BOOK III

I

When Abbé Mouret had said the _Pater_, he bowed to the altar, and went

to the Epistle side. Then he came down, and made the sign of the cross

over big Fortune and Rosalie, who were kneeling, side by side, before

the altar-rails.

‘_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et

Spiritus Sancti_.’

‘_Amen_,’ responded Vincent, who was serving the mass, and glancing

curiously at his big brother out of the corner of his eye.

Fortune and Rosalie bent their heads, affected by some slight emotion,

although they had nudged each other with their elbows when they knelt

down, by way of making one another laugh. But Vincent went to get the

basin and the sprinkler. Fortune placed the ring in the basin, a thick

ring of solid silver. When the priest had blessed it, sprinkling it

crosswise, he returned it to Fortune, who slipped it upon Rosalie’s

finger. Her hand was still discoloured with grass-stains, which soap had

not been able to remove.

‘_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_,’ Abbé Mouret murmured

again, giving them a final benediction.

‘_Amen_,’ responded Vincent.

It was early morning. The sun was not yet shining through the big

windows of the church. Outside one could hear the noisy twittering of

the sparrows in the branches of the service tree, whose foliage shot

through the broken panes. La Teuse, who had not previously had time to

clean the church, was now dusting the altar, craning up on her sound leg

to wipe the feet of the ochre and lake-bedaubed Christ, and arranging

the chairs as quietly as possible; all the while bowing and crossing

herself, and following the service, but not omitting a single sweep of

her feather broom. Quite alone, at the foot of the pulpit, was mother

Brichet, praying in a very demonstrative fashion. She kept on her knees,

and repeated the prayers in so loud a whisper that it seemed as if a

swarm of bluebottles had taken possession of the nave.

At the other end of the church near the confessional, Catherine held

an infant in swaddling clothes. As it began to cry, she turned her back

upon the altar, and tossed it up, and amused it with the bell-rope,

which dangled just over its nose.

‘_Dominus vobiscum_,’ said the priest, turning round, and spreading out

his hands.

‘_Et cum spiritu tuo_,’ responded Vincent.

At that moment three big girls came into the church. They were too shy

to go far up, though they jostled one another to get a better view of

what was going on. They were three friends of Rosalie, who had dropped

in for a minute or two on their way to the fields, curious as they were

to hear what his reverence would say to the bride and bridegroom. They

had big scissors hanging at their waists. At last they hid themselves

behind the font, where they pinched each other and twisted themselves

about, while trying to choke their bursts of laughter with their

clenched fists.

‘Well,’ whispered La Rousse, a finely built girl, with copper-coloured

skin and hair, ‘there won’t be any scrimmage to get out of church when

it’s all over.’

‘Oh! old Bambousse is quite right,’ murmured Lisa, a short dark girl,

with gleaming eyes; ‘when one has vines, one looks after them. Since his

reverence so particularly desired to marry Rosalie, he can very well do

it all alone.’

The other girl, Babet, who was humpbacked, tittered. ‘There’s mother

Brichet,’ she said; ‘she is always here. She prays for the whole family.

Listen, do you hear how she’s buzzing? All that will mean something in

her pocket. She knows very well what she is about, I can tell you.’

‘She is playing the organ for them,’ retorted La Rousse.

At this all three burst into a laugh. La Teuse, in the distance,

threatened them with her broom. At the altar, Abbé Mouret was taking the

sacrament. As he went from the Epistle side towards Vincent, so that the

water of ablution might be poured upon his thumb and fore-finger, Lisa

said more softly: ‘It’s nearly over. He will begin to talk to them

directly.’

‘Yes,’ said La Rousse, ‘and so big Fortune will still be able to go to

his work, and Rosalie won’t lose her day’s pay at the vintage. It is

very convenient to be married so early in the morning. He looks very

sheepish, that big Fortune.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Babet. ‘It tires him, keeping so long on his

knees. You may be sure that he has never knelt so long since his first

communion.’

But the girls’ attention was suddenly distracted by the baby which

Catherine was dangling in her arms. It wanted to get hold of the

bell-rope, and was quite blue with rage, frantically stretching out its

little hands and almost choking itself with crying.

‘Ah! so the youngster is there,’ said La Rousse.

The baby now burst into still louder wailing, and struggled like a

little Imp.

‘Turn it over on its stomach, and let it suck,’ said Babet to Catherine.

Catherine lifted up her head, and began to laugh, with the shamelessness

of a little minx. ‘It’s not at all amusing,’ she said, giving the baby a

shake. ‘Be quiet, will you, little pig! My sister plumped it down on my

knees.’

‘Naturally,’ said Babet, mischievously. ‘You could scarcely have

expected her to give the brat to Monsieur le Curé to nurse.’

At this sally, La Rousse almost fell over in a fit of laughter. She

leaned against the wall, holding her sides with her hands. Lisa threw

herself against her, and attempted to soothe her by pinching her back

and shoulders; while Babet laughed with a hunchback’s laugh, which

grated on the ear like the sound of a saw.

‘If it hadn’t been for the little one,’ she continued, ‘Monsieur le Curé

would have lost all use for his holy water. Old Bambousse had made up

his mind to marry Rosalie to young Laurent, of Figuieres.’

However, the girls’ merriment and their chatter now came to an end, for

they saw La Teuse limping furiously towards them. At this the three big

hussies felt alarmed, stepped back, and subsided into sedateness.

‘You worthless things!’ hissed La Teuse. ‘You come to talk a lot of

filth here, do you? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, La Rousse? You ought

to be there, on your knees, before the altar, like Rosalie. I will throw

you outside if you stir again. Do you hear?’

La Rousse’s copper cheeks were tinged with a rising blush, and Babet

glanced at her and tittered.

‘And you,’ continued La Teuse, turning towards Catherine, ‘just you

leave that baby alone. You are pinching it on purpose to make it scream.

Don’t tell me you are not. Give it to me.’

She took the child, hushed it in her arms for a moment, and then laid

it upon a chair, where it went to sleep, peacefully like a cherub.

The church then subsided into solemn quietness, disturbed only by the

chattering of the sparrows on the rowan tree outside. At the altar,

Vincent had carried the missal to the right again, and Abbé Mouret had

just folded the corporal and slipped it within the burse. He was now

saying the concluding prayers with a solemn earnestness, which neither

the screams of the baby nor the giggling of the three girls had been

able to disturb. He seemed to hear nothing of them, but to be wholly

absorbed in the prayers which he was offering up to Heaven for the

happiness of the pair whose union he had just blessed. The sky that

morning was grey with a hazy heat, which veiled the sun. Through the

broken windows a russet vapour streamed into the church, betokening

a stormy day. Along the walls the gaudily coloured pictures of the

Stations of the Cross displayed their red, blue, and yellow patches;

at the bottom of the nave the dry woodwork of the gallery creaked and

strained; and under the doorway the tall grass by the steps thrust

ripening straw, all alive with little brown grasshoppers. The clock,

in its wooden case, made a whirring noise, as though it were some

consumptive trying to clear his throat, and then huskily struck

half-past six.

‘_Ite, missa est_,’ said the priest, turning round to the congregation.

‘_Deo gratias_,’ responded Vincent.

Then, having kissed the altar, Abbé Mouret once more turned round,

and murmured over the bent heads of the newly married pair the final

benediction: ‘_Deus Abraham, Deus Isaac, et Deus Jacob vobiscum

sit_’--his voice dying away into a gentle whisper.

‘Now, he’s going to address them,’ said Babet to her friends.

‘He is very pale,’ observed Lisa. ‘He isn’t a bit like Monsieur Caffin,

whose fat face always seemed to be on the laugh. My little sister Rose

says that she daren’t tell him anything when she goes to confess.’

‘All the same,’ murmured La Rousse, ‘he’s not ugly. His illness has aged

him a little, but it seems to suit him. He has bigger eyes, and lines at

the corners of his mouth which make him look like a man. Before he had

the fever, he was too much like a girl.’

‘I believe he’s got some great trouble,’ said Babet. ‘He looks as though

he were pining away. His face is deadly pale, but how his eyes glitter!

When he drops his eyelids, it is just as though he were doing it to

extinguish the fire in his eyes.’

La Teuse again shook her broom at them. ‘Hush!’ she hissed out, so

energetically that it seemed as if a blast of wind had burst into the

church.

Meantime Abbé Mouret had collected himself, and he began, in a rather

low voice:

‘My dear brother, my dear sister, you are joined together in Jesus. The

institution of marriage symbolises the sacred union between Jesus and

His Church. It is a bond which nothing can break; which God wills shall

be eternal, so that man may not sever those whom Heaven has joined. In

making you flesh of each other’s flesh, and bone of each other’s bone,

God teaches you that it is your duty to walk side by side through

life, a faithful couple, along the paths which He, in His omnipotence,

appoints for you. And you must love each other with God-like love. The

slightest ill-feeling between you will be disobedience to the Creator,

Who has joined you together as a single body. Remain, then, for ever

united, after the likeness of the Church, which Jesus has espoused, in

giving to us all His body and blood.’

Big Fortune and Rosalie sat listening, with their noses peaked up

inquisitively.

‘What does he say?’ asked Lisa, who was a little deaf.

‘Oh! he says what they all say,’ answered La Rousse. ‘He has a glib

tongue, like all the priests have.’

Abbé Mouret went on with his address, his eyes wandering over the heads

of the newly wedded couple towards a shadowy corner of the church. And

by degrees his voice became more flexible, and he put emotion into the

words he spoke, words which he had formerly learned by heart from a

manual intended for the use of young priests. He had turned slightly

towards Rosalie, and whenever his memory failed him, he added sentences

of his own:

‘My dear sister, submit yourself to your husband, as the Church submits

itself to Jesus. Remember that you must leave everything to follow him,

like a faithful handmaiden. You must give up father and mother, you must

cleave only to your husband, and you must obey him that you may obey God

also. And your yoke will be a yoke of love and peace. Be his comfort,

his happiness, the perfume of his days of strength, the support of his

days of weakness. Let him find you, as a grace, ever by his side. Let

him have but to reach out his hand to find yours grasping it. It is thus

that you will step along together, never losing your way, and that you

will meet with happiness in the carrying out of the divine laws. Oh! my

dear sister, my dear daughter, your humility will hear sweet fruit; it

will give birth to all the domestic virtues, to the joys of the hearth,

and the prosperity that attends a God-fearing family. Have for your

husband the love of Rachel, the wisdom of Rebecca, the constant fidelity

of Sarah. Tell yourself that a pure life is the source of all happiness.

Pray to God each morning that He may give you strength to live as a

woman who respects her responsibilities and duties; for the punishment

you would otherwise incur is terrible: you would lose your love. Oh! to

live loveless, to tear flesh from flesh, to belong no more to the one

who is half of your very self, to live on in pain and agony, bereft of

the one you have loved! In vain would you stretch out your arms to him;

he would turn away from you. You would yearn for happiness, but you

would find in your heart nothing but shame and bitterness. Hear me, my

daughter, it is in your own conduct, in your obedience, in your purity,

in your love, that God has established the strength of your union.’

As Abbé Mouret spoke these words, there was a burst of laughter at the

other end of the church. The baby had just woke up on the chair where La

Teuse had laid it. But it was no longer in a bad temper. Having kicked

itself free of its swaddling clothes, it was laughing merrily, and

shaking its rosy little feet in the air. It was the sight of these

little feet that made it laugh.

Rosalie, who was beginning to find the priest’s address rather tedious,

turned her head to smile at the child. But, when she saw it kicking

about on the chair, she grew alarmed, and cast an angry look at

Catherine.

‘Oh! you can look at me as much as you like,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m not

going to take it any more. It would only begin to cry again.’

And she turned aside to ferret in an ant-hole at a corner of one of the

stone flags under the gallery.

‘Monsieur Caffin didn’t talk so long,’ now remarked La Rousse. ‘When he

married Miette, he just gave her two taps on the cheek and told her to

be good.’

My dear brother,’ resumed Abbé Mouret, turning towards big Fortune, ‘it

is God who, to-day, gives you a companion, for He does not wish that man

should live alone. But, if He ordains that she shall be your servant,

He demands from you that you shall be to her a master full of gentleness

and love. You will love her, because she is part of your own flesh, of

your own blood, and your own bone. You will protect her, because God has

given you strong arms only that you may stretch them over her head in

the hour of danger. Remember that she is entrusted to you, and that

you cannot abuse her submission and weakness without sin. Oh! my dear

brother, what proud happiness should be yours! Henceforth, you will no

longer live in the selfish egotism of solitude. At all hours you will

have a lovable duty before you. There is nothing better than to love,

unless it be to protect those whom we love. Your heart will expand;

your manly strength will increase a hundredfold. Oh! to be a support and

stay, to have a love given into your keeping, to see a being sink her

existence in yours and say, “Take me and do with me what you will! I

trust myself wholly to you!” And may you be accursed if you ever abandon

her! It would be a cowardly desertion which God would assuredly punish.

From the moment she gives herself to you, she becomes yours for ever.

Carry her rather in your arms, and set her not upon the ground until it

be certain that she will be there in safety. Give up everything, my dear

brother--’

But here the Abbé’s voice faltered, and only an indistinct murmur came

from his lips. He had quite closed his eyes, his face was deathly white,

and his voice betokened such deep distress that big Fortune himself shed

tears without knowing why.

‘He hasn’t recovered yet,’ said Lisa. ‘It is wrong of him to fatigue

himself. See, there’s Fortune crying!’

‘Men are softer-hearted than women,’ murmured Babet.

‘He spoke very well, all the same,’ remarked La Rousse. ‘Those priests

think of a lot of things that wouldn’t occur to anybody else.’

‘Hush!’ cried La Teuse, who was already making ready to extinguish the

candles.

But Abbé Mouret still stammered on, trying to utter a few more

sentences. ‘It is for this reason, my dear brother, my dear sister, that

you must live in the Catholic Faith, which alone can ensure the peace of

your hearth. Your families have taught you to love God, to pray to Him

every morning and evening, to look only for the gifts of His mercy--’

He was unable to finish. He turned round, took the chalice off the

altar, and retired, with bowed head, into the vestry, preceded by

Vincent, who almost let the cruets and napkin fall, in trying to see

what Catherine might be doing at the end of the church.

‘Oh! the heartless creature!’ said Rosalie, who left her husband to go

and take her baby in her arms. The child laughed. She kissed it, and

rearranged its swaddling clothes, while threatening Catherine with her

fist. ‘If it had fallen,’ she cried out, ‘I would have boxed your ears

for you, nicely.’

Big Fortune now came slouching along. The three girls stepped towards

him, with compressed lips.

‘See how proud he is,’ murmured Babet to the others. ‘He is sure of

inheriting old Bambousse’s money now. I used to see him creeping along

every night under the little wall with Rosalie.’

Then they giggled, and big Fortune, standing there in front of them,

laughed even louder than they did. He pinched La Rousse, and let Lisa

jeer at him. He was a sturdy young blood, and cared nothing for anybody.

The priest’s address had annoyed him.

‘Hallo! mother, come on!’ he called in his loud voice. But mother

Brichet was begging at the vestry door. She stood there, tearful and

wizen, before La Teuse, who was slipping some eggs into the pocket of

her apron. Fortune didn’t seem to feel the least sense of shame. He just

winked and remarked: ‘She is a knowing old card, my mother is. But then

the Curé likes to see people at mass.’

Meanwhile, Rosalie had grown calm again. Before leaving the church, she

asked Fortune if he had begged the priest to come and bless their

room, according to the custom of the country. So Fortune ran off to the

vestry, striding heavily through the church, as if it were a field. He

soon reappeared, shouting that his reverence would come. La Teuse, who

was scandalised at the noise made by all these people, who seemed to

think themselves in a public street, gently clapped her hands, and

pushed them towards the door.

‘It is all over,’ said she; ‘go away and get to your work.’

She thought they had all gone, when her eye caught sight of Catherine,

whom Vincent had joined. They were bending anxiously over the ants’

nest. Catherine was poking a long straw into the hole so roughly, that

a swarm of frightened ants had rushed out upon the floor. Vincent

declared, however, that she must get her straw right to the bottom if

she wished to find the queen.

‘Ah! you young imps!’ cried La Teuse, ‘what are you after there? Can’t

you leave the poor little things alone? That is Mademoiselle Desirée’s

ants’ nest. She would be nicely pleased if she saw you!’

At this the children promptly took to their heels.

II

Abbé Mouret, now wearing his cassock but still bareheaded, had come

back to kneel at the foot of the altar. In the grey light that streamed

through the window, his tonsure showed like a large livid spot amidst

his hair; and a slight quiver, as if from cold, sped down his neck. With

his hands tightly clasped he was praying earnestly, so absorbed in his

devotions that he did not hear the heavy footsteps of La Teuse, who

hovered around without daring to disturb him. She seemed to be grieved

at seeing him bowed down there on his knees. For a moment, she thought

that he was in tears, and thereupon she went behind the altar to watch

him. Since his return, she had never liked to leave him in the church

alone, for one evening she had found him lying in a dead faint upon the

flagstones, with icy lips and clenched teeth, like a corpse.

‘Come in, mademoiselle!’ she said to Desirée, who was peeping through

the vestry-doorway. ‘He is still here, and he will lay himself up. You

know you are the only person that he will listen to.’

‘It is breakfast-time,’ she replied softly, ‘and I am very hungry.’

Then she gently sidled up to the priest, passed an arm round his neck,

and kissed him.

‘Good morning, brother,’ she said. ‘Do you want to make me die of hunger

this morning?’

The face he turned upon her was so intensely sad, that she kissed

him again on both his cheeks. He was emerging from agony. Then, on

recognising her, he tried to put her from him, but she kept hold of one

of his hands and would not release it. She would scarcely allow him to

cross himself, but insisted upon leading him away.

‘Come! Come! for I am very hungry. You must be hungry too.’

La Teuse had laid out the breakfast beneath two big mulberry trees,

whose spreading branches formed a sheltering roof at the bottom of the

little garden. The sun, which had at last succeeded in dissipating

the stormy-looking vapours of early morning, was warming the beds

of vegetables, while the mulberry-trees cast a broad shadow over the

rickety table, on which were laid two cups of milk and some thick slices

of bread.

‘You see how nice it looks,’ said Desirée, delighted at breakfasting in

the fresh air.

She was already cutting some of the bread into strips, which she ate

with eager appetite. And as she saw La Teuse still standing in front of

them, she said, ‘Why don’t you eat something?’

‘I shall, presently,’ the old servant answered. ‘My soup is warming.’

Then, after a moment’s silence, looking with admiration at the girl’s

big bites, she said to the priest: ‘It is quite a pleasure to see her.

Doesn’t she make you feel hungry, Monsieur le Curé? You should force

yourself.’

Abbé Mouret smiled as he glanced at his sister. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured;

‘she gets on famously, she grows fatter every day.’

‘That’s because I eat,’ said Desirée. ‘If you would eat you would get

fat, too. Are you ill again? You look very melancholy. I don’t want to

have it all over again, you know. I was so very lonely when they took

you away to cure you.’

‘She is right,’ said La Teuse. ‘You don’t behave reasonably, Monsieur le

Curé. You can’t expect to be strong, living, as you do, on two or three

crumbs a day, as though you were a bird. You don’t make blood; and

that’s why you are so pale. Don’t you feel ashamed of keeping as thin as

a lath when we are so fat; we who are only women? People will begin to

think that we gobble up everything and leave you nothing but the empty

plates.’

Then both La Teuse and Desirée, brimful of health and strength, scolded

him affectionately. His eyes seemed very large and bright, but empty,

expressionless. He was still gently smiling.

‘I am not ill,’ he said; ‘I have nearly finished my milk.’ He had

swallowed two mouthfuls of it, but had not touched the bread.

‘The animals, now,’ said Desirée, thoughtfully, ‘seem to get on much

more comfortably than we do. The fowls never have headaches, have they?

The rabbits grow as fat as ever one wants them to be. And you never saw

my pig looking sad.’

Then, turning towards her brother, she went on with an air of rapture:

‘I have named it Matthew, because it is so like that fat man who brings

the letters. It is growing so big and strong. It is very unkind of you

to refuse to come and look at it as you always do. You will come to see

it some day, won’t you?’

While she was thus talking she had laid hold of her brother’s share of

bread, and was eating away at it. She had already finished one piece,

and was beginning the second, when La Teuse became aware of what she was

doing.

‘That doesn’t belong to you, that bread! You are actually stealing his

food from him now!’

‘Let her have it,’ said Abbé Mouret, gently. ‘I shouldn’t have touched

it myself. Eat it all, my dear, eat it all.’

For a moment Desirée fell into confusion, with her eyes fixed upon the

bread, whilst she struggled to check her rising tears. Then she began to

laugh, and finished the slice.

‘My cow,’ said she, continuing her remarks, ‘is never as sad as you are.

You were not here when uncle Pascal gave her to me, on the promise that

I would be a good girl, or you would have seen how pleased she was when

I kissed her for the first time.’

She paused to listen. A cock crowed in the yard, and a great uproar

followed, with flapping of wings and cackling, grunting, and hoarse

cries as if the whole yard were in a state of commotion.

‘Ah! you know,’ resumed Desirée, clapping her hands, ‘she must be in

calf now. I took her to the bull at Beage, three leagues from here.

There are very few bulls hereabouts, you know.’

La Teuse shrugged her shoulders, and glanced at the priest with an

expression of annoyance.

‘It would be much better, mademoiselle,’ said she, ‘if you were to go

and quiet your fowls. They all seem to be murdering one another.’

Indeed, the uproar in the yard had now become so great that the girl was

already hurrying off with a great rustling of her petticoats, when the

priest called her back. ‘The milk, my dear; you have not finished the

milk.’

He held out his cup to her, which he had scarcely touched. And she came

back and drank the milk without the slightest scruple, in spite of La

Teuse’s angry look. Then she again set off for the poultry-yard, where

they soon heard her reducing the fowls to peace and order. She had,

perhaps, sat down in the midst of them, for she could be heard gently

humming as though she were trying to lull them to sleep.

III

‘Now my soup is too hot!’ grumbled La Teuse, as she returned from the

kitchen with a basin, from which a wooden spoon was projecting.

She placed herself just in front of Abbé Mouret, and began to eat very

cautiously from the edge of the spoon. She wanted to enliven the Abbé

and to draw him out of his melancholy moodiness. Ever since he had

returned from the Paradou, he had declared himself well again, and

had never complained. Often, indeed, he smiled in so soft and sweet a

fashion, that his fever seemed to have increased his saintliness, at

least so thought the villagers. But, at intervals, he had fits of gloomy

silence, and appeared to be suffering torture which he strove to bear

uncomplainingly. It was a mute agony which bore down upon him, and,

for hours at a time, left him stupefied, a prey to a frightful inward

struggle, the violence of which could only be guessed by the sweat of

anguish that streamed down his face.

At such times La Teuse refused to leave him, and overwhelmed him with

a torrent of gossip, until he had gradually recovered tranquillity by

crushing the rebellion of his blood. On that particular morning, the old

servant foresaw a more grievous attack than usual, and poured forth an

amazing flood of talk, while continuing her wary manoeuvres with the

spoon, which threatened to burn her tongue.

‘Well, well,’ said she, ‘one has to live among a lot of wild beasts

to see such goings-on. Would any one ever think in a decent village of

being married by candlelight? It shows what a poor sort these Artauds

are. When I was in Normandy, I used to see weddings that threw every one

into commotion for a couple of leagues round. They would feast for three

whole days. The priest would be there, and the mayor, too; and at the

marriage of one of my cousins, all the firemen came as well. And didn’t

they have a fine time of it! But to make a priest get up before sunrise

and marry people before even the chickens have left their roost, why,

there’s no sense in it! If I had been your reverence, I should have

refused to do it. You haven’t had your proper sleep, and you may have

caught cold in the church. It is that which has upset you. Besides which

it would be better to marry brute beasts than that Rosalie and her ugly

lout. That brat of theirs dirtied one of the chairs.--But you ought to

tell me when you feel poorly, and I could make you something warm.--Eh!

Monsieur le Curé, speak to me!’

He answered, in a feeble voice, that he was quite well, and only needed

a little fresh air. He had just leant against one of the mulberry-trees,

and was breathing rather quickly, as if faint.

‘Oh! all right,’ went on La Teuse, ‘do just as you like. Go on marrying

people when you haven’t the strength for it, and when you know very

well that it’s bound to upset you. I knew how it would be; I told you so

yesterday. And if you took my advice, you wouldn’t stay where you are.

The smell of the yard is bad for you. It is frightful just now. I can’t

imagine what Mademoiselle Desirée can be stirring about there. She’s

singing away, and doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Ah! that reminds me

of something I want to tell you. You know that I did all I could to keep

her from taking the cow to Beage; but she’s like you, obstinate, and

will go her own way. Fortunately, however, for her, she’s none the worse

for it. She delights to be amongst the animals and their young ones.

But come now, your reverence, do be reasonable. Let me take you to your

room. You must lie down and rest a little. What, you don’t want to!

Well, then, so much the worse for you, if you suffer! Besides, it’s

absurd to keep one’s worries locked up in one’s heart till they stifle

one.’

Then, in her indignation, she hastily swallowed a big spoonful of soup

at the risk of burning her throat. She rattled the handle of the spoon

against the bowl, muttering and grumbling to herself.

‘There never was such a man,’ said she. ‘He would die rather than say

a word. But it’s all very well for him to keep silent. I know quite

enough, and it doesn’t require much cleverness to guess the rest. Well!

well! let him keep it to himself. I dare say it is better.’

La Teuse was jealous. Dr. Pascal had had a tremendous fight with her

in order to get her patient away at the time when he had come to the

conclusion that the young priest’s case would be quite hopeless if he

should remain at the parsonage. He had then explained to her that the

sound of the bell would aggravate and intensify Serge’s fever, that the

religious pictures and statuettes scattered about his room would fill

his brain with hallucinations, and that entirely new surroundings

were necessary if he was to be restored to health and strength and

peacefulness of mind. She, however, had vigorously shaken her head, and

declared that her ‘dear child’ would nowhere find a better nurse than

herself. Still, she had ended by yielding. She had even resigned

herself to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against this

selection of the doctor’s, which astonished her. But she retained

a strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by the

silence which Abbé Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there.

She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce him

to talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and his

obstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon about

and crying:

‘You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Curé, if you were so happy

there--I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better

than I do.’

It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her

suspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not

check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At this

La Teuse’s kindly heart was filled with regret.

‘Ah!’ she murmured, ‘it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I told

him what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to their

own ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging

in your body afterwards--It made me so angry that I would never speak of

it to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Curé, you have me to thank that nobody

knew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable!

When Abbé Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your

absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of

stories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don’t even know where

Switzerland is.--Well! well! I surely don’t want to say anything to pain

you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Very

finely they’ve cured you indeed! It would have been very much better if

they had left you with me. I shouldn’t have thought of trying to turn

your head.’

Abbé Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt

her. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from

him, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in her

motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her.

‘You would never let me tell you about Abbé Caffin. As soon as I began

to speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbé Caffin had

had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was a

very holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he was

a man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things. Well, there

was a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of a

miller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school. Well, to put it

shortly, what was likely to happen did happen. When the story got about,

all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbé. But he managed

to escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there.

Then he was sent here. The poor man was punished quite enough by being

made to live in this hole of a place. I heard of the girl afterwards.

She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy.’

La Teuse, delighted at having been allowed to tell her story,

interpreted the priest’s silence as an encouragement to continue her

gossiping. So she drew a little nearer to him and said:

‘He was very friendly with me, was good Monsieur Caffin, and often spoke

to me of his sin. It won’t keep him out of heaven, I’m sure. He can rest

quite peacefully out there under the turf, for he never harmed any one.

For my part, I can’t understand why people should get so angry with a

priest when such a thing unhappily befalls him. Of course it’s wrong,

and likely to anger God; but then one can confess and repent, and get

absolution. Isn’t it so, your reverence, that when one truly repents,

one is saved in spite of one’s sins?’

Abbé Mouret slowly raised his head. By a supreme effort he had overcome

his agony, and though his face was still very pale, he exclaimed in a

firm voice, ‘One should never sin; never! never!’

‘Ah! sir,’ cried the old servant, ‘you are too proud and reserved. It is

not a nice thing, that pride of yours.--If I were in your place, I would

not harden myself like that. I would talk of what was troubling me, and

not try to rend my heart in pieces. You should reconcile yourself to the

separation gradually. The worry wears off little by little. But, instead

of that, you won’t even allow people’s names to be uttered. You forbid

them to be mentioned. It is as though they were dead. Since you came

back, I have not dared to tell you the least bit of news. Well, well,

I am going to speak now, and I shall tell you all I know; because I see

quite well that it is all this silence that is preying upon your heart.’

He looked at her sternly, and lifted his finger to silence her.

‘Yes, yes,’ she went on, ‘I get news from over yonder, very often

indeed, and I am going to tell it to you. To begin with, there is some

one there who is no happier than you are.’

‘Silence! Silence!’ said Abbé Mouret, summoning all his strength to rise

and move away.

But La Teuse also rose and barred his way with her bulky figure. She was

angry, and cried out:

‘There, you see, you want to be off already! But you are going to listen

to me. You know quite well that I am not over fond of the people yonder,

don’t you? If I talk to you about them, it is for your own good. Some

people say that I am jealous. Well, one day I mean to take you over

there. You would be with me, and you wouldn’t be afraid of any harm

happening. Will you go?’

He motioned her away from him with his hands, and his face was calm

again as he said:

‘I desire nothing. I wish to know nothing. There is high mass to-morrow.

You must see that the altar is made ready.’

Then, as he walked away, he added, smiling:

‘Don’t be uneasy, my good Teuse. I am stronger than you imagine. I shall

be able to cure myself without any one’s assistance.’

With these words he went off, bearing himself sturdily, with his head

erect, for he had vanquished his feelings. His cassock rustled very

gently against the borders of thyme. La Teuse, who for a moment had

remained rooted to the spot where she was standing, sulkily picked up

her basin and wooden spoon. Then, shrugging her big shoulders again and

again, she mumbled between her teeth:

‘That’s all bravado of his. He imagines that he is differently made from

other men, just because he is a priest. Well, as a matter of fact, he is

very firm and determined. I have known some who wouldn’t have had to be

wheedled so long. And he is quite capable of crushing his heart, just

as one might crush a flea. It must be the Almighty who gives him his

strength.’

As she returned to the kitchen she saw Abbé Mouret standing by the gate

of the farmyard. Desirée had stopped him there to make him feel a capon

which she had been fattening for some weeks past. He told her pleasantly

that it was very heavy, and the big child chuckled with glee.

‘Ah! well,’ said La Teuse in a fury, ‘that bird has got to crush its

heart too. But then it can’t help itself.’

IV

Abbé Mouret spent his days at the parsonage. He shunned the long walks

which he had been wont to take before his illness. The scorched soil of

Les Artaud, the ardent heat of that valley where the vines could never

even grow straight, distressed him. On two occasions, in the morning, he

had attempted to go out and read his breviary as he strolled along the

road; but he had not gone beyond the village. He had returned home,

overcome by the perfumes, the heat, the breadth of the landscape. It

was only in the evening, in the cool twilight air, that he ventured to

saunter a little in front of the church, on the terrace which led to

the graveyard. In the afternoons, to fill up his time, and satisfy his

craving for some kind of occupation, he had imposed upon himself the

task of pasting paper over the broken panes of the church windows, This

had kept him for a week mounted on a ladder, arranging his paper panes

with great exactness, and laying on the paste with the most scrupulous

care in order to avoid any mess.

La Teuse stood at the foot of the ladder and watched him. And Desirée

urged that he must not fill up all the windows, or else the sparrows

would no longer be able to get through. To please her, the priest left

a pane or two in each window unfilled. Then, having completed these

repairs, he was seized with the ambition of decorating the church,

without summoning to his aid either mason or carpenter or painter. He

would do it all himself. This sort of handiwork would amuse him, he

said, and help to bring back his strength. Uncle Pascal encouraged him

every time he called at the parsonage, assuring him that such exercise

and fatigue were better than all the drugs in the world. And so Abbé

Mouret began to stop up the holes in the walls with plaster, to drive

fresh nails into the disjoined altars, and to crush and mix paints,

in order that he might put a new coating on the pulpit and

confessional-box. It was quite an event in the district, and folks

talked of it for a couple of leagues round. Peasants would come and

stand gazing, with their hands behind their backs, at his reverence’s

work. The Abbé himself, with a blue apron tied round his waist, and his

hands all soiled with his labour, became absorbed in it, and used it as

an excuse for no longer going out. He spent his days in the midst of his

repairs, and was more tranquil than he had been before; almost cheerful,

indeed, as he forgot the outer world, the trees and the sunshine and the

warm breezes, which had formerly disturbed him so much.

‘Monsieur le Curé is free to do as he pleases, since the parish hasn’t

got to find the money,’ said old Bambousse, who came round every evening

to see how the work was progressing.

Abbé Mouret spent all his savings on it. Some of his decorations,

indeed, were so awkward that they would have excited many people’s

smiles. The replastering of the stonework soon tired him: so he

contented himself with patching up the church walls all round to a

height of some six feet from the ground. La Teuse mixed the plaster.

When she talked of repairing the parsonage as well, for she was

continually fearing that it would topple down on their heads, he told

her that he did not think he could manage it, that a regular workman

would be necessary; a reply which led to a terrible quarrel between

them. La Teuse said it was quite ridiculous to go on ornamenting the

church, where nobody slept, while their bedrooms were in such a crazy

condition, for she was quite sure they would all be found, one morning,

crushed to death by the fallen ceilings.

‘I shall end by bringing my bed here, and placing it behind the altar,’

she grumbled. ‘I feel quite terrified sometimes at night.’

However, when the plaster was all used up, she said no more about

repairing the parsonage. The painting which the priest executed quite

delighted her. It was the chief charm of the improvements. The Abbé,

who had repaired the woodwork everywhere with bits of boards, took

particular pleasure in spreading his big brush, dipped in bright yellow

paint, over all this woodwork. The gentle, up-and-down motion of the

brush lulled him, left him thoughtless for hours whilst he gazed on the

oily streaks of paint. When everything was quite yellow, the pulpit,

the confessional-box, the altar rails, even the clock-case itself, he

ventured to try his hand at imitation marble work by way of touching up

the high altar. Then, growing bolder, he painted it all over. Glistening

with white and yellow and blue, it was pronounced superb. People who had

not been to mass for fifty years streamed into the church to see it.

And now the paint was dry. All that remained for Abbé Mouret to do was

to edge the panels with brown beading. So, that afternoon, he set to

work at it, wishing to get it done by evening; for on the following day,

as he had reminded La Teuse, there would be high mass. She was there

ready to arrange the altar. She had already placed on the credence

the candlesticks and the silver cross, the porcelain vases filled with

artificial roses, and the laced cloth which was only used on great

festivals. The beading, however, proved so difficult of execution, that

it was not completed till late in the evening. It was growing quite dark

as the Abbé finished his last panel.

‘It will be really too beautiful,’ said a rough voice from amidst the

greyish gloom of twilight which was filling the church.

La Teuse, who had knelt down to get a better view of the Abbé’s brush as

it glided along his rule, started with alarm.

‘Ah! it’s Brother Archangias,’ she said, turning round. ‘You came in by

the sacristy then? You gave me quite a turn. Your voice seemed to sound

from under the floor.’

Abbé Mouret had resumed his work, after greeting the Brother with a

slight nod. The Brother remained standing there in silence, with his fat

hands clasped in front of his cassock. Then, shrugging his shoulders,

as he observed with what scrupulous care the priest sought to make his

beading perfectly straight, he repeated:

‘It will be really too beautiful.’

La Teuse, who knelt near by in ecstasy, started again.

‘Dear me!’ she said, ‘I had quite forgotten you were there. You really

ought to cough before you speak. You have a voice that comes on one so

suddenly that one might think it was a voice from the grave.’

She rose up and drew back a little the better to admire the Abbé’s work.

‘Why too beautiful?’ she asked. ‘Nothing can be too beautiful when it is

done for the Almighty. If his reverence had only had some gold, he would

have done it with gold, I’m sure.’

When the priest had finished, she hastened to change the altar-cloth,

taking the greatest care not to smudge the beading. Then she arranged

the cross, the candlesticks, and the vases symmetrically. Abbé Mouret

had gone to lean against the wooden screen which separated the choir

from the nave, by the side of Brother Archangias. Not a word passed

between them. Their eyes were fixed upon the silver crucifix, which, in

the increasing gloom, still cast some glimmer of light on the feet and

the left side and the right temple of the big Christ. When La Teuse had

finished, she came down towards them, triumphantly.

‘Doesn’t it look lovely?’ she asked. ‘Just you see what a crowd there

will be at mass to-morrow! Those heathens will only come to God’s house

when they think He is well-to-do. Now, Monsieur le Curé, we must do as

much for the Blessed Virgin’s altar.’

‘Waste of money!’ growled Brother Archangias.

But La Teuse flew into a tantrum; and, as Abbé Mouret remained silent,

she led them both before the altar of the Virgin, pushing them and

dragging them by their cassocks.

‘Just look at it,’ said she; ‘it is too shabby for anything, now that

the high altar is so smart. It looks as though it had never been painted

at all. However much I may rub it of a morning, the dust sticks to it.

It is quite black; it is filthy. Do you know what people will say about

you, your reverence? They will say that you care nothing for the Blessed

Virgin; that’s what they’ll say.’

‘Well, what of it?’ queried Brother Archangias.

La Teuse looked at him, half suffocated by indignation.

‘What of it? It would be sinful, of course,’ she muttered. ‘This altar

is like a neglected tomb in a graveyard. If it were not for me, the

spiders would spin their webs across it, and moss would soon grow over

it. From time to time, when I can spare a bunch of flowers, I give it to

the Virgin. All the flowers in our garden used to be for her once.’

She had mounted the altar steps, and she took up two withered bunches of

flowers, which had been left there, forgotten.

‘See! it is just as it is in the graveyards,’ she said, throwing the

flowers at Abbé Mouret’s feet.

He picked them up, without replying. It was quite dark now, and Brother

Archangias stumbled about amongst the chairs and nearly fell. He growled

and muttered some angry words, in which the names of Jesus and Mary

recurred. When La Teuse, who had gone for a lamp, returned into the

church, she asked the priest:

‘So I can put the brushes and pots away in the attic, then?’

‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I have finished. We will see about the rest later

on.’

She walked away in front of them, carrying all the things with her, and

keeping silence, lest she should say too much. And as Abbé Mouret had

kept the withered bunches of flowers in his hand, Brother Archangias

said to him, as they passed the farmyard: ‘Throw those things away.’

The Abbé took a few steps more, with downcast head; and then over the

palings he flung the flowers upon a manure-heap.

V

The Brother, who had already had his own meal, seated himself astride a

chair, while the priest dined. Since Serge’s return to Les Artaud, the

Brother had thus spent most of his evenings at the parsonage; but never

before had he imposed his presence upon the other in so rough a fashion.

He stamped on the tiled floor with his heavy boots, his voice thundered

and he smote the furniture, whilst he related how he had whipped some of

his pupils that morning, or expounded his moral principles in terms

as stern, as uncompromising as bludgeon-blows. Then feeling bored, he

suggested that he and La Teuse should have a game at cards. They had

endless bouts of ‘Beggar-my-neighbour’ together, that being the only

game which La Teuse had ever been able to learn. Abbé Mouret would

smilingly glance at the first few cards flung on the table and would

then gradually sink into reverie, remaining for hours forgetful of his

self-restraint, oblivious of his surroundings, beneath the suspicious

glances of Brother Archangias.

That evening La Teuse felt so cross that she had talked of going to bed

as soon as the cloth was removed. The Brother, however, wanted his

game of cards. So he caught hold of her shoulders and sat her down, so

roughly that the chair creaked beneath her. And forthwith he began to

shuffle the cards. Desirée, who hated him, had gone off carrying her

dessert, which she generally took upstairs with her every evening to eat

in bed.

‘I want the red cards,’ said La Teuse.

Then the struggle began. The old woman at first won some of the

Brother’s best cards. But before long two aces fell together on the

table.

‘Here’s a battle!’ she cried, wild with excitement.

She threw down a nine, which rather alarmed her, but as the Brother,

in his turn, only put down a seven, she picked up the cards with a

triumphant air. At the end of half an hour, however, she had only gained

two aces, so that the chances remained fairly equal. And a quarter of

an hour later she lost an ace. The knaves and kings and queens were

perpetually coming and going as the battle furiously progressed.

‘It’s a splendid game, eh?’ said Brother Archangias, turning towards

Abbé Mouret.

But when he saw him sitting there, so absorbed in his reverie, with such

a gentle smile playing unconsciously round his lips, he roughly raised

his voice:

‘Why, Monsieur le Curé, you are not paying any attention to us! It isn’t

polite of you. We are only playing on your account. We were trying

to amuse you. Come and watch the game. It would do you more good than

dozing and dreaming away there. Where were you just now?’

The priest started. He said nothing, but with quivering eyelids tried to

force himself to look at the game. The play went on vigorously. La Teuse

won her ace back, and then lost it again. On some evenings they would

fight in this way over the aces for quite four hours, and often they

would go off to bed, angry at having failed to bring the contest to a

decisive issue.

‘But, dear me! I’ve only just remembered it!’ suddenly cried La Teuse,

who greatly feared that she was going to be beaten. ‘His reverence has

to go out to-night. He promised Fortune and Rosalie that he would go to

bless their room, according to the custom. Make haste, Monsieur le Curé!

The Brother will go with you.’

Abbé Mouret had already risen from his chair, and was looking for

his hat. But Brother Archangias, still holding his cards, flew into a

tantrum: ‘Oh! don’t bother about it,’ said he. ‘What does it want to

be blessed for that pigsty of theirs? It is a custom that you should do

away with. I can’t see any sense in it. Stay here and let us finish the

game. That is much the best thing to do.’

‘No,’ said the priest, ‘I promised to go. Those good people might feel

hurt if I didn’t. You stay here and play your game out while you are

waiting for me.’

La Teuse glanced uneasily at Brother Archangias.

‘Well, yes, I will stay here,’ cried the Brother. ‘It is really too

absurd.’

But before Abbé Mouret could open the door, he flung his cards on the

table and rose to follow him. Then half turning back he called to La

Teuse:

‘I should have won. Leave the cards as they are, and we will play the

game out to-morrow.’

‘Oh! they are all mixed now,’ answered the old servant, who had lost no

time in shuffling them together. ‘Did you suppose that I was going to

put your hand away under a glass case? And, besides, I might very well

have won, for I still had an ace left.’

A few strides brought Brother Archangias up with Abbé Mouret, who was

walking down the narrow path that led to the village. The Brother had

undertaken the task of keeping watch over the Abbé’s movements. He

incessantly played the spy upon him, accompanying him everywhere, or,

if he could not go in person, sending some school urchin to follow

him. With that terrible laugh of his, he was wont to remark that he was

‘God’s gendarme.’

And, in truth, the Abbé seemed like a culprit ever guarded by the black

shadow of the Brother’s cassock; a culprit to be treated distrustfully,

since in his weakness he might well lapse into fresh crime were he left

free from surveillance for a single moment. Thus he was watched and

guarded with all the spiteful eagerness that some jealous old maid

might have displayed, the overreaching zeal of a gaoler who might carry

precautions so far as to exclude even such rays of light as might creep

through the chinks of the prison-house. Brother Archangias was always on

the watch to keep out the sunlight, to prevent even a whiff of air from

entering, to shut up his prison so completely that nothing from outside

could gain access to it. He noted the Abbé’s slightest fits of weakness,

and by his glance divined his tender thoughts, which with a word he

pitilessly crushed, as though they were poisonous vermin. The priest’s

intervals of silence, his smiles, the paling of his brow, the faint

quivering of his limbs, were all noted by the Brother. But he never

spoke openly of the transgression. His presence alone was a sufficient

reproach. The manner in which he uttered certain words imparted to them

all the sting of a whip stroke. With a mere gesture he expressed his

utter disgust for the priest’s sin. Like one of those betrayed husbands

who enjoy torturing their wives with cruel allusions, he contented

himself with recalling the scene at the Paradou, in an indirect fashion,

by some word or phrase which sufficed to annihilate the Abbé, whenever

the latter’s flesh rebelled.

It was nearly ten o’clock and most of the villagers of Les Artaud had

retired to rest. But from a brightly lighted house at the far end, near

the mill, there still came sounds of merriment. While keeping the best

rooms for his own use, old Bambousse had given a corner of his house to

his daughter and son-in-law. They were all assembled there, drinking a

last glass, while waiting for the priest.

‘They are drunk,’ growled Brother Archangias. ‘Don’t you hear the row

they are making?’

Abbé Mouret made no reply. It was a lovely night and all looked bluish

in the moonlight, which lent to the distant part of the valley the

aspect of a sleeping lake. The priest slackened his pace that he might

the more fully enjoy the charm of that soft radiance, and now and then

he even stopped as he came upon some expanse of light, experiencing the

delightful quiver which the proximity of fresh water brings one on a

hot day. But the Brother continued striding along, grumbling and calling

him.

‘Come along; come along! It isn’t good to loiter out of doors at this

time of night. You would be much better in bed.’

All at once, however, just as they were entering the village, Archangias

himself stopped short in the middle of the road. He was looking towards

the heights, where the white lines of the roads vanished amidst black

patches of pine-woods, and he growled to himself, like a dog that scents

danger.

‘Who can be coming down so late?’ he muttered.

But the priest, who neither saw nor heard anything, was now, in his

turn, anxious to press on.

‘Stay! stay! there he is,’ eagerly added Brother Archangias. ‘He has

just turned the corner. See! he is in the moonlight now. One can see him

plainly. It is a tall man, with a stick.’

Then, after a moment’s silence, he resumed, in a voice husky with fury:

‘It is he, that beggar! I felt sure it was!’

Thereupon, the new-comer having now reached the bottom of the hill, Abbé

Mouret saw that it was Jeanbernat. In spite of his eighty years, the old

man set his feet down with such force, that his heavy, nailed boots

sent sparks flying from the flints on the road. And he walked along as

upright as an oak, without the aid of his stick, which he carried across

his shoulder like a musket.

‘Ah! the villain!’ stammered the Brother, still standing motionless.

‘May the fiend light all the blazes of hell under his feet!’

The priest, who felt greatly disturbed, and despaired of inducing his

companion to come on, turned round to continue his journey, hoping that,

by a quick walk to the Bambousses’ house, he might yet manage to avoid

Jeanbernat. But he had not taken five strides before he heard the

bantering voice of the old man close behind him.

‘Hie! Curé! wait for me. Are you afraid of me?’

And as Abbé Mouret stopped, he came up and continued: ‘Ah! those

cassocks of yours are tiresome things, aren’t they? They prevent your

getting along too quickly. It’s such a fine clear night, too, that one

can recognise you by your gown a long way off. When I was right at the

top of the hill, I said to myself, “Surely that is the little priest

down yonder.” Oh! yes, I still have very good eyes.... Well, so you

never come to see us now?’

‘I have had so much to do,’ murmured the priest, who had turned very

pale.

‘Well, well, every one’s free to please himself. If I’ve mentioned the

matter, it’s only because I want you to know that I don’t bear you any

grudge for being a priest. We wouldn’t even talk about your religion,

it’s all one and the same to me. But the little one thinks that it’s I

who prevents your coming. I said to her, “The priest is an idiot,” and

I think so, indeed. Did I try to eat you during your illness? Why, I

didn’t even go upstairs to see you. Every one’s free, you know.’

He spoke on in the most unconcerned manner, pretending that he did not

notice the presence of Brother Archangias; but as the latter suddenly

broke into an angry grunt, he added, ‘Why, Curé, so you bring your pig

out with you?’

‘Take care, you bandit!’ hissed the Brother, clenching his fists.

Jeanbernat, whose stick was still raised, then pretended to recognise

him.

‘Hands off!’ he cried. ‘Ah! it’s you, you soul-saver! I ought to have

known you by your smell. We have a little account to settle together,

remember. I have sworn to cut off your ears in the middle of your

school. It will amuse the children you are poisoning.’

The Brother fell back before the raised staff, a flood of abuse rising

to his lips; but he began to stammer and went on disjointedly:

‘I will set the gendarmes after you, scoundrel! You spat on the church;

I saw you. You give the plague to the poor people who merely pass your

door. At Saint-Eutrope you made a girl die by forcing her to chew a

consecrated wafer which you had stolen. At Beage you went and dug up the

bodies of little dead children and carried them away on your back. You

are an old sorcerer! Everybody knows it, you scoundrel! You are the

disgrace of the district. Whoever strangles you will gain heaven for the

deed.’

The old man listened with a sneer, twirling the while his staff between

his fingers. And between the Brother’s successive insults he ejaculated

in an undertone:

‘Go on, go on; relieve yourself, you viper. I’ll break your back for you

by-and-by.’

Abbé Mouret tried to interfere, but Brother Archangias pushed him away,

exclaiming: ‘You are led by him yourself! Didn’t he make you trample

upon the cross? Deny it, if you dare!’ Then again, turning to

Jeanbernat, he yelled: ‘Ah! Satan, you must have chuckled and no mistake

when you held a priest in your grasp! May Heaven curse those who abetted

you in that sacrilege! What was it you did, at night, while he slept?

You came and moistened his tonsure with your saliva, eh? so that his

hair might grow more quickly. And then you breathed upon his chin and

his cheeks that his beard might grow a hand’s breadth in a single night.

And you rubbed all your philters into his body, and breathed into his

mouth the lasciviousness of a dog. You turned him into a brute-beast,

Satan.’

‘He’s idiotic,’ said Jeanbernat, resting his stick on his shoulder. ‘He

quite bores me.’

The Brother, however, growing bolder, thrust his fists under the old

man’s nose.

‘And that drab of yours!’ he cried, ‘you can’t deny that you set her on

to damn the priest.’

Then he suddenly sprang backwards, with a shriek, for the old man,

swinging his stick with all his strength, had just broken it over his

back. Retreating yet a little further, Archangias picked from a heap of

stones beside the road a piece of flint twice the size of a man’s fist,

and threw it at Jeanbernat. It would surely have split the other’s

forehead open if he had not bent down. He, however, now likewise crossed

over to a heap of stones, sheltered himself behind it, and provided

himself with missiles; and from one heap to the other a terrible combat

began, with a perfect hail of flints. The moon now shone very brightly,

and their dark shadows fell distinctly on the ground.

‘Yes, yes, you set that hussy on to ruin him!’ repeated the Brother,

wild with rage. ‘Ah! you are astonished that I know all about it! You

hope for some monstrous result from it all. Every morning you make the

thirteen signs of hell over that minx of yours! You would like her to

become the mother of Antichrist. You long for Antichrist, you villain!

But may this stone blind you!’

‘And may this one bung your mouth up!’ retorted Jeanbernat, who was

now quite calm again. ‘Is he cracked, the silly fellow, with all those

stories of his?... Shall I have to break your head for you, before I can

get on my way? Is it your catechism that has turned your brain?’

‘Catechism, indeed! Do you know what catechism is taught to accursed

ones like you? Ah! I will show you how to make the sign of the

cross.--This stone is for the Father, and this for the Son, and this

for the Holy Ghost. Ah! you are still standing. Wait a bit, wait a

bit. Amen!’ Then he threw a handful of small pebbles like a volley of

grape-shot. Jeanbernat, who was struck upon the shoulder, dropped the

stones he was holding, and quietly stepped forwards, while Brother

Archangias picked two fresh handfuls from the heap, blurting out:

I am going to exterminate you. It is God who wills it. God is acting

through my arm.’

‘Will you be quiet!’ said the old man, grasping him by the nape of the

neck.

Then came a short struggle amidst the dust of the road, all bluish with

moonlight. The Brother, finding himself the weaker of the two, tried

to bite. But Jeanbernat’s sinewy limbs were like coils of rope which

pinioned him so tightly that he could almost feel them cutting into

his flesh. He panted and ceased to struggle, meditating some act of

treachery.

The old man, having got the other under him, scoffingly exclaimed: ‘I

have a good mind to break one of your arms. You see that it isn’t you

who are the stronger, but that it is I who am exterminating you.... Now

I’m going to cut your ears off. You have tried my endurance too far.’

Jeanbernat calmly drew his knife from his pocket. But Abbé Mouret, who

had several times attempted to part the combatants, now raised such

strenuous opposition to the old man’s design that he consented to defer

the operation till another time.

‘You are acting foolishly, Curé,’ said he. ‘It would do this scoundrel

good to be well bled; but, since it seems to displease you, I’ll wait a

little longer; I shall be meeting him again in some quiet corner.’

And as the Brother broke out into a growl, Jeanbernat cried

threateningly: ‘If you don’t keep still I will cut your ears off at

once!’

‘But you are sitting on his chest,’ said the priest, ‘get up and let him

breathe.’

‘No, no; he would begin his tomfoolery again. I will give him his

liberty when I go away, but not before.... Well, I was telling you,

Curé, when this good-for-nothing interrupted us, that you would be very

welcome yonder. The little one is mistress, you know; I don’t attempt

to interfere with her any more than I do with my salad-plants. There are

only fools like this croaker here who see any harm in it. Where did you

see anything wrong, scoundrel? It was yourself who imagined it, villain

that you are!’

And thereupon he gave the Brother another shaking. ‘Let him get up,’

begged Abbé Mouret.

‘By-and-by. The little one has not been well for a long time. I did not

notice anything myself, but she told me; and now I am on my way to tell

your uncle Pascal, at Plassans. I like the night for walking; it is

quiet, and, as a rule, one isn’t delayed by meeting people.... Yes, yes,

the little one is quite ailing.’

The priest could not find a word to say. He staggered, and his head

sank.

‘It made her so happy to look after you,’ continued the old man. ‘While

I smoked my pipe I used to hear her laugh. That was quite sufficient for

me. Girls are like the hawthorns; when they break out into blossom, they

do all they can. Well, now, you will come, if your heart prompts you to

it. I am sure it would please the little one. Good night, Curé.’

He got up slowly, keeping a firm grasp of the Brother’s wrists, to

guard against any treacherous attack. Then he proceeded on his way, with

swinging strides, without once turning his head. The Brother silently

crept to the heap of stones, and waited till the old man was some

distance off. Then, with both hands, and with mad violence, he again

began flinging stones, but they fell harmlessly upon the dusty road.

Jeanbernat did not condescend to notice them, but went his way, upright

like a tree, through the clear night.

‘The accursed one!--Satan carries him on!’ shrieked Brother Archangias,

as he hurled his last stone. ‘An old scoundrel, that the least touch

ought to upset! But he is baked in hell’s fire. I smelt his claws.’

The Brother stamped with impotent rage on the scattered flints. Then he

suddenly attacked Abbé Mouret. ‘It was all your fault,’ he cried; ‘you

ought to have helped me, and, between us, we could have strangled him.’

Meantime, at the other end of the village, the uproar in the Bambousses’

house had become greater than ever. The rhythmic tapping of glasses on

a table could be distinctly heard. The priest resumed his walk without

raising his head, making his way towards the flood of bright light that

streamed out of the window like the flare of a fire of vine-cuttings.

The Brother followed him gloomily; his cassock soiled with dust, and one

of his cheeks bleeding from a stone-cut. And, after a short interval of

silence, he asked, in his harsh voice: ‘Shall you go?’

Then as Abbé Mouret did not answer, he went on: ‘Take care! You are

lapsing into sin again. It was sufficient for that man to pass by to

send a thrill through your whole body. I saw you by the light of the

moon looking as pale as a girl. Take care! take care! Do you hear me?

Another time God will not pardon you--you will sink into the lowest

abyss! Ah! wretched piece of clay that you are, filth is mastering you!’

Thereupon, the priest at last raised his head. Big tears were streaming

from his eyes, and it was in gentle heartbroken accents that he spoke:

‘Why do you speak to me like that?--You are always with me, and you know

my ceaseless struggles. Do not doubt me, leave me strength to master

myself.’

Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night air

with such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even Brother

Archangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched. He made no

reply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek. When

they reached the Bambousses’ house, he refused to go inside. He seated

himself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned cart, where he

waited for the Abbé with dog-like patience.

‘Ah! here is Monsieur le Curé!’ cried all the company of Bambousses and

Brichets as Serge entered.

They filled their glasses once more. Abbé Mouret was compelled to take

one, too. There had been no regular wedding-feast; but, in the evening,

after dinner, a ten-gallon ‘Dame Jane’ had been placed upon the table,

and they were making it their business to empty it before going to bed.

There were ten of them, and old Bambousse was already with one hand

tilting over the jar whence only a thread of red liquor now flowed.

Rosalie, in a very sportive frame of mind, was dipping her baby’s chin

into her glass, while big Fortune showed off his strength by lifting

up the chairs with his teeth. All the company passed into the bedroom.

Custom required that the priest should there drink the glass of wine

which had been poured out for him. It brought good luck, and prevented

quarrels in the household. In Monsieur Caffin’s time, it had always

been a very merry ceremony, for the old priest loved a joke. He had

even gained a reputation for the skilful way in which he could drain his

glass, without leaving a single drop at the bottom of it; and the Artaud

women pretended that every drop undrunk meant a year’s less love for the

newly married pair. But with Abbé Mouret they dare not joke so freely.

However, he drank his wine at one gulp, which seemed to greatly please

old Bambousse. Mother Brichet looked at the bottom of the glass and

saw but a drop or two of the liquid remaining there. Then, after a few

jokes, they all returned to the living room, where Vincent and Catherine

had remained by themselves. Vincent, standing upon a chair, was clasping

the huge jar in his arms, and draining the last drops of wine into

Catherine’s open mouth.

‘We are much obliged to you, Monsieur le Curé,’ said old Bambousse, as

he escorted the priest to the door. ‘Well, they’re married now, so I

suppose you are satisfied. And they are not likely to complain, I’m

sure.... Good night, sleep well, your reverence.’

Brother Archangias had slowly risen from his seat on the old cart.

‘May the devil pile hot coals over them, and roast them!’ he murmured.

Then without again opening his lips he accompanied Abbé Mouret to the

parsonage. And he waited outside till the door was closed. Even then he

did not go off without twice looking round to make sure that the

Abbé was not coming out again. As for the priest, when he reached his

bedroom, he threw himself in his clothes upon his bed, clasping his

hands to his ears, and pressing his face to the pillow, in order that he

might shut out all sound and sight. And thus stilling his senses he fell

into death-like slumber.

VI

The next day was Sunday. As the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy

Cross fell on a high mass day, Abbé Mouret desired to celebrate the

festival with especial solemnity. He was now full of extraordinary

devotion for the Cross, and had replaced the image of the Immaculate

Conception in his bedroom by a large crucifix of black wood, before

which he spent long hours in worship. To exalt the Cross, to plant it

before him, above all else, in a halo of glory, as the one object of

his life, gave him the strength he needed to suffer and to struggle. He

sometimes dreamed of hanging there himself, in Jesus’s place, his head

crowned with thorns, nails driven through his hands and feet, and

his side rent by spears. What a coward he must be to complain of an

imaginary wound, when God bled there from His whole body, and yet

preserved on His lips the blessed smile of the Redemption! And however

unworthy it might be, he offered up his wound as a sacrifice, ended by

falling into ecstasy, and believing that blood did really stream from

his brow and side and limbs. Those were hours of relief, for he fancied

that all the impurity within him flowed forth from his wounds. And he

then usually drew himself up with the heroism of a martyr, and longed to

be called upon to suffer the most frightful tortures, in order that he

might bear them without a quiver of the flesh.

At early dawn that day he knelt before the crucifix, and grace came upon

him abundantly as dew. He made no effort, he simply fell upon his knees,

to receive it in his heart, to be permeated with it to the marrow of his

bones in sweetest and most refreshing fulness. On the previous day he

had prayed for grace in agony, and it had not come. At times it long

remained deaf to his entreaties, and then, when he simply clasped his

hands, in quite childlike fashion, it flowed down to succour him.

It came upon him that morning like a benediction, bringing perfect

serenity, absolute trusting faith. He forgot his anguish of the previous

days, and surrendered himself wholly to the triumphant joy of the Cross.

He seemed to be cased in such impenetrable armour that the world’s most

deadly blows would glide off from it harmlessly. When he came down from

his bedroom, he stepped along with an air of serenity and victory. La

Teuse was astonished, and went to find Desirée, that he might kiss her;

and both of them clapped their hands, and said that they had not seen

him looking so well for the last six months.

But it was in the church, at high mass, that the priest felt that he

had really recovered divine grace. It was a long time since he had

approached the altar with such loving emotion; and he had to make a

great effort to restrain himself from weeping whilst he remained with

his lips pressed to the altar-cloth. It was a solemn high mass. The

local rural guard, an uncle of Rosalie, chanted in a deep bass voice

which rumbled through the low nave like a hoarse organ. Vincent, robed

in a surplice much too large for him, which had formerly belonged to

Abbé Caffin, carried an old silver censer, and was vastly amused by the

tinkling of its chains; he swung it to a great height, so as to produce

copious clouds of smoke, and glanced behind him every now and then to

see if he had succeeded in making any one cough. The church was almost

full, for everybody wanted to see his reverence’s painting. Peasant

women laughed with pleasure because the place smelt so nice, while the

men, standing under the gallery, jerked their heads approvingly at each

deeper and deeper note that came from the rural guard. Filtering through

the paper window panes the full morning sun lighted up the brightly

painted walls, on which the women’s caps cast shadows resembling huge

butterflies. The artificial flowers, with which the altar was decorated,

almost seemed to possess the moist freshness of natural ones newly

gathered; and when the priest turned round to bless the congregation, he

felt even stronger emotion than before, as he saw his church so clean,

so full, and so steeped in music and incense and light.

After the offertory, however, a buzzing murmur sped through the peasant

women. Vincent inquisitively turned his head, and in doing so, almost

let the charcoal in his censer fall upon the priest’s chasuble. And,

wishing to excuse himself, as he saw the Abbé looking at him with an

expression of reproof, he murmured: ‘It is your reverence’s uncle, who

has just come in.’

At the end of the church, standing beside one of the slender wooden

pillars that supported the gallery, Abbé Mouret then perceived Doctor

Pascal. The doctor was not wearing his usual cheerful and slightly

scoffing expression. Hat in hand, he stood there looking very grave, and

followed the service with evident impatience. The sight of the priest

at the altar, his solemn demeanour, his slow gestures, and the perfect

serenity of his countenance, appeared to gradually increase his

irritation. He could not stay there till the end of the mass, but left

the church, and walked up and down beside his horse and gig, which he

had secured to one of the parsonage shutters.

‘Will that nephew of mine never have finished censing himself?’ he asked

of La Teuse, who was just coming out of the vestry.

‘It is all over,’ she replied. ‘Won’t you come into the drawing-room?

His reverence is unrobing. He knows you are here.’

‘Well, unless he were blind, he couldn’t very well help it,’ growled the

doctor, as he followed La Teuse into the cold-looking, stiffly furnished

chamber, which she pompously called the drawing-room. Here for a few

minutes he paced up and down. The gloomy coldness of his surroundings

seemed to increase his irritation. As he strode about, flourishing

a stick he carried, he kept on striking the well-worn chair-seats of

horsehair which sounded hard and dead as stone. Then, tired of walking,

he took his stand in front of the mantelpiece, in the centre of which a

gaudily painted image of Saint Joseph occupied the place of a clock.

‘Ah! here he comes at last,’ he said, as he heard the door opening.

And stepping towards the Abbé he went on: ‘Do you know that you made me

listen to half a mass? It is a very long time since that happened to me.

But I was bent on seeing you to-day. I have something to say to you.’

Then he stopped, and looked at the priest with an expression of

surprise. Silence fell. ‘You at all events are quite well,’ he resumed,

in a different voice.

‘Yes, I am very much better than I was,’ replied Abbé Mouret, with a

smile. ‘I did not expect you before Thursday. Sunday isn’t your day for

coming. Is there something you want to tell me?’

Uncle Pascal did not give an immediate answer. He went on looking at the

Abbé. The latter was still fresh from the influence of the church and

the mass. His hair was fragrant with the perfume of the incense, and in

his eyes shone all the joy of the Cross. His uncle jogged his head, as

he noticed that expression of triumphant peace.

‘I have come from the Paradou,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Jeanbernat came to

fetch me there. I have seen Albine, and she disquiets me. She needs much

careful treatment.’

He kept his eyes fixed upon the priest as he spoke, but he did not

detect so much as a quiver of Serge’s eyelids.

‘She took great care of you, you know,’ he added, more roughly. ‘Without

her, my boy, you might now be in one of the cells at Les Tulettes, with

a strait waistcoat on.... Well, I promised that you would go to see her.

I will take you with me. It will be a farewell meeting. She is anxious

to go away.’

‘I can do nothing more than pray for the person of whom you speak,’ said

Abbé Mouret, softly.

And as the doctor, losing his temper, brought his stick down heavily

upon the couch, he added calmly, but in a firm voice:

‘I am a priest, and can only help with prayers.’

‘Ah, well! Yes, you are right,’ said Uncle Pascal, dropping down into

an armchair, ‘it is I who am an old fool. Yes, I wept like a child, as

I came here alone in my gig. That is what comes of living amongst books.

One learns a lot from them, but one makes a fool of oneself in the

world. How could I guess that it would all turn out so badly?’

He rose from his chair and began to walk about again, looking

exceedingly troubled.

‘But yes, but yes, I ought to have guessed. It was all quite natural.

Though with one in your position, it was bound to be abominable! You

are not as other men. But listen to me, I assure you that otherwise you

would never have recovered. It was she alone, with the atmosphere she

set round you, who saved you from madness. There is no need for me to

tell you what a state you were in. It is one of my most wonderful cures.

But I can’t take any pride, any pleasure in it, for now the poor girl is

dying of it!’

Abbé Mouret remained there erect, perfectly calm, his face reflecting

all the quiet serenity of a martyr whom nothing that man might do could

disturb.

‘God will take mercy upon her,’ he said.

‘God! God!’ muttered the doctor below his breath. ‘Ah! He would do

better not to interfere. We might manage matters if we were left

to ourselves.’ Then, raising his voice, he added: ‘I thought I had

considered everything carefully, that is the most wonderful part of it.

Oh! what a fool I was! You would stay there, I thought, for a month to

recover your strength. The shade of the trees, the cheerful chatter of

the girl, all the youthfulness about you would quickly bring you round.

And then you, on your side, it seemed to me, would do something to

reclaim the poor child from her wild ways; you would civilise her, and,

between us, we should turn her into a young lady, for whom we should,

by-and-by, find a suitable husband. It seemed such a perfect scheme. And

then how was I to guess that old philosophising Jeanbernat would never

stir an inch from his lettuce-beds? Well! well! I myself never left

my own laboratory. I had such pressing work there.... And it is all my

fault! Ah! I am a stupid bungler!’

He was choking, and wished to go off. And he began to look about him for

his hat, though, all the while, he had it on his head.

‘Good-bye!’ he stammered; ‘I am going. So you won’t come? Do, now--for

my sake! You see how miserable, how upset I am. I swear to you that she

shall go away immediately afterwards. That is all settled. My gig is

here; you might be back in an hour. Come, do come, I beg you.’

The priest made a sweeping gesture; such a gesture as the doctor had

seen him make before the altar.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I cannot.’

Then, as he accompanied his uncle out of the room, he added:

‘Tell her to fall on her knees and pray to God. God will hear her as He

heard me, and He will comfort her as He has comforted me. There is no

other means of salvation.’

The doctor looked him full in the face, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Good-bye, then,’ he repeated. ‘You are quite well now, and have no

further need of me.’

But, as he was unfastening his horse, Desirée, who had heard his voice,

came running up. She was extremely attached to her uncle. When she had

been younger he had been wont to listen to her childish prattle for

hours without showing the least sign of weariness. And, even now, he

did his best to spoil her, and manifested the greatest interest in her

farmyard, often spending a whole afternoon with her amongst her fowls

and ducks, and smiling at her with his bright eyes. He seemed to

consider her superior to other girls. And so she now flung herself round

his neck, in an impulse of affection, and cried:

‘Aren’t you going to stay and have some lunch with us?’

But having kissed her, he said he could not remain, and unfastened her

arms from his neck with a somewhat pettish air. She laughed however, and

again clasped her arms round him.

‘Oh! but you must,’ she persisted. ‘I have some eggs that have only just

been laid. I have been looking in the nests, and there are fourteen eggs

this morning. And, if you will stay, we can have a fowl, the white

one, that is always quarrelling with the others. When you were here on

Thursday, you know, it pecked the big spotted hen’s eye out.’