it is we who are sorry and distressed at not

being able to offer you better accommodation for the night.'

The priest bowed, and Marthe again met that clear gaze of his, that

eagle glance which had affected her before. In the depths of his eyes,

which were generally of a melancholy grey, flames seemed to gleam at

times like lamps carried behind the windows of slumbering houses.

'The priest's not at all shamefaced,' Mouret remarked jestingly, when

the mother and son had retired.

'I don't think they are very well off,' Marthe replied.

'Well, at any rate, he isn't carrying Peru about with him in that box

of his,' Mouret exclaimed. 'And it's light enough! Why, I could have

raised it with the tip of my little finger!'

But he was interrupted in his flow of chatter by Rose, who had just

come running down the stairs to relate the extraordinary things she had

witnessed.

'Well, she is a wonderful creature, indeed!' she cried, posting

herself in front of the table at which the family were eating. 'She's

sixty-five at least, but she doesn't show it at all, and she bustles

about, and works like a horse!'

'Did she help you to remove the fruit?' Mouret asked, with some

curiosity.

'Yes, indeed, she did, sir! She carried it away in her apron, in loads

heavy enough to burst it. I kept saying to myself, "The apron will

certainly go this time," but it didn't. It is made of good strong

material, the same kind of material as I wear myself. We made at least

ten journeys backwards and forwards, and I felt as though my arms would

fall off, but she only grumbled, and complained that we were getting on

very slowly. I really believe, begging your pardon for mentioning it,

that I heard her swear.'

Mouret appeared to be greatly amused.

'And the beds?' he asked.

'The beds, she made them too. It was quite a sight to see her turn

the mattress over. It seemed to weigh nothing, I can tell you; she

just took hold of it at one end and tossed it into the air as though

it had been a feather. And yet she was very careful and particular

with it all. She tucked in the folding-bed as carefully as though she

were preparing a baby's cradle. She couldn't have laid the sheets with

greater devotion if the Infant Jesus Himself had been going to sleep

there. She put three out of the four blankets upon the folding-bed. And

it was just the same with the pillows; she kept none for herself, but

gave both to her son.'

'She is going to sleep on the floor, then?'

'In a corner, just like a dog! She threw a mattress on the floor of

the other room and said that she'd sleep there more soundly than if

she were in paradise. I couldn't persuade her to do anything to make

herself more comfortable. She says that she is never cold, and that

her head is much too hard to make her at all afraid of lying on the

floor. I have taken them some sugar and some water, as madame told me.

Oh! they really are the strangest people!'

Then Rose brought in the remainder of the dinner. That evening the

Mourets lingered over their meal. They discussed the new tenants

at great length. In their life, which went on with all the even

regularity of clock-work, the arrival of these two strangers was a very

exciting event. They talked about it as they would have done of some

catastrophe in the neighbourhood, going into all that minuteness of

detail which helps one to while away long nights in the country. Mouret

was especially fond of the chattering gossip of a little provincial

town. During dessert, as he rested his elbows on the table in the cool

dining-room, he repeated for the tenth time with the self-satisfied air

of a happy man:

'It certainly isn't a very handsome present that Besançon has made to

Plassans! Did you notice the back of his cassock when he turned round?

I shall be very much surprised if he is much run after by the pious

folks here. He is too seedy and threadbare; and the pious folks like

nice-looking priests.'

'He has a very gentle voice,' said Marthe, indulgently.

'Not when he is angry, at any rate,' Mouret replied. 'Didn't you hear

him when he burst out on finding that the rooms were not furnished?

He's a stern man, I'll be bound; not one of the sort, I should think,

to go lounging in confessional-boxes. I shall be very curious to see

how he sets about his furnishing to-morrow. But as long as he pays me,

I don't much mind anything else. If he doesn't, I shall apply to Abbé

Bourrette. It was with him that I made the bargain.'

The Mourets were not a devout family. The children themselves made

fun of the Abbé and his mother. Octave burlesqued the old lady's way

of craning out her neck to see to the end of the rooms, a performance

which made Désirée laugh. After a time, however, Serge, who was of a

more serious turn of mind, stood up for 'those poor people.'

As a rule, precisely at ten o'clock, if he was not playing at piquet,

Mouret took up his candlestick and went off to bed, but that evening,

when eleven o'clock struck, he was not yet feeling drowsy. Désirée had

fallen asleep, with her head lying on Marthe's knees. The two lads had

gone up to their room; and Mouret, left alone with his wife, still

went on chattering.

'How old do you suppose he is?' he suddenly asked.

'Who?' replied Marthe, who was now beginning to feel very sleepy.

'Who? Why, the Abbé, of course! Between forty and forty-five, eh? He's

a fine strapping fellow. It's a pity for him to wear a cassock! He

would have made a splendid carbineer.'

Then, after an interval of silence, he vented aloud the reflections

which were exercising his mind:

'They arrived by the quarter to seven train. They can only have just

had time to call on Abbé Bourrette before coming here. I'll wager that

they haven't dined! That is quite clear. We should certainly have seen

them if they had gone out to the hotel. Ah, now! I should very much

like to know where they can have had anything to eat.'

Rose had been lingering about the dining-room for the last few moments,

waiting for her master and mistress to go to bed in order that she

might be at liberty to fasten the doors and windows.

'I know where they had something to eat,' she said. And as Mouret

turned briskly towards her, she added: 'Yes, I had gone upstairs again

to see if there was anything they wanted. As I heard no sound, I didn't

venture to knock at the door, but I looked through the key-hole.'

'Why, that was very improper of you, very improper,' Marthe

interrupted, severely. 'You know very well, Rose, that I don't approve

of anything of that kind.'

'Leave her alone and let her go on!' cried Mouret, who, under other

circumstances, would have been very angry with the inquisitive woman.

'You peeped through the key-hole, did you?'

'Yes, sir; I thought it was the best plan.'

'Clearly so. What were they doing?'

'Well, sir, they were eating. I saw them sitting on one corner of the

folding-bedstead and eating. The old lady had spread out a napkin.

Every time that they helped themselves to some wine, they corked the

bottle again and laid it down against the pillow.'

'But what were they eating?'

'I couldn't quite tell, sir. It seemed to me like the remains of some

pastry wrapped up in a newspaper. They had some apples as well--little

apples that looked good for nothing.'

'They were talking, I suppose? Did you hear what they said?'

'No, sir, they were not talking. I stayed for a good quarter of an hour

watching them, but they never said anything. They were much too busy

eating!'

Marthe now rose, woke Désirée, and made as though she were going off to

bed. Her husband's curiosity vexed her. He, too, at last made up his

mind to go off upstairs, while old Rose, who was a pious creature, went

on in a lower tone:

'The poor, dear man must have been frightfully hungry. His mother

handed him the biggest pieces and watched him swallow them with

delight. And now he'll sleep in some nice white sheets; unless, indeed,

the smell of the fruit keeps him awake. It isn't a pleasant smell to

have in one's bedroom, that sour odour of apples and pears. And there

isn't a bit of furniture in the whole room, nothing but the bed in the

corner! If I were he, I should feel quite frightened, and I should keep

the light burning all night.'

Mouret had taken up his candlestick. He stood for a moment in front

of Rose, and summed up the events of the evening like a genuine

_bourgeois_ who has met with something unusual: 'It is extraordinary!'

Then he joined his wife at the foot of the staircase. She got into

bed and fell asleep, while he still continued listening to the

slightest sounds that proceeded from the upper floor. The Abbé's room

was immediately over his own. He heard the window of it being gently

opened, and this greatly excited his curiosity. He raised his head

from his pillow, and strenuously struggled against his increasing

drowsiness in his anxiety to find out how long the Abbé would remain

at the window. But sleep was too strong for him, and he was snoring

noisily before he had been able to detect the grating sound which the

window-fastening made when it was closed.

Up above, Abbé Faujas was gazing, bare-headed, out of his window into

the black night. He lingered there for a long time, glad to find

himself at last alone, absorbed in those thoughts which gave his brow

such an expression of sternness. Underneath him, he was conscious of

the tranquil slumber of the family whose home he had been sharing for

the last few hours; the calm, easy breathing of the children and their

mother Marthe, and the heavy, regular respiration of Mouret. There

was a touch of scorn in the way in which the priest stretched out

his muscular neck, as he raised his head to gaze upon the town that

lay slumbering in the distance. The tall trees in the garden of the

Sub-Prefecture formed a mass of gloomy darkness, and Monsieur Rastoil's

pear-trees thrust up scraggy, twisted branches, while, further away,

there was but a sea of black shadow, a blank nothingness, whence not a

sound proceeded. The town lay as tranquilly asleep as an infant in its

cradle.

Abbé Faujas stretched out his arms with an air of ironic defiance, as

though he would have liked to circle them round Plassans, and squeeze

the life out of it by crushing it against his brawny chest. And he

murmured to himself:

'Ah! to think that the imbeciles laughed at me this evening, as they

saw me going through their streets!'

III

Mouret spent the whole of the next morning in playing the spy on his

new tenant. This espionage would now enable him to fill up the idle

hours which he had hitherto spent in pottering about the house, in

putting back into their proper places any articles which he happened to

find lying about, and in picking quarrels with his wife and children.

Henceforth he would have an occupation, an amusement which would

relieve the monotony of his everyday life. As he had often said, he

was not partial to priests, and yet Abbé Faujas, the first one who had

entered into his existence, excited in him an extraordinary amount of

interest. This priest brought with him a touch of mystery and secrecy

that was almost disquieting. Although Mouret was a strong-minded

man and professed himself to be a follower of Voltaire, yet in the

Abbé's presence he felt the astonishment and uneasiness of a common

_bourgeois_.

Not a sound came from the second floor. Mouret stood on the staircase

and listened eagerly; he even ventured to go to the loft. As he hushed

his steps while passing along the passage, a pattering of slippers

behind the door filled him with emotion. But he did not succeed in

making any new discovery, so he went down into the garden and strolled

into the arbour at the end of it, there raising his eyes and trying to

look through the windows in order to find out what might be going on in

the rooms. But he could not see even the Abbé's shadow. Madame Faujas,

in the absence of curtains, had, as a makeshift, fastened some sheets

behind the windows.

At lunch Mouret seemed quite vexed.

'Are they dead upstairs?' he said, as he cut the children's bread.

'Have you heard them move, Marthe?'

'No, my dear; but I haven't been listening.'

Rose thereupon cried out from the kitchen: 'They've been gone ever so

long. They must be far enough away now if they've kept on at the same

pace.'

Mouret summoned the cook and questioned her minutely.

'They went out, sir: first the mother, and then the priest. They walked

so softly that I should never have known anything about it if their

shadows had not fallen across the kitchen floor when they opened the

street door. I looked out into the street to see where they were going,

but they had vanished. They must have gone off in a fine hurry.'

'It is very surprising. But where was I at the time?'

'I think you were in the garden, sir, looking at the grapes in the

arbour.'

This put Mouret into a very bad temper. He began to inveigh against

priests. They were a set of mystery-mongers, a parcel of underhand

schemers, with whom the devil himself would be at a loss. They affected

such ridiculous prudery that no one had ever seen a priest wash his

face. And then he wound up by expressing his sorrow that he had ever

let his rooms to this Abbé, about whom he knew nothing at all.

'It is all your fault!' he exclaimed to his wife, as he got up from

table.

Marthe was about to protest and remind him of their discussion on the

previous day, but she raised her eyes and simply looked at him, saying

nothing. Mouret, contrary to his usual custom, resolved to remain at

home. He pottered up and down between the dining-room and the garden,

poking about everywhere, pretending that nothing was in its place and

that the house simply invited thieves. Then he got indignant with Serge

and Octave, who had set off for the college, he said, quite half an

hour too soon.

'Isn't father going out?' Désirée whispered in her mother's ear. 'He

will worry us to death if he stays at home.'

Marthe hushed her. At last Mouret began to speak of a piece of business

which he declared he must finish off during the day. And then he

complained that he had never a moment to himself, and could never get

a day's rest at home when he felt he wanted it. Finally he went away,

quite distressed that he could not remain and see what happened.

When he returned in the evening he was all on fire with curiosity.

'Well, what about the Abbé?' he asked, without even giving himself time

to take off his hat.

Marthe was working in her usual place on the terrace.

'The Abbé!' she repeated, with an appearance of surprise. 'Oh, yes! the

Abbé--I've really seen nothing of him, but I believe he has got settled

down now. Rose told me that some furniture had come.'

'That's just what I was afraid of!' exclaimed Mouret. 'I wanted to be

here when it came; for, you see, the furniture is my security. I knew

very well that you would never think of stirring from your chair. You

haven't much of a head, my dear--Rose! Rose!'

The cook appeared in answer to his summons, and he forthwith asked her:

'There's some furniture come for the people on the second floor?'

'Yes, sir; it came in a little covered cart. I recognised it as

Bergasse's; the second-hand dealer's. It wasn't a big load. Madame

Faujas came on behind it. I dare say she had been giving the man who

pushed it along a helping hand up the Rue Balande.'

'At any rate, you saw the furniture, I suppose? Did you notice what

there was?'

'Certainly, sir. I had posted myself by the door, and it all went past

me, which didn't seem to please Madame Faujas very much. Wait a moment

and I'll tell you everything there was. First of all they brought up

an iron bedstead, then a chest of drawers, then two tables and four

chairs; and that was the whole lot of it. And it wasn't new either. I

wouldn't have given thirty crowns for the whole collection.'

'But you should have told madame; we cannot let the rooms under such

conditions. I shall go at once to talk to Abbé Bourrette about the

matter.'

He was fuming with irritation, and was just setting off, when Marthe

brought him to a sudden halt by saying:

'Oh! I had forgotten to tell you. They have paid me six months' rent in

advance.'

'What! They have paid you?' he stammered out, almost in a tone of

annoyance.

'Yes, the old lady came down and gave me this.'

She put her hand into her work-bag, and gave her husband seventy-five

francs in hundred-sou-pieces, neatly wrapt up in a piece of newspaper.

Mouret counted the money, and muttered:

'As long as they pay, they are free to stop. But they are strange

folks, all the same. Everyone can't be rich, of course, but that is

no reason why one should behave in this suspicious manner, when one's

poor.'

'There is something else I have to tell you,' Marthe continued, as she

saw him calm down. 'The old lady asked me if we were disposed to part

with the folding-bed to her. I told her that we made no use of it, and

that she was welcome to keep it as long as she liked.'

'You did quite right. We must do what we can to oblige them. As I told

you before, what bothers me about these confounded priests is that one

never can tell what they are thinking about, or what they are up to.

Apart from that, you will often find very honourable men amongst them.'

The money seemed to have consoled him. He joked and teased Serge about

his book on the Chinese missions, which the boy happened to be reading

just then. During dinner he affected to feel no further curiosity about

the tenants of the second floor; but, when Octave mentioned that he had

seen Abbé Faujas leaving the Bishop's residence, he could not restrain

himself. Directly the dessert was placed on the table he resumed his

chatter of the previous evening, though after a time he began to feel a

little ashamed of himself. His commercial pursuits had made him stolid

and heavy, but he really had a keen mind; he was possessed of no little

common sense and accuracy of judgment which often enabled him to pick

out the truth from the midst of all the gossip of the neighbourhood.

'After all,' he said, as he went off to bed, 'one has no business to go

prying into other people's affairs. The Abbé is quite at liberty to do

as he pleases. It is getting wearisome to be always talking about these

people, and I, for my part, shall say nothing more about them.'

A week passed away. Mouret had resumed his habitual life. He prowled

about the house, lectured his children, and spent his afternoons away

from home, amusing himself by transacting various bits of business, of

which he never spoke; and he ate and slept like a man for whom life is

an easy downhill journey, without any jolts or surprises of any kind.

The whole place sank back into all its old monotony. Marthe occupied

her accustomed seat on the terrace, with her little work-table in front

of her. Désirée played by her side. The two lads came home at the usual

time, and were as noisy as ever; and Rose, the cook, grumbled and

growled at everyone; while the garden and the dining-room retained all

their wonted sleepy calm.

'You see now,' Mouret often repeated to his wife, 'you were quite

mistaken in thinking that our comfort would be interfered with, by our

letting the second-floor. We are as quiet and happy as ever we were,

and the house seems smaller and cosier.'

He occasionally raised his eyes towards the second-floor windows, which

Madame Faujas had hung with thick cotton curtains, on the day after her

arrival. These curtains were never drawn aside. There was a conventual

look about their stern, cold folds, and they seemed to tell of deep,

unbroken silence, cloistral stillness lurking behind them. At distant

intervals the windows were set ajar, and allowed the high, shadowy

ceilings to be seen between the snowy whiteness of the curtains. But

it was all to no purpose that Mouret kept on the watch, he could never

catch sight of the hand which opened or closed them, and he never even

heard the grating of the window fastening. Never did a sound of human

life come down from the second floor.

The first week was at an end and Mouret had not yet had another glimpse

of Abbé Faujas. That man who was living in his house, without he ever

being able to catch sight even of his shadow, began to affect him with

a kind of nervous uneasiness. In spite of all the efforts he made to

appear indifferent, he relapsed into his old questionings, and started

an inquiry.

'Have you seen anything of him?' he asked his wife.

'I fancy I caught a glimpse of him yesterday, as he was coming in, but

I am not sure. His mother always wears a black dress, and it might have

been she that I saw.'

And as he continued to press her with questions, Marthe told him all

she knew.

'Rose says that he goes out every day, and stays away a long time. As

for his mother, she is as regular as a clock. She comes down at seven

o'clock in the morning to go out and do her marketing. She has a big

basket, which is always closed, and in which she must bring everything

back with her, coal, bread, wine and provisions, for no tradesman ever

calls with anything for them. They are very courteous and polite; and

Rose says that they always bow to her when they meet her. But as a rule

she does not even hear them come down the stairs.'

'They must go in for a funny sort of cooking up there,' said Mouret, to

whom all these details conveyed none of the information he wanted.

On another evening, when Octave mentioned that he had seen Abbé Faujas

entering Saint-Saturnin's, his father asked him about the priest's

appearance, what effect he had made upon the passers-by, and what he

could be going to do in the church.

'Ah! you are really much too curious!' cried the young man, with

a laugh. 'He didn't look very fine in the sunshine with his rusty

cassock, I can vouch for that much. I noticed, too, that, as he walked

along, he kept in the shadow of the houses, which made his cassock

look a little blacker. He didn't seem at all proud of himself, but

hurried along with his head bent down. Two girls began to laugh as he

crossed the Place. The Abbé raised his head and looked at them with an

expression of great softness--didn't he, Serge?'

Thereupon Serge related how on several occasions, as he was returning

from the college, he had at a distance followed the Abbé, who was on

his way back from Saint-Saturnin's. He passed through the streets

without speaking to anyone; he seemed to know nobody and to be rather

hurt by the suppressed titters and jeers which he heard around him.

'Do they talk of him, then, in the town?' asked Mouret, whose interest

was greatly aroused.

'No one has ever spoken to me about him,' Octave replied.

'Yes,' said Serge,' they do talk of him. Abbé Bourrette's nephew told

me that he wasn't a favourite at the church. They are not fond of these

priests who come from a distance; and besides he has such a miserable

appearance. When people get accustomed to him, they will leave the poor

man alone, but just at first it is only natural that he should attract

notice.'

Marthe thereupon advised the two young fellows not to gratify any

outsider's curiosity about the Abbé.

'Oh, yes! they may answer any questions,' Mouret exclaimed. 'Certainly

nothing that we know of him could be likely to compromise him in any

way.'

From that time forward, with the best faith in the world and without

meaning the least harm, Mouret turned his sons into a couple of spies.

He told Octave and Serge that they must repeat to him all that was said

about the priest in the town, and he even instructed them to follow

him whenever they came across him. But the information that was to be

derived from such sources was quickly exhausted. The talk occasioned

by the arrival of a strange curate in the diocese died away; the town

seemed to have extended its pardon to the 'poor fellow,' who glided

about in the shade in such a rusty old cassock, and its only apparent

feeling for him now was one of disdain. The priest, on the other

hand, always went straight to the cathedral and so returned from it,

invariably passing through the same streets. Octave said, laughingly,

that he was sure he counted the paving-stones.

Then Mouret bethought himself of enlisting the help of Désirée in the

task of collecting information. In the evening he took her to the

bottom of the garden and listened to her chatter about what she had

done and what she had seen during the day, and he always tried to lead

her on to the subject of the tenants of the second floor.

'Now, just listen to what I tell you,' he said to her one day.

'To-morrow, when the window is open, just throw your ball into the

room, and then go up and ask for it.'

The next day the girl threw her ball into the room, but she had

scarcely reached the steps of the house before the ball, returned

by an invisible hand, bounced up from the terrace. Her father, who

had reckoned on the child's taking ways leading to a renewal of the

intercourse which had been interrupted since the day of the priest's

arrival, now lost all hope. It was quite clear that the Abbé had

made up his mind to keep to himself. This rebuff, however, only made

Mouret's curiosity all the keener. He even condescended to go gossiping

in corners with the cook, to the great displeasure of Marthe, who

reproached him for his want of self-respect; but at this he became

angry with her and defended himself by lies. However, as he felt that

he was in the wrong, it was only in secret that he henceforth talked

to Rose about the Faujases.

One morning she beckoned to him to follow her into the kitchen.

'Oh, sir!' she said, as she shut the door, 'I have been watching for

you to come down from your room for more than an hour.'

'Have you found out something then?'

'Well, you shall hear. Yesterday evening I was chatting with Madame

Faujas for more than an hour!'

Mouret felt a thrill of joy. He sat down on an old tattered rush-bottom

chair, in the midst of the dirty cloths and vegetable parings left from

the previous day, and exclaimed:

'Go along! make haste!'

'Well,' continued the cook, 'I was at the street-door saying good-night

to Monsieur Rastoil's servant, when Madame Faujas came downstairs to

empty a pail of dirty water in the gutter. Instead of immediately going

back again, without even turning her head, as she generally does, she

stopped there for a moment to look at me. Then it struck me that she

wanted to speak to me, and I said to her that it had been a beautiful

day, and that it would be good for the grapes. She said, "Yes, yes,"

in an unconcerned sort of way, just like a woman who has no land and

has no interest in such matters. But she put down her pail and made no

attempt to go away; she even came and leant against the wall beside

me--'

'Well! well! what did she say to you?' cried Mouret, tortured by his

impatience.

'Well, of course, you understand I wasn't silly enough to begin to

question her. She would have gone straight off if I had. Without

seeming to intend anything, I suggested things to her which I thought

might set her talking. The Curé[3] of Saint-Saturnin's, that worthy

Monsieur Compan, happened to pass by, and I told her he was very

ill and wasn't long for this world, and that there would be great

difficulty in filling his place at the cathedral. She was all ears

at once, I can tell you. She even asked me what was the matter

with Monsieur Compan. Then, going on from one thing to another, I

gradually got talking about our bishop. Monseigneur Rousselot was a

most excellent and worthy man, I told her. She did not know his age,

so I told her that he was sixty, very delicate also, and that he let

himself be led by the nose. There is a good deal of talk about the

vicar-general, Monsieur Fenil, who is all powerful with the bishop. The

old lady was quite interested in that, and she would have stayed out in

the street all night, listening.'

An expression of desperation passed over Mouret's face. 'But what

you're telling me is what you said yourself,' he cried. 'What was it

that she said? That's what I want to hear.'

'Wait a little and let me finish,' Rose replied very calmly. 'I was

gradually gaining my purpose. To win her confidence, I ended by talking

to her about ourselves. I told her that you were Monsieur François

Mouret, a retired merchant from Marseilles, and that you had managed in

fifteen years to make a fortune out of wines and oils and almonds. I

added that you had preferred to come and settle down and live on your

means in Plassans, a quiet town, where your wife's relations lived. I

even contrived to let her know, too, that madame was your cousin, that

you were forty years old and that she was thirty-seven, and that you

lived very happily together; in fact, I told her all about you. She

seemed to be very much interested, and kept saying, "Yes, yes," in her

deliberate way; and, when I stopped for a moment, she nodded her head

as though to tell me she was listening and that I might go on. So we

went on talking in this way, with our backs against the wall, like a

couple of old friends, till it was quite dark.'

Mouret bounced from his chair in angry indignation.

'What!' he cried, 'is that all? She led you on to gossip to her for an

hour, and she herself told you nothing!'

'When it got dark, she said to me: "The air is becoming quite chilly."

And then she took up her pail and went back upstairs.'

'You are nothing but an idiot! That old woman up there is more than a

match for half a score such as you. Ah! they'll be laughing finely now

that they have wormed out of you all that they wanted to know about us.

Do you hear me, Rose? I tell you that you are nothing but an idiot!'

The old cook waxed very indignant, and began to bounce excitedly up

and down the kitchen, knocking the pots and pans about noisily, and

crumpling up the dusters and flinging them down.

'It was scarcely worth your while, sir,' she hissed, 'to come into

my kitchen to call me insulting names. You had better take yourself

off. What I did, I did to please you. If madame finds us here

together talking about those people, she will be angry with me, and

quite rightly, because it is wrong for us to be doing so. And after

all, I couldn't drag words from the old lady's lips if she wasn't

willing to talk. I did as any one else would have done under the same

circumstances. I talked and told her about your affairs, and it was no

fault of mine that she didn't tell me about hers. Go and ask her about

them yourself, since you are anxious to know about them. Perhaps you

won't make such an idiot of yourself as I have done.'

She had raised her voice, and was talking so loudly that Mouret thought

it would be more prudent to retire, and he did so, closing the kitchen

door after him, in order to prevent his wife from hearing the servant.

But Rose immediately pulled it open again, and cried after him down the

passage:

'I shall bother myself about it no longer; do you hear? You may get

somebody else to do your underhand business for you!'

Mouret was quite vanquished. He showed some irritation at his defeat,

and tried to console himself by saying that those second-floor tenants

of his were mere nobodies. Gradually he succeeded in making this

opinion of his that of his acquaintances, and then that of the whole

town. Abbé Faujas came to be looked upon as a priest without means and

without ambition, who was completely outside the pale of the intrigues

of the diocese. People imagined that he was ashamed of his poverty,

that he was glad to perform any unpleasant duties in connection with

the cathedral, and tried to keep himself in obscurity as much as

possible. There was only one matter of curiosity left in connection

with him, and that was the reason of his having come to Plassans

from Besançon. Queer stories were circulated about him, but they all

seemed very improbable. Mouret himself, who had played the spy over

his tenants simply for amusement and in order to pass the time, just

as he would have played a game at cards or bowls, was even beginning

to forget that he had a priest living in his house, when an incident

occurred which revived all his curiosity.

One afternoon as he was returning home, he saw Abbé Faujas going up the

Rue Balande in front of him. Mouret slackened his pace and examined the

priest at his leisure. Although Abbé Faujas had been lodging in his

house for a month, this was the first time that he had thus seen him

in broad daylight. The Abbé still wore his old cassock, and he walked

slowly, with his hat in his hand and his head bare in spite of the

chilly air. The street, which was a very steep one, with the shutters

of its big, bare houses always closed, was quite deserted. Mouret, who

quickened his pace, was at last obliged to walk on tip-toes for fear

lest the priest should hear him and make his escape. But as they neared

Monsieur Rastoil's house, a group of people turning out of the Place

of the Sub-Prefecture entered it. Abbé Faujas made a slight détour to

avoid these persons. He watched the door close, and then, suddenly

stopping, he turned round towards his landlord, who was now close up to

him.

'I am very glad to have met you,' said he, with all his wonted

politeness, 'otherwise I should have ventured to disturb you this

evening. The last time it rained, the wet came through the ceiling of

my room, and I should much like to show it you.'

Mouret remained standing in front of him, and stammered in confusion

that he was entirely at the Abbé's service. Then, as they went indoors

together, he asked him at what time he should go to look at the ceiling.

'Well, I should like you to come at once,' the Abbé replied, 'if it

wouldn't be troubling you too much.'

Mouret went up the stairs after him so excited that he almost choked,

while Rose followed them with her eyes from the kitchen doorway quite

dazed with astonishment.

IV

When Mouret reached the second floor he was more perturbed than a youth

at his first assignation. The unexpected satisfaction of his long

thwarted desires, and the hope of seeing something quite extraordinary,

almost prevented him from breathing. Abbé Faujas slipped the key which

he carried, and which he quite concealed in his big fingers, into the

lock without making the faintest noise, and the door opened as silently

as if it had been hung upon velvet hinges. Then the Abbé, stepping

back, mutely motioned to Mouret to enter.

The cotton curtains at the two windows were so thick that the room

lay in a pale, chalky dimness like the half-light of a convent cell.

It was a very large room, with a lofty ceiling, and a quiet, neat

wall-paper of a faded yellow. Mouret ventured forward, advancing with

short steps over the tiled floor, which was as smooth and shiny as a

mirror, and so cold that he seemed to feel a chill through the soles of

his boots. He glanced furtively around him and examined the curtainless

iron bedstead, the sheets of which were so straightly stretched that

it looked like a block of white stone lying in the corner. The chest

of drawers, stowed away at the other end of the room, a little table

in the middle, and two chairs, one before each window, completed the

furniture. There was not a single paper on the table, not an article

of any kind on the chest of drawers, not a garment hanging against the

walls. Everything was perfectly bare except that over the chest of

drawers there was suspended a big black wooden crucifix, looking like a

dark splotch amidst the bare greyness of the room.

'Come this way, sir, will you?' said the Abbé. 'It is in this corner

that the ceiling is stained.'

But Mouret did not hurry, he was enjoying himself. Although he saw

none of the extraordinary things that he had vaguely expected to see,

there seemed to him to be a peculiar odour about the room. It smelt

of a priest, he thought; of a man with different ways from other men.

But it vexed him that he could see nothing on which he might base some

hypothesis carelessly left on any of the pieces of furniture or in any

corner of the apartment. The room was just like its provoking occupant,

silent, cold, and inscrutable. He was extremely surprised, too, not to

find any appearance of poverty as he had expected. On the contrary, the

room produced upon him much the same impression as he had felt when he

had once entered the richly furnished drawing-room of the prefect of

Marseilles. The big crucifix seemed to fill it with its black arms.

Mouret felt, however, that he must go and look at the corner which Abbé

Faujas was inviting him to inspect.

'You see the stain, don't you?' asked the priest. 'It has faded a

little since yesterday.'

Mouret rose upon tip-toes and strained his eyes, but at first he could

see nothing. When the Abbé had drawn back the curtains, he was able to

distinguish a slight damp-stain.

'It's nothing very serious,' he said.

'Oh, no! but I thought it would be better to tell you of it. The wet

must have soaked through near the edge of the roof.'

'Yes, you are right; near the edge of the roof.'

Mouret made no further remark; he was again examining the room, now

clear and distinct in the full daylight. It looked less solemn than

before, but it remained as taciturn as ever. There was not even a speck

of dust lying about to tell aught of the Abbé's life.

'Perhaps,' continued the priest, 'we may be able to discover the place

from the window. Just wait a moment.'

He proceeded to open the window, but Mouret protested against him

troubling himself any further, saying that the workmen would easily be

able to find the leak.

'It is no trouble at all, I assure you,' replied the Abbé with polite

insistence. 'I know that landlords like to know how matters are going

on. Inspect everything, I beg of you. The house is yours.'

As he spoke these last words he smiled, a thing he did but rarely;

and then as Mouret and himself leaned over the rail that crossed the

window, and turned their eyes towards the guttering, he launched out

into various technical details, trying to account for the appearance of

the stain.

'I think there has been a slight depression of the tiles, perhaps even

a breakage; unless, indeed, that crack which you can see up there in

the cornice extends into the retaining-wall.'

'Yes, yes, that is very possible,' Mouret replied; 'but I must confess,

Monsieur l'Abbé, that I really don't understand anything about these

matters. However, the masons will see to it.'

The priest said nothing further on the subject, but quietly remained

where he was, gazing out upon the garden beneath him. Mouret, who was

leaning by his side, thought it would be impolite to hurry away. He was

quite won over when his tenant, after an interval of silence, said to

him in his soft voice:

'You have a very pretty garden, sir.'

'Oh! it's nothing out of the common,' replied Mouret. 'There used to

be some fine trees which I was obliged to cut down, for nothing would

grow in their shade, and we have to pay attention to utility, you know.

This plot is quite large enough for us and keeps us in vegetables all

through the season.'

The Abbé seemed surprised, and asked Mouret for details. The garden was

an old-fashioned country garden, surrounded with arbours, and divided

into four regular square plots by tall borders of box. In the middle

was a shallow basin, but there was no fountain. Only one of the squares

was devoted to flowers. In the other three, which were planted at their

edges with fruit-trees, one saw some magnificent cabbages, lettuces,

and other vegetables. The paths of yellow gravel were kept extremely

neat.

'It is a little paradise,' said Abbé Faujas.

'There are several disadvantages, all the same,' replied Mouret, who

felt extremely delighted at hearing his ground so highly praised. 'You

will have noticed, for instance, that we are on a slope, and that the

gardens hereabouts are on different levels. Monsieur Rastoil's is lower

than mine, which, again, is lower than that of the Sub-Prefecture.

The consequence is that the rain often does a great deal of damage.

Then, too, a still greater disadvantage is that the people in the

Sub-Prefecture overlook me, and the more so now that they have made

that terrace which commands my wall. It is true that I overlook

Monsieur Rastoil's garden, but that is very poor compensation I can

assure you, for a man who never troubles himself about his neighbour's

doings.'

The priest seemed to be listening out of mere complaisance, just

nodding his head occasionally but making no remarks. He followed with

his eyes the motions of his landlord's hand.

'And there is still another inconvenience,' continued Mouret, pointing

to a path that skirted the bottom of the garden. 'You see that little

lane between the two walls? It is called the Impasse des Chevillottes,

and leads to a cart-entrance to the grounds of the Sub-Prefecture.

Well, all the neighbouring properties have little doors giving access

to the lane, and there are all sorts of mysterious comings and goings.

For my part, being a family man with children, I fastened my door up

with a couple of stout nails.'

He looked at the Abbé and winked, hoping that the priest would question

him about the mysterious comings and goings to which he had just

alluded. But Abbé Faujas seemed quite unconcerned; he merely glanced at

the alley without showing any curiosity on the subject. Then he again

gazed placidly upon the Mourets' garden. Marthe was in her customary

place near the edge of the terrace, hemming napkins. She had raised

her head on first hearing voices, and then had resumed her work again,

full of surprise at seeing her husband at one of the second-floor

windows in the company of the priest. She now appeared to be quite

unconscious of their presence. Mouret, however, had raised his voice

from a sort of instinctive braggartism, proud of being able to show

his wife that he had at last made his way into that room which had so

persistently been kept private. The Abbé, on his side, every now and

then let his calm eyes rest upon the woman, though all that he could

see of her was the back of her bent neck and her black coil of hair.

They were both silent again, and Abbé Faujas still seemed disinclined

to leave the window. He now appeared to be examining their neighbour's

flower beds. Monsieur Rastoil's garden was arranged in the English

fashion, with little walks and grass plots broken by small flower-beds.

At the bottom there was a circular cluster of trees, underneath which a

table and some rustic chairs were set.

'Monsieur Rastoil is very wealthy,' resumed Mouret, who had followed

the direction of the Abbé's eyes. 'His garden costs him a large sum of

money. The waterfall--you can't see it from here, it is behind those

trees--ran away with more than three hundred francs. There isn't a

vegetable about the place, nothing but flowers. At one time the ladies

even talked of cutting down the fruit-trees; but that would have really

been wicked, for the pear-trees are magnificent specimens. Well, I

suppose a man has a right to lay out his ground so as to please his own

fancy, if he can afford to do so.'

Then, as the Abbé still continued silent, he continued: 'You know

Monsieur Rastoil, don't you? Every morning, from eight o'clock till

nine, he walks about under his trees. He is a heavy man, rather short,

bald, and clean shaven, with a head as round as a ball. He completed

his sixtieth year at the beginning of last August, I believe. He has

been president of our civil tribunal for nearly twenty years. Folks say

he is a very good fellow, but I see very little of him. "Good-morning,"

and "Good-evening," that's about all that ever passes between us.'

He stopped speaking as he saw several people coming down the steps of

the neighbouring house and making their way towards the clump of trees.

'Ah, yes!' he resumed, lowering his voice, 'to-day's Tuesday. There is

a dinner party at the Rastoils'.

The Abbé had not been able to restrain a slight start, and had then

bent forward to see better. Two priests who were walking beside a

couple of tall girls seemed particularly to interest him.

'Do you know who those gentlemen are?' Mouret inquired.

And, when the priest only replied by a vague gesture, he added:

'They were crossing the Rue Balande just as we met each other. The

taller and younger one, the one who is walking between Monsieur

Rastoil's two daughters, is Abbé Surin, our bishop's secretary. He is

said to be a very amiable young man. The old one, who is walking a

little behind, is one of our grand-vicars, Abbé Fenil. He is at the

head of the seminary. He is a terrible man, flat and sharp, like a

sabre. I wish he would turn round so that you might see his eyes. I am

quite surprised that you don't know those gentlemen.'

'I go out very little,' said the Abbé, 'and there is no house in the

town that I visit.'

'Ah! that isn't right. You must often feel very dull. To do you

justice, Monsieur l'Abbé, you are certainly not of an inquisitive

disposition. Just fancy! you've been here a month now, and you didn't

even know that Monsieur Rastoil had a dinner-party every Tuesday! Why,

it's right before your eyes there from this window!'

Mouret laughed slightly. He was forming a rather contemptuous opinion

of the Abbé. Then in confidential tones he went on:

'You see that tall old man who is with Madame Rastoil--the thin one I

mean, with broad brims to his hat? Well, that is Monsieur de Bourdeu,

the former prefect of the Drôme, a prefect who was turned out of office

by the revolution of 1848. He's another one that you don't know, I'll

be bound. But Monsieur Maffre there, the justice of the peace, that

white-headed old gentleman who is coming last, with Monsieur Rastoil,

don't you know him? Well, that is really inexcusable. He is an honorary

canon of Saint-Saturnin's! Between ourselves, he is accused of having

killed his wife by his harshness and miserliness.'

Mouret stopped short, looked the Abbé in the face and said abruptly,

with a smile:

'I beg your pardon, but I am not a very devout person, you know.'

The Abbé again waved his hand with that vague gesture which did duty as

an answer and saved him the necessity of making a more explicit reply.

'No, I am not a very devout person,' Mouret repeated smilingly. 'But

everyone should be left free, is it not so? The Rastoils, now, are

a religious family. You must have seen the mother and daughters at

Saint-Saturnin's. They are parishioners of yours. Ah! those poor girls!

The elder, Angéline, is fully twenty-six years old, and the other,

Aurélie, is getting on for twenty-four. And they're no beauties either,

quite yellow and shrewish-looking. The parents won't let the younger

one marry before her sister; but I dare say they'll both end by finding

husbands somewhere, if only for the sake of their dowries. Their mother

there, that fat little woman who looks as innocent and mild as a sheep,

has given poor Rastoil some pretty experiences.'

He winked his left eye, a common habit of his whenever he indulged in

any pleasantry approaching broadness. The Abbé lowered his eyes, as if

waiting for Mouret to go on, but, as the latter remained silent, he

raised them again and watched the people in the garden as they seated

themselves round the table under the trees.

At last Mouret resumed his explanatory remarks.

'They will stay out there, enjoying the fresh air, till dinner-time,'

said he. 'It is just the same every Tuesday. That Abbé Surin is a great

favourite. Look how he is laughing there with Mademoiselle Aurélie. Ah!

Abbé Fenil has observed us. What eyes he has! He isn't very fond of me,

you know, as I've had a dispute with a relation of his. But where has

Abbé Bourrette got to? We haven't seen anything of him, have we? It is

very extraordinary. He never misses Monsieur Rastoil's Tuesdays. He

must be ill. You know him, don't you? What a worthy man he is! A most

devoted servant of God!'

Abbé Faujas was no longer listening. His eyes were constantly meeting

those of Abbé Fenil, whose scrutiny he bore with perfect calmness,

never once diverting his glance. He was even leaning more fully against

the iron rail, and his eyes seemed to have grown bigger.

'Ah! here come the young people!' resumed Mouret as three young men

arrived on the scene. 'The oldest one is Rastoil's son; he has just

been called to the Bar. The two others are the sons of Monsieur Maffre;

they are still at college. By-the-by, I wonder why those young scamps

of mine haven't come back yet.'

At that very moment Octave and Serge made their appearance on the

terrace. Leaning against the balustrade they began to tease Désirée,

who had just sat down by her mother's side. However, when the young

folks caught sight of their father at the second-floor window, they

lowered their voices and quietly laughed.

'There you see all my little family!' said Mouret complacently. 'We

stay at home, we do; and we have no visitors. Our garden is a closed

paradise, which the devil can't enter to tempt us.'

He smiled as he spoke, for he was really amusing himself at the Abbé's

expense. The latter had slowly brought his eyes to bear upon the group

formed by his landlord's family under the window. He gazed down there

for a moment; then looked round upon the old-fashioned garden with its

beds of vegetables edged with borders of box; then again turned his

eyes towards Monsieur Rastoil's pretentious grounds; and last of all,

as though he wanted to get the plan of the whole surroundings into

his head, directed his attention to the garden of the Sub-Prefecture.

There was nothing to be seen here but a large central lawn, a gently

undulating carpet of grass, with clusters of evergreen shrubs, and some

tall thickly-foliaged chestnut trees which gave a park-like appearance

to this patch of ground hemmed in by the neighbouring houses.

Abbé Faujas glanced under the chestnut-trees, and at last remarked:

'These gardens are quite lively. There are some people, too, in the one

on the left.' Mouret raised his eyes.

'Oh, yes!' he said unconcernedly, 'it's like that every afternoon. They

are the friends of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect.

In the summer-time they meet in the evenings in the same way round

the basin on the left, which you can't see from here. Ah! so Monsieur

de Condamin has got back! That fine old man there, who is so well

preserved and has such a bright colour; he is our conservator of rivers

and forests; a jovial old fellow, who is constantly to be seen, gloved

and tightly breeched, on horseback. And the tales he can tell, too! He

doesn't belong to this neighbourhood, and he has lately married a very

young woman. However, that's fortunately no business of mine!'

He bent his head again as he heard Désirée, who was playing with Serge,

break out into one of her childish laughs. But the Abbé, whose face was

now slightly flushed, recalled his attention by asking:

'Is that the sub-prefect, that fat gentleman with the white tie?'

This question seemed to amuse Mouret exceedingly.

'Oh, no!' he replied, with a laugh. 'It is very evident that you don't

know Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies. He isn't forty yet; he's a tall,

handsome, very distinguished-looking young man. That fat gentleman is

Doctor Porquier, the fashionable medical man of Plassans. He is a very

well-to-do man, I can assure you, and he has only one trouble, his son

Guillaume. Do you see those two people sitting on the bench with their

backs towards us? They are Monsieur Paloque, the assistant judge, and

his wife. They are the ugliest couple in the town. It is difficult to

say which is the worse-looking, the husband or the wife. Fortunately

they have no children.'

Mouret began to laugh more loudly; he was growing excited, and kept on

striking the window-rail.

'I can never look at the assemblies in those grounds,' he continued,

motioning with his head, first towards Monsieur Rastoil's garden and

then towards the sub-prefect's, 'without being highly amused. You

don't take any interest in politics, Monsieur l'Abbé, or I could tell

you some things which would tickle you immensely. Rightly or wrongly,

I myself pass for a republican. Business matters take me a good deal

about the country; I am a friend of the peasantry, and people have even

talked about proposing me for the Council-General--in short, I am a

well-known man. Well, on my right here, at Monsieur Rastoil's, we have

the cream of the Legitimists, and on the left, at the Sub-Prefecture,

we have the big-wigs of the Empire. And so, you see, my poor

old-fashioned garden, my little happy nook, lies between two hostile

camps. I am continually afraid lest they should begin throwing stones

at each other, for the stones, you see, might very well fall into my

garden.'

Mouret appeared to be quite delighted with this witticism and drew

closer to the Abbé, like some old gossip who is just going to launch

out into a long story.

'Plassans is a very curious place from a political point of view.

The Coup d'État succeeded here because the town is conservative. But

first of all it is Legitimist and Orleanist; so much so, indeed, that

at the outset of the Empire it wanted to dictate conditions. As its

claims were disregarded, the town grew annoyed and went over to the

opposition; yes, Monsieur l'Abbé, to the opposition. Last year we

elected for our deputy the Marquis de Lagrifoul, an old nobleman of

mediocre abilities, but one whose election was a very bitter pill for

the Sub-Prefecture.--Ah, look! there is Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies!

He is with the mayor, Monsieur Delangre.'

The Abbé glanced keenly in the direction indicated by Mouret. The

sub-prefect, a very dark man, was smiling beneath his waxed moustaches.

He was irreproachably dressed, and preserved a demeanour which

suggested both that of a fashionable officer and that of a good-natured

diplomatist. The mayor was by his side, talking and gesticulating

rapidly. He was a short man, with square shoulders, and a sunken face

that was rather Punch-like in appearance. He seemed to be garrulously

inclined.

'Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies,' continued Mouret, 'had felt so

confident of the return of the official candidate that the result of

the election nearly made him ill. It was very amusing. On the evening

of the election, the garden of the Sub-Prefecture remained as dark and

gloomy as a cemetery, while in the Rastoils' grounds there were lamps

and candles burning under the trees, and joyous laughter and a perfect

uproar of triumph. Our people don't let things be seen from the street,

but they throw off all restraint and give full vent to their feelings

in their gardens. Oh, yes! I see singular things sometimes, though I

don't say anything about them.'

He checked himself for a moment, as though he was unwilling to say

more, but his gossiping propensities were too strong for him.

'I wonder what course they will now take at the Sub-Prefecture?' he

continued. 'They will never get their candidate elected again. They

don't understand the people about here, and besides they are very

weak. I was told that Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies was to have had a

prefecture if the election had gone off all right. Ah! he will remain

a sub-prefect for a long time yet, I imagine! What stratagem will they

devise, I wonder, to overthrow the Marquis? They will certainly have

recourse to one of some kind or other; they will do their best somehow

to effect the conquest of Plassans.'

He turned his eyes upon the Abbé, at whom he had ceased to look for the

last few moments, and he suddenly checked himself as he caught sight of

the priest's eager face, his glistening eyes, and his ears that seemed

to have grown bigger. All Mouret's _bourgeois_ prudence then reasserted

itself, and he felt that he had said too much. So he hastily added:

'But, after all, I really know nothing about it. People tell so many

ridiculous stories. All I care about is to be allowed to live quietly

in my own house.'

He would then have liked to leave the window, but he dared not go

away so suddenly after gossiping in such an unrestrained and familiar

fashion. He was beginning to think that if one of them had been having

his laugh at the other, it certainly was not he.

The Abbé, for his part, was again glancing alternately at the two

gardens in a calm, unconcerned manner, and did not make the slightest

attempt to induce Mouret to continue talking. Mouret was already

wishing, somewhat impatiently, that his wife or one of his children

would call to him to come down, when he was greatly relieved by seeing

Rose appear on the steps outside the house. She raised her head towards

him.

'Well, sir!' she cried, 'aren't you coming at all to-day? The soup has

been on the table for the last quarter of an hour!'

'All right, Rose! I'll be down directly,' he replied.

Then he made his apologies to the Abbé, and left the window. The chilly

aspect of the room, which he had forgotten while his back had been

turned to it, added to the confusion he felt. It seemed to him like a

huge confessional-box, with its awful black crucifix, which must have

heard everything he had said. When the Abbé took leave of him with a

silent bow, this sudden finish of their conversation so disturbed him,

that he again stepped back and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, said:

'It is in that corner, then?'

'What is?' asked the Abbé in surprise.

'The damp stain that you spoke to me about.'

The priest could not restrain a smile, but he again pointed out the

stain to Mouret.

'Ah! I can see it quite plainly now,' said the latter. 'Well, I'll send

the workmen up to-morrow.'

Then he at last left the room, and before he had reached the end of the

landing, the door was noiselessly closed behind him. The silence of the

staircase irritated him extremely, and as he went down, he muttered:

'The confounded fellow! He gets everything out of one without asking a

single question!'

V

The next morning old Madame Rougon, Marthe's mother,[4] came to pay a

visit to the Mourets. It was quite an event, for there was a coolness

between Mouret and his wife's relations which had increased since

the election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul, whose success the Rougons

attributed to Mouret's influence in the rural districts. Marthe used

to go alone when she went to see her parents. Her mother, 'that black

Félicité,' as she was called, had retained at sixty-six years of age

all the slimness and vivacity of a girl. She always wore silk dresses,

covered with flounces, and was particularly partial to yellows and

browns.

When she arrived, only Marthe and Mouret were in the dining-room.

'Hallo!' cried the latter in great surprise, as he saw her coming,

'here's your mother! I wonder what she wants! She was here less than a

month ago. She's scheming after something or other, I know.'

The Rougons, whose assistant Mouret had been prior to his marriage,

when their shabby little shop in the old quarter of the town had ever

suggested bankruptcy, were the objects of his constant suspicions.

They returned the feeling with bitter and deep-seated animosity, their

rancour being especially aroused by the speedy success which had

attended him in business. When their son-in-law said, 'I simply owe

my fortune to my own exertions,' they bit their lips and understood

quite well that he was accusing them of having gained theirs by less

honourable means. Notwithstanding the fine house she now had on the

Place of the Sub-Prefecture, Félicité silently envied the peaceful

little home of the Mourets, with all the bitter jealousy of a retired

shopkeeper who owed her fortune to something else than the profits of

her business.

Félicité kissed Marthe on the forehead and then gave her hand to

Mouret. She and her son-in-law generally affected a mocking tone in

their conversations together.

'Well,' she said to him with a smile, 'the gendarmes haven't been for

you yet then, you revolutionist?'

'No, not yet,' he replied with a responsive smile; 'they are waiting

till your husband gives them the order.'

'It's very nice and polite of you to say that!' exclaimed Félicité,

whose eyes were beginning to glisten.

Marthe turned a beseeching glance upon Mouret. He had gone too far; but

his feelings were roused and he added:

'Good gracious! What are we thinking of to receive you in the

dining-room? Let us go into the drawing-room, I beg you.'

This was one of his usual pleasantries. He affected all Félicité's

fine airs whenever he received a visit from her. It was to no purpose

that Marthe protested that they were very comfortable where they were;

her husband insisted that she and her mother should follow him into

the drawing-room. When they got there, he bustled about, opening the

shutters and drawing out the chairs. The drawing-room, which was seldom

entered, and the shutters of which were generally kept closed, was a

great wilderness of a room, with furniture swathed in white dust-covers

which were turning yellow from the proximity of the damp garden.

'It is really disgraceful!' muttered Mouret, wiping the dust from a

small console; 'that wretched Rose neglects everything abominably.'

Then, turning towards his mother-in-law, he said with ill-concealed

irony:

'You will excuse us for receiving you in this way in our poor dwelling.

We cannot all be wealthy.'

Félicité was choking with rage. She scanned Mouret for a moment, and

almost indulged in a burst of anger; but she made an effort to restrain

herself and slowly dropped her eyes. When she again raised them she

spoke in a pleasant tone.

'I have just been calling upon Madame de Condamin,' she said, 'and I

thought I would look in here and see how you all were. The children

are well, I hope, and you, too, my dear Mouret?'

'Yes, we are all wonderfully well,' he replied, quite astonished by

this amiability.