The Parsonage.
Andre Bernard, Cure of the parish of St. Saturnin, was sitting in the
little parlour which served him for breakfast-room, dining-room, and
study. He had just said mass in the tiny chapel adjoining his garden;
and now the peasants were dispersing towards their various homes, or
clustering in little knots beneath the roadside trees, discussing the
weather, the harvest, or the arrival of their lady the Countess in her
chateau at Auvergne.
The pastor had hastened back to his cottage, and was already seated in
his great leathern armchair, busily cleaning his gun, which was laid
across his knees; but at the same time, in order that mind and body
should be equally employed, he was devoutly reading an office from the
breviary which lay open on a stool beside him. His dog lay at his feet,
sleeping. His modest array of books filled a couple of shelves behind
his chair; the open window looked upon the mountain-country beyond, and
admitted a sweet breath from the clustering Provence roses that hung
like a frame-work round the casement. The floor was sanded. A few
coloured prints of the Virgin and various saints upon the walls; a small
black crucifix above the fire-place; a clock, and an old oak press
behind the door, make up the list of furniture in the Cure's _salon de
compagnie_.
Opposite to her master, seated in a second high-backed leathern chair,
the very brother to his own, an old woman who played the important part
of housekeeper in the parsonage, sat silently spinning flax and
superintending the progress of a meagre _potage_ that was "simmering" on
the fire. Not a sound was heard in the chamber save the monotonous
rattle of the spindle, and the heavy breathing of the dog; save now and
then when the priest turned a leaf of his breviary. The old woman cast
frequent glances at her master through her large tortoiseshell
spectacles, and seemed several times about to address him, but as often
checked herself in respect to his holy employment.
At last she could keep silence no longer.
"Monsieur le Cure," she exclaimed, in that shrill tone which age and
long familiarity appears to authorise in old servants, "Monsieur le
Cure, will you never have finished reading your breviary?"
The Abbe, who did not seem to hear her in the least, went on
mechanically rubbing his gun, and murmuring words of the Latin office.
The old lady repeated her question--this time with more effect; for
Andre Bernard slowly raised his head, fixed his eyes vacantly upon her,
and resting the butt-end of his musket on the floor, made the sign of
the cross, and reverently closed the book.
"Jeannette," said he, gravely, "here is a screw in the gun-barrel that
will not hold any longer; fetch me the box of nails and screws, that I
may fit it with a fresh one."
Having said these words, he opened the breviary in a fresh place, and
resumed his orisons.
"Here, Monsieur le Cure," said the good housekeeper, somewhat testily,
bringing out a little box of gunsmith's tools from a corner cupboard,
"here is what you asked for; but I think there must be some spell on
your musket if it wants mending with the little use you make of it!
There is no danger of your ever wanting a new one, I'm certain. Then
your powder--it never diminishes! I have not filled your pouch for the
last three weeks. Truly we should starve but for the eggs and
vegetables; and the saints know that our larder has been empty for a
long time!"
"What is the matter, my poor Jeannette?" said the priest, kindly, as he
again looked up from his breviary. "I do not know how it is, but the
game has fled from me lately."
"Say rather, Monsieur le Cure, that it is you who fly from the game! The
other day M. Gaspard, the schoolmaster, told me that he met you on the
mountains, and that a great hare ran past you at a yard's distance, and
you only looked at it as if it had been a Christian!"
"The schoolmaster must have mistaken, Jeannette."
"Oh, no, Monsieur le Cure; Gaspard's eyes are excellent! Then your
breviary--it is frightful to see you reading from morning till night,
from night till morning, instead of being out in the fresh air, and
bringing back a good store of game for ourselves and our neighbours. How
shall we live? If you will not kill, you must buy--and your money all
goes in charity. Ah, Monsieur, you must indeed be more industrious with
your gun!"
"Well, Jeannette, I promise to reform," said the priest, smiling; "I
will go out this afternoon, and try to be more successful."
"Indeed I should advise it, Monsieur le Cure; and above all do not come
back, as you did yesterday, wet to the skin, and bringing what,
forsooth?--nothing but a miserable partridge!"
"Ah! but I do not mean to make a supper of that partridge, my good
Jeannette: I mean to keep it."
"To keep it--holy Virgin! Keep a partridge! A live partridge! Why,
Monsieur, it would devour our corn, and cost as much as twenty canaries.
If you do these things, Monsieur, instead of giving alms you will have
to beg."
"Be calm, Jeannette, my good Jeannette; we shall never be ruined by a
partridge. Besides, it is a rare bird. Bring it here to me."
"Rare, Monsieur le Cure! I have seen them over and over again after a
severe winter."
"Well, Jeannette, for my sake take care of this poor little bird, for I
value it greatly. Bring it here; I wish to feed it myself."
The good housekeeper looked uneasily at her master through her great
spectacles, and began glancing from right to left in evident
tribulation. She did not offer, however, to rise from her seat.
"Are you dreaming, Jeannette?" said the priest, with much surprise; "did
you hear me?"
"Oh, yes, Monsieur le Cure. The--the partridge...."
"Well?"
"Well--that is, Monsieur le Cure, you will be a little vexed, I
fear--perhaps--but the partridge--"
"Will you speak, Jeannette?"
"There--Monsieur le Cure--there was nothing in the house for supper,
Monsieur le Cure--and--and so I--"
"Wretch! have you killed it?"
And the priest sprang from his seat, pale with anger, and advanced
towards the terrified housekeeper, who fell upon her knees, and clasped
her hands in a speechless appeal for mercy.
Even the dog ran trembling under the table, and uttered a low
deprecatory howl.
Recalled to himself by the panic of his household, Andre Bernard threw
himself back into his chair, and covered his face with his hands. Could
one have removed those fingers, they would have seen large tears upon
his sunken cheeks.
At this moment the door was opened quickly, and a man entered the room.
The priest rose precipitately from his chair, for in the intruder he saw
no less a person than the Baron de Pradines.
"Excuse my intrusion, Monsieur le Cure," said the gentleman, whose
features wore an expression of peculiar anxiety. "I wish to speak with
you in private." And he glanced towards the still-kneeling Jeannette.
"You see I have not yet returned to my regiment. I have, for the
present, changed my plans. Pray who is this woman?"
"She is my housekeeper, Monsieur le Baron: she--she was in prayer when
you entered," said Andre Bernard, telling another falsehood to account
for the strange position of Jeannette.
Poor Abbe! he blushed and faltered, and mentally vowed another penance
for his sin.
"Jeannette," he said, "you may go, I will hear the rest of your
confession in the evening."
The Baron smiled furtively as the old lady rose and left the room--he
had, unfortunately heard the latter part of the pretended confession.
"Now, Monsieur le Cure," said he, "I have come to consult you on a very
grave and important subject. You are renowned in all this district for
your piety and learning; tell me, do you consider vows to be sacred and
indissoluble?"
The priest was surprised to hear these words from the lips of a
gentleman whose reputation for light morals and free views was so
extensively known; but after a few moments' consideration--
"There are several kinds of vows, Monsieur le Baron," he replied; "there
are vows by which we bind ourselves to the service of God, and those
never must be broken. Then there are vows rashly uttered in times of
mental excitement, by which people engage themselves to perform acts of
sacrifice or penance."
"Ah, it is of such that I would speak!" said the captain. "What of
those? Think well, M. le Cure, before you answer me."
"It is doubtless a great sin," replied the priest, "not to fulfil such
vows; but still I do not think that the good God in His mercy would
desire to chastise eternally an erring creature who had thus offended
him; especially if the vow were made under the strong influence of human
passion."
The dragoon bit his lips angrily.
"I am no churchman, Monsieur le Cure," said he roughly, "but I cannot
agree with you there. Do you forget that God commanded Abraham to
sacrifice Isaac his son?"
"Yes, but I also remember that He sent an angel to arrest the father's
hand."
"Possibly," said the Baron, with a bitter laugh; "but I do not believe
anything of the kind myself!"
Andre Bernard raised his eyes to the ceiling, in pious horror.
After a moment, George de Pradines drew his chair beside the priest, and
continued:--
"And yet, Monsieur le Cure, I have something to tell you that I think
will change your opinion in the matter of vows."
"Proceed," murmured the priest, who was already troubled with a
presentiment of evil.
"Since we parted last night, strange things have happened at the
chateau. A wounded traveller has arrived--a traveller whom we believed
long since dead. He lives. _Eh bien_, Monsieur le Cure, can you guess
who he is?"
"Monsieur le Baron--I--I know not," murmured the priest; and for the
third time Andre Bernard uttered an untruth.
"I am really surprised, Monsieur le Cure at your want of penetration.
Well, it is the Chevalier de Fontane."
At this name the priest turned pale and trembled. He looked silently
upon the ground.
"Listen, Monsieur le Cure," cried the young man determinedly;
"dissimulation avails nothing. My sister is a rich widow, and I shall be
ruined if she breaks her solemn vow never to marry a second time. I have
already procured large sums of money upon the reversion of her estate,
when she either dies or adopts a conventual life. I am not a man who
could pass his days agreeably at the galleys. My future depends solely
on her vow, and she _must not_ marry a second time."
"But, Monsieur le Baron, it seems to me that you leap at too hasty a
conclusion. Your fears may be without foundation. Madame may not wish to
be absolved from her vow--Monsieur le Chevalier may no longer be
desirous...."
"Bah!" interrupted the Baron, savagely, "what else is he here for? His
servant has told me all. He has been for eight or nine years serving in
the Prussian army; during all that time he kept a strict watch upon
France. At length he heard of the death of the late Count de Peyrelade:
he obtained leave of absence when a decent time had elapsed. Loving and
hoping more ardently than ever, he set off for Auvergne; he met with
this accident at the very gates of the chateau, (would that it had
killed him!); and there he is!"
The priest was silent.
"You see, Monsieur le Cure, there is but one way to prevent this
marriage. My sister is pious, and rests every faith in your sanctity.
She will sigh--perhaps she will weep; but is it for a priest, a minister
of the church, to be swayed by trifles of this kind? No! it is for the
sake of religion and heaven, Monsieur le Cure, that you will be firm and
faithful to your trust. It is nothing to you if my fortunes fail or
prosper--if a young woman weeps or smiles--_you_ must fulfil the
disinterested duties of your sacred calling--_you_ must maintain the
sanctity of vows--_you_ must rescue my sister from the abyss of crime
into which she is falling!"
"It is quite true," said the poor Abbe, tremulously.
"Then you will render your utmost assistance?" said the Baron eagerly.
"Yes," murmured the priest.
"Monsieur le Cure, you are a holy man, and you have my esteem."
The Abbe blushed and accepted the proffered hand of the dragoon. At that
moment some one knocked at the door.
"Who is there?" said the Abbe, starting like a guilty man.
"It is I," replied old Jeannette. "A servant from the chateau presents
the compliments of Madame la Comtesse, and requests M. le Cure to pay
her a visit directly on urgent business."
"You see," said the Baron, "my sister has her scruples already. Go
quickly, my dear Abbe, and do not forget that the interests of the
church are in your hands. It is a holy mission!"
"A holy mission!" repeated the priest, as he turned to leave the room.
"A holy mission! _O mon Dieu, mon Dieu!_ do not forsake thy servant!"