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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/10963-0.txt b/10963-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..337e981 --- /dev/null +++ b/10963-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11851 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10963 *** + +This file was produced by Carlo Traverso, Relka Bihari, Andrea Ball, and +the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team from images +generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France +(BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. + + + +THE GRIP OF DESIRE + +THE STORY OF A PARISH-PRIEST + +TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF HECTOR FRANCE + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Début d'une série de documents en couleur.] + + + + Love is a familiar; love is a devil; there is + no evil angel but love. Yet was Samson so + tempted, and he had an excellent strength; + yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a + very good wit. + + _Love's Labour Lost_. + + + +With an engraved portrait of the Author + + + + + +Other Works in English + +By +HECTOR FRANCE + +Mansour's Chastisement, the Loves and +Intrigues of an Arab Don Juan, done into English +by ALFRED ALLINSON, and embellished with Seven +fine Engravings by THEVENIN, after Drawings by +BAZEILHAC. + +Musk, Hashish and Blood, with Twenty-One +Engravings by PAUL AVRIL. (In the Press.) + +The Attack on the Brothels, A Realistic +Account of the Civilizing of "Barbarians". With +Illustrations. (In Hand.) + +The Daughter of the Christ; The most +original and philosophic work of the last twenty +years. This work will be sumptuously illustrated +by leading French Artists. (In Preparation.) + + + +[Illustration: Fin d'une série de documents en couleur.] + + + +[Illustration: the author.] + + + +[Illustration] + + + +TO THE READER + + The truth, the bitter truth. + + DANTON. + + Oh, sons and brothers, oh, poets + When the thing exists, speak the word. + + V. HUGO. + + + +I do not assert that all the personages in this story are models of virtue. +To some of them has been given a part which severe morality reproves. But I +am a realist and not an idealist, and for that I beg the reader a thousand +pardons. I have tried to paint what I saw and not that of which I dreamed. +If my figures are not chaste, the fault is not mine, but of those who +passed before me and whose features I sketched as my pen ran on. + +You are warned therefore, Madam, that when you open this book, you will not +find a "Treatise on Morality". Here are only the simple and pastoral loves +of a poor and obscure village priest. An idyll in the shade of the +parsonage limes and under the motionless eye of the weather-cock on the +belfry. + +If then you come across any word which offends your chaste ears, any +picture which distresses your modest eye, blame only your own curiosity. + +HECTOR FRANCE. + + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + + Unto the pure all things are pure: + but unto them that are Defiled and + Unbelieving is nothing pure: but even + their mind and conscience is Defiled. + They profess that they know God; + but in Works they Deny Him, being + Abominable and Disobedient, and unto + every good work Reprobate. + + ST. PAUL. + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + I. The Curé + II. The Confessional + III. The Parsonage + IV. Expectation + V. The Meeting + VI. The Look + VII. The Salute + VIII. The Fever + IX. During Vespers + X. In Parenthesis + XI. The Flesh + XII. The Temptation + XIII. The Resolution + XIV. The Captain + XV. Memories + XVI. The Epaulet + XVII. The Voltairian + XVIII. The Visit + XIX. Hard Words + XX. Kicks + XXI. The Past + XXII. The Servant + XXIII. The Letter + XXIV. The First Meeting + XXV. Love + XXVI. Of Young Girls in General + XXVII. Of Suzanne in Particular + XXVIII. The Shadow. + XXIX. Other Meetings + XXX. Seraphic Love + XXXI. The Virgin + XXXII. The Death's-Head + XXXIII. Frenzy + XXXIV. The Prohibition + XXXV. The Shelter + XXXVI. The Hot Wine + XXXVII. Tête-à -Tête + XXXVIII. The Kiss + XXXIX. The Devil in Petticoats + XL. Little Confessions + XLI. Moral Reflections + XLII. Memory Looking Back + XLIII. Espionage + XLIV. The Garret Window + XLV. Treacherous Manoeuvre + XLVI. The Letter + XLVII. Good News + XLVIII. Reconcilliation + XLIX. Confidences + L. Mammosa Virgo + LI. Chamber Morality + LII. The Posset + LIII. The Leg + LIV. Mater Saeva Cupidunum + LV. In the Foot-Path + LVI. Double Remorse + LVII. The Explosion + LVIII. Provocation + LIX. Acts and Words + LX. Talks + LXI. Le Père Hyacinthe + LXII. The Happy Curé + LXIII. The Miracles + LXIV. The Two Augurs + LXV. Table-Talk + LXVI. Good Counsel + LXVII. In A Glass + LXVIII. The Rose Chamber + LXIX. The Gust of Wind + LXX. The Ambuscade + LXXI. The Breach + LXXII. The Assault + LXXIII. Audaces Fortuna Juvat + LXXIV. Before Mass + LXXV. During Mass + LXXVI. Awakening + LXXVII. Consolations + LXXVIII. False Alarms + LXXIX. In the _Diligence_ + LXXX. An Old Acquaintance + LXXXI. A Little Confession + LXXXII. The Church-Woman + LXXXIII. Conventicle + LXXXIV. At the Palace + LXXXV. Little Pastimes + LXXXVI. Serious Talk + LXXXVII. The Seminary +LXXXVIII. The Fair One + LXXXIX. Love Again + XC. Le Cygne de la Croix + XCI. The Calves + XCII. The Scapular + XCIII. From the Dark to the Fair + XCIV. The Change + XCV. The Curé of St. Marie + XCVI. Finis Coronet Opus + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +I. + + +THE CURÉ. + + "I will sing thy praises on the harp, oh + Lord. But, my soul, whence cometh thy + sadness, and wherefore art thou troubled." + + (The _Introito_ of the Mass). + +The Curé of Althausen was reputed to be chaste. Was he so really? To tell +the truth, I never believed him so; at thirty men are not chaste; they may +try to be so; they rarely succeed. However that might be, he was a singular +man. + +He had a profound reverence for common sense, and it was said that he +taught a strange doctrine to his flock; for example, that a day of work was +more pleasing to God than a day of prayer; that the temples were for those +who labour not, and that a good action was well worth a mass. + +He maintained too that we purchase nothing with money in the other world, +and that the coins, so appreciated among ourselves, have no currency beyond +the grave, and a hundred other oddities of this kind, which in the good old +times would have brought him to the stake. The Bishop had severely +reprimanded him for all these heresies; but he seemed to pay no attention +to it. Every Sunday, from the height of his pulpit, he continued to brave +shamelessly the thunders of his Bishop and the thunders of heaven. + +I went one day to hear him. His voice was sweet, persuasive, with a clear +and harmonious tone. He said simply: "Love one another. That is the true +religion of Christ. Love one another! everything is there: religion, +philosophy and morality. Charity, properly understood, that which comes +from the heart, is more pleasing to God than all the prayers. There are +people who in order to pray neglect their home duties, their duties as wife +and as mother. To them, I say of a truth, God remains deaf. He wills, +before aught else, that you should fulfil your duties to your own. Every +prayer which causes another to suffer is an impiety." Such was pretty near +the essence of his sermons: they were short and simple. No great sonorous +words, no pompous digressions, no Latin quotations which no one would have +understood, no declamations on Our Lady of Lourdes or of La Salotte, on the +miracle of Roses or the Immaculate Conception. + +Thus he placed himself on a level with the simple souls who heard him, +addressed himself only to their good sense and to their heart, and did not +waste their time. He thought that after having worked hard throughout the +week, it was well to spend the Sunday in rest and not in fresh fatigue. + +But that which struck me most in him was his intelligent and expressive +countenance, and I was astonished that a man hall-marked with such +originality, should consent to vegetate, obscure and future-less, in the +care of a poor village. + +They said he was chaste. In truth that must be a task more arduous for him +than for any other, for he bore on his face the impress of ardent passions. +A disciple of Lavater would doubtless have sought for and found the secret +of hidden dramas in the fine pale face. From his looks, now full of +feverish ardour, now laden with sweet caresses, like the limpid eyes of a +bride, the desires of the flesh in rebellion against deadly duty, seemed to +burst forth with bold prolific thoughts. + +One saw at times that his thoughts escaped in moments of forgetfulness from +the clerical fetter. + +Wild, wandering and licentious, they plunged with delight into the ocean of +reverie. They left far behind them on the misty shore our conventions, our +prejudices and our follies, and all those toils of spider-web which beset +and catch and destroy so well the silly crowd, and which we call social +rules, opinion and propriety. + +Then the priest was gone; the man alone remained, the man of thirty, robust +and full of life and yearning for all the joys of life. And beneath his +gold-embroidered chasuble, near that altar laden with lustres and with +flowers, amidst the floods of light and the floods of perfume, in that +atmosphere saturated with the intoxicating waves of incense and the breath +of maidens; surrounded by all those women, by all these girls on their +knees before him or hanging on his lips; before all these modest or burning +looks fixed upon his gaze, a strange sensation rose to his brain; the +perspiration stood upon his forehead, he blushed and grew pale by turns; a +shiver ran through his frame, and trying to subdue the ardour of his gaze, +he turned towards the crowd of young girls, and said to them in a trembling +voice: + +--_Dominus vobiscum_. + +--_Et cum spiritu tuo_, answered the choir of maidens. Oh, how willingly +instead of the name of God would he have cast to them his heart. + + + + +II. + + +THE CONFESSIONAL. + + "In the course of the holy missions to + which I have consecrated a great portion + of my life, I have often come across + upright souls, disposed to make great + progress in perfection, if they had found + a skilful director." + + THE REV. FATHER J.B. SCAROMELLI + (_The Spiritual Guide_). + +However, almost in spite of myself, I was interested in this young priest, +and although disposed to believe that he was a knave like the rest, I was +sensible of something in him so upright and so loyal that I was, from the +very first, prejudiced in his favour. + +And besides, these flashes of fiery passion which at times betrayed him, +could they serve as an accusation against him? Could one take offence at +his not having completely stifled at thirty years the fierce passions of +youth and his violent desires? Was it not a proof on the contrary of his +victorious struggles and of his energy? + +And even though he should succumb before the imperious needs of potent +nature, which would be the more culpable, he or the women who surrounded +him, enveloped him with their gaze, encompassed him with their seductions; +he or the husbands and fathers who seemed tacitly to say to him: "You are +young, ardent, fall of passion and vigour, there is my daughter, there is +my wife, I hand them to you, receive their confessions, dive into their +looks, read in their soul, listen month to month to their most secret +confidences, but beware of touching their lips." + +Fools! And when the priest succumbs and their shame is noised abroad, they +make a great uproar and complain to all the echoes, instead of bowing their +head and humbly saying: _mea culpa_. + +What? silly fool, you cast the modesty of your young wife and the virginity +of your daughter as food for that envious celibate, you leave them alone in +the mysterious tête-à -tête of the confessional, with no obstacle between +his burning lust and the object of that lost, between those mouths which +speak so low![1] + +What will stop them? Duty? Virtue? His duty to himself? Laughable +obstacles. Fragile plank on which you place your honour. + +Her own virtue? Trust not to it overmuch, for he will know how to lead her +to the will of his appetite. He will form her in such a way that she will +pass by all the roads by which he will wish to guide her. It is a gate +which he will contrive sooner or later to force, however it may be bolted, +however it may be guarded by those sleepy gaolers which we call Principles. + +The Confessional! Marvellous invention of greedy curiosity, satanic work of +some hoary sinner! Hallowed goad of concupiscence, blessed antechamber +which leads to the alcove, mysterious retreat where the priest sits between +husband and wife, listens to their private talk and stands by, panting at +all their excesses. Refuge more secret than the best padded boudoir. +Formidable entrenchment sacred to all! What jealous lover would dare to +lift that curtain of serge behind which are murmured so many secret +confidences? + +It is there that the artless virgin utters her first confessions; there, +that the plighted maid reveals the beatings of her heart; there, that the +blushing bride unveils the secrets of the nuptial couch. + +He, the man of God, he listens ... he collects all their voluptuous +nothings and out of them creates worlds. Do you see him give ear? His face +has kept its sanctimonious expression, but the fire gleams forth beneath +his drooping eye-lid. He is leaning near, as near as possible to those +stammering lips.... The penitent is silent. What! already? everything said +already? Oh! that is not enough. She has passed too quickly over certain +faults the remembrance of which covers her forehead with a blush. He is not +satisfied. He wishes to know further. He reproves gently, "Why hesitate? +God is full of pity; but in order that the pardon may be complete, the +confession must be complete," and anew he questions, he presses ... his +temples throb, his blood boils, his hands burn, the demon of the flesh +completely embraces him. + +Come, incautious girl, speak, explain, give details, and by the confession +of your pleasant faults, plunge into ecstasy the ruttish confessor. + +[Footnote 1: In the confessionals of the Church of St. Gudule at Brussels +and in those of the majority of Belgian churches an opening may be seen +contrived in the screen, through which it is easy for mouths to meet.] + + + + +III. + + +THE PARSONAGE. + + "The pretty parsonage encircled with verdure, + With its white pigeons cooing on the roof, + Assumes to the sun a saucy air of sanctity + And permits a smell of cooking to go forth." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +The parsonage is seated on the summit of the hill and overlooks a part of +the village and of the plain. The traveller perceives from far its white +outline in the midst of a nest of verdure, and feels delighted at the view. +Nothing more simple than this peaceful house. A single story above the +ground-floor, with four windows from which the panes shine cheerfully in +the first rays of the sun, and upon the red-tiled roof two attics with +pointed gable. The door, which one reaches by a broad stone stair, is +framed by two vines, their vigorous branches stretching up to the side of +the windows, yielding to the hand, when September is come, their velvety, +ruby bunches. Behind the house, a little garden surrounded by a hedge of +green, at once an orchard, flower and kitchen garden. + +In front, two hundred paces away, the old church with its stained walls on +which the ivy clings, and its pointed belfry. The distance between is +partly filled by several rows of lime-trees, which, seen from a distance, +give to the parsonage the calm and cheerful look of those peaceful retreats +where we sometimes dream of burying our existence. "Is not this the +harbour!" says the tempest-beaten way-farer. "Oh! how happy must be the +dweller in this calm abode!" + +He might enter; he was welcome. The door was open to all, and this house, +like that of the wise man, seemed to be of glass. + +And all the women, young or old, knew hour by hour how their Curé spent his +time, and in spite of all the perseverance which, according to principle, +they had applied to discover some mystery in his life or the knot of a +secret intrigue, they acknowledged unanimously that no one could give less +hold for scandal than he. + +Every day, when he had said mass, pruned his trees, watered his flowers, +visited some poor or sick person, he shut himself up with his books and +lived with them till the evening, until his servant came and said to him, +"It is time for supper." Then he rose, ate his supper in silence, after +putting aside the portion for the poor, and then returned to his books. +That was all his life. + +On Sunday, if the weather was fine, he took his breviary, and walked with +slow steps along the high-road. + +The children would stop their games and run forward to meet him in order to +receive a caress from him, while the young girls whispered together and +seemed to avoid him. The bolder ones met his gaze with a blush: perhaps +they too would have liked, just as the little children, to receive a caress +from the handsome Curé of Althausen. But he passed on without ever +stopping, answering their timid salutations with an almost frigid gravity. + +He acted wisely. He was full of distrust of himself, and kept himself in +prudent reserve in face of the enemy. For he knew full well that the enemy +was there, in these sweet woman's eyes and those smiles which wished him +welcome. + +Then the pagan intoxications of the Catholic rites were no more surrounding +him to over-excite him and betray the trouble of his heart and the straying +of his thoughts, and if he felt affected before the smiles of these +marriageable girls, he armed himself with force sufficient to thrust back +carefully to his inmost being his boldness and his desires. + +It was no more the ardent passionate man who disclosed himself sometimes in +rapid moments of forgetfulness, it was the priest austere and calm, the +functionary salaried by the State to teach the religion of the State. + + + + +IV. + + +EXPECTATION. + + "And the days and the hours glided on, + and withdrawn within itself, affected + by sorrows and joys unknown, the soul + stretched its mysterious wing over a + new life soon to dawn." + + LAMENNAIS (_Une voix de prison_). + +One of his greatest pleasures was to plunge into the woods which surround +the village. He sought silence and solitude there, and when he heard the +steps of a keeper or of some pedestrian, or even the happy voices of young +couples calling one another, he concealed himself behind the masses of +foliage, and hid himself with a kind of shame like a criminal. He wished to +be alone, completely alone, so as to dream at his ease. Then he stretched +himself in the sun on the warm grass, opened his breviary, the discreet +confidant of all wandering thoughts, the screen for the priest's looks and +thoughts, and listened to the insects' hum. + +He followed the goings and comings of an ant or the capricious flight of a +bumble-bee; then with his eyes lost in space, immersed in the profundity +of nature, he dreamed.... + +One could have seen by his smile that he was wandering in spirit in the +laughing and limit-less garden of hope, pausing here and there on rosy +illusions and fair chimeras like a butterfly on flowers. + +They were delicious hours which he passed thus, full of forgetfulness and +indolence. He enjoyed the present moment, the present, poor, humble and +obscure, but which held neither disquietude nor care. + +Sometimes regrets for a past of which no one was aware came and knocked at +the door of his dreams, but he drove them for away, saying like Werther: + +"The past is past." + +The hand of time revolved without his giving heed, and often night +surprised him in his fantastic reveries. The good country-folk bad been +sorely puzzled by these solitary walks in the depths of the woods. + +They talked at first of some scandalous intrigue, and the Curé had no +difficulty in discovering that he was followed and watched by rigid +parishioners, anxious about his morality and his virtue. More than once +through the foliage he believed he saw vigilant sentinels who watched him +carefully. + +Lost labour! Never did those who tried with such unwearied perseverance to +detect his secret amours, have the pleasure of beholding _that mistress_ +whom they would have been so happy to cover with shame and scorn. + +They were obliged to renounce it, for his mistress then was that admirable +fairy, invisible and dumb to the common herd, who displays her beauties to +the gaze of a chosen race alone, as she murmurs her divine and chaste +sonnets in their ear. + +It was nature all radiant, which caressed his brow with the breeze, which +sang by his ear with the mysterious harmony of the woods, which gladdened +his sight with the flower of the fields, the verdant meadow, the golden +harvest. His loves were the hollow path which is lost in the mountain, the +old willow which leans over the edge of the pool, the sparrow which +chatters among the leaves, the splendours of the starry sky, the magic +mirages of the evening. + +They were all the melodies which poets have made to vibrate on the strings +of lyres, and in those moments of delicious ecstasy he forgot the +vexations, the littlenesses and the miseries of the world, and if anyone +had asked him what was the aim of his life, he would have replied like +Anaxagoras: + +"To love Nature, and to contemplate the sky." + +But among his uncouth surroundings, who would have been capable of +understanding these sweet pleasures and that over-excitement of soul and +brain, by means of which he sought to benumb his senses and to change the +current of his heart, that heart which like the body has its imperious +needs. + +He had reached that fatal epoch when man experiences an insatiable hunger +for love, and for want of a woman will nourish some monstrous fantasy, or +even, like the prisoner of Saintine, become enamoured of a flower. + + + + +V. + + +THE MEETING. + + "Skilled physicians have remarked + that an emanation of infinitely projectile + forces continually takes place from the + eyes of impassioned persons, of lovers + or of lascivious women, which communicates + insensibly to those who listen to or behold + them, the same agitation by which they are + affected." + + RESTIF DE LA BRETONNE (_Le Paysan perverte_). + +One afternoon, while returning to the village, the Curé chanced to meet a +young girl who was unknown to him. She was but poorly dressed, and her +shoes were white with dust; but youth and gaiety shone forth beneath the +glow of her cheeks, her blue eye sparkled under the dark arch of her +eyebrows, and the voluptuous opulence of her shape made one forget the +poverty of her dress. From her straw hat with its faded ribbons escaped +heavy tresses which shone like gold. + +Bending over his breviary, the Curé passed, casting a sidelong look, one of +those priestly looks which see without being seen; but the stranger +compelled him to raise his head. She had stood still and was fixing on him +smiling a bright and confident look. + +On seeing this, the Curé stood still also. + +Certainly, in the white flock of his congregation he counted just as lovely +creatures every Sunday, he encountered just as provoking smiles. +Nevertheless, he was troubled; he felt a secret flame course through his +veins; a kind of charm emanated front this girl. He remembered reading that +magnetic currents flow forth from certain women which inflame the senses, +and he took a step backwards; but the charm operated in spite of himself, +his eyes remained fixed on the seductive outlines of the figure of the +unknown. She enquired of him politely the way to the _Mairie_. In pointing +it out to her the Curé perhaps displayed more earnestness than was +necessary, he even took a few steps with her as far as the entrance to the +village, then he returned home, thinking of this pretty girl. + +During supper his servant told him that some mountebanks had arrived in the +village, and that they were going to give a performance the same evening in +the market-place. In fact a drum was heard beating the call, and the hoarse +voice of the clown announcing "a grand acrobatic spectacle, accompanied +with dances and followed by a pantomime." + +Involuntarily the Curé's thought turned to the stranger; he went upstairs +into his study and behind his half-closed shutters he could take part in +the spectacle. + +As he expected, the pretty girl was there, and seen from this distance in +the night, half-lighted by a few smoky lamps, with her little bodice of +velvet, her gauze skirt spangled with gold, her flesh-coloured tights, she +was really charming. At that moment she was dancing, with wonderful +lightness and grace, some lascivious fandango, while she accompanied +herself with the castanets. + +She was smiling at the crowd, delighting in the effect which she knew how +to produce with her sparkling eye and her white teeth and her rosy lips, +and the Curé was intoxicated by that smile. Then he cast his eyes over the +rough crowd, and ha was grieved at so much cost for such an audience: +_Margaritas ante porcos_, he murmured, _Margaritas ante porcos_. + +In order to admire her better, he had taken a field-glass and lost none of +her gestures. + +Her bosom was boldly bared, and he feasted his eyes upon the sweet furrow +of her breasts, he followed the delicious outline of her leg, and found his +heart melting before the undulating movements of her graceful bust and her +sturdy hips. + +He abruptly left the window, took up a book at random and tried to read. + +But this was in vain; his eyes only were reading, his thoughts were +elsewhere; they were in the market-place which was in frolic with the +dancer. + +He wished to stop this libertine thought; he read aloud: "The fall is great +after great efforts. The soul risen so high in heroism and holiness falls +very heavily to the earth.... Sick and embittered it plunges into evil with +a savage hunger, as though to avenge itself for having believed." + +At another time, he would have said: "It is a warning." But he saw not the +warning, he only saw the dancer, and he murmured: "How beautiful is she!" + +He took the hundred paces round his table; but his body only was there, his +thoughts always were hovering on the market-place round the spangled +petticoat. + +He returned to the window. All was over; the lamps were put out, the crowd +was slowly dispersing; five or six inquisitive ones were standing round the +heavy carriage of the company, from which some gleam of light escaped. + +He remained a long time leaning on his elbow at his window, looking at +the stars and listening mechanically to all the noises outside. The +market-place became empty. Only the stamping of the horses was to be heard +fastened near by, in the thick shade of the old lime-trees. A slender +thread of light again filtered up to hint. + + + + +VI. + + +THE LOOK. + + "His pupils glowed in the dim twilight, + like burning coals." + + LÉON CLAUDEL (_Les Va-nu-pieds_). + +It was like a lover attracting him, a magic thread which fastened yonder +was unwinding itself to his eye. He could not withdraw it thence, and armed +with his glass he tried to reach the bottom of the mysterious light. Two or +three times he saw a figure which he thought he recognized, pass and repass +in the lighted square. + +Then the devil tempted him, like Jesus on the mountain. He did not show him +the kingdoms of the earth, but he gave him a glimpse of the mountebank +undressed. "Go not there," his good angel cried to him. But the Curé turned +a deaf ear; he went down noiselessly from his room and ventured into the +market-place. + +In order to approach the carriage, he displayed all the strategy of a +skilful general; he first walked the length of the parsonage, then crossed +the market-place, then little by little, artfully, disappeared beneath the +lime-trees. + +[PLATE I: THE LOOK. No one could have detected him plunging his burning +gaze into the depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of +her tights, appeared to him half-naked.] + +[Illustration] + +The house on wheels was only a few paces away, silent, motionless, crammed +up. Within those ten feet of planks was perceptible an excess of lives, +passions, miseries, joys, of comedies and dramas; quite a world in +miniature. + +Breathings and rustlings issued now and then from this living coffin. It +wan the heavy slumber of fatigue, of fever, or of drink. + +One window was lighted still, and the half-drawn curtain allowed a room to +be seen the size of a sentry-box. + +He passed slowly by, and gave a look. + +A strange emotion seized him: he would have wished not to have seen, and he +felt full of a delicious trouble at having seen. + +He looked round him with alarm; he was quite alone. No one had detected +him, no one could have detected him, plunging his burning gaze into the +depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of her tights, +appeared to him half-naked and dazzling like a goddess of Rubens. + + + + +VII. + + +THE SALUTE. + + "She is fair, she is white, and her golden hair + Sweetly frames her rosy face: + The limpid look of her azure eyes + Beguiles near as much as her half-closed lip." + + N. CHANNARD (_Poésies inédites_). + +The next day, from break of dawn, the strolling players were already making +their preparations for departure. + +He saw the fair dancer again. + +No longer had she on her gauze dress with golden spangles, nor the tights +which displayed her shape, nor her glittering diadem, nor the imitation +pearls in her hair. She had resumed her poor dress of printed cotton, her +darned stockings and her coarse shoes; but there was still her blue eye +with its strange light, her pleasant face, her silky hair falling in thick +tresses on her sunburnt neck, and beneath her cotton bodice the figure of +an empress was outlined with the same opulence. + +A knot of women was there, laughing and talking scandal. What were these +stupid peasants laughing at? + +At length the heavy vehicle began to move, drawn by two broken-winded +horses. + +The fair girl is at the little window and watches, inquisitive and smiling, +the silly scoffing crowd. + +"Pass on, daughter of Bohemia, and despise these men who jest at your +poverty, these women who cast a look of scorn and hate. They scorn and hate +you, because they have not your splendid hair, nor the brightness of your +eyes, nor your white teeth, nor your fresh smile, nor your suppleness, +grace and vigour, nor your bewitching shape; despise them in your turn, but +envy them not, them who despise and envy you." + +Thus the Curé murmured to himself as the carriage was passing by. + +She is there still at her little window, like a youthfull picture by +Greuze. She lifts her eyes and recognizes the priest, and bows with that +smile which has already so affected him. What grace in that simple gesture! +What promises in those gentle eyes! In the midst of the hostile scornful +looks of that foolish crowd she has met a friendly face; she has read +sympathy and perhaps a secret admiration on the intelligent countenance of +the priest. + +The Curé replied to her salute, and for a long while his gaze pursued the +carriage. + +Meanwhile the good ladies whispered among themselves, and said to one +another with a scandalized air: "Did you see? He bowed to the mountebank!" + + + + +VIII. + + +THE FEVER. + + "Who has not had those troubled + nights, when the storm rages within, + when the soul, miserably oppressed + with shameful desires, floats in the + mud of a swamp?" + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +He was quite aware of his imprudence, but was unable to withdraw his eyes +from the road, and his thoughts still followed the carriage long after it +had disappeared behind the tall poplars. It seemed to him that it was a +portion of himself which was going away for ever. + +What! was the madman then beginning to cast his heart thus on the roads, +and could he feel smitten by this creature whom he had scarcely met? + +No, it was not she whom he loved, but she had just made the over-full cup +run over. She or another, it was indifferent to him. His altered feelings +of desire needed at length to drink freely. He was thirsty, what signified +to him the vessel? + +Hitherto he had only felt that ordinary confusion which the chaste man +experiences in presence of the woman, for hitherto his sight bad only +paused complacently upon pretty fresh faces, and if his thought wandered +beyond, he drove it back with care to his very inmost being; but now that +he had seen the naked breast of a pretty girl, that he had relished it with +his gaze, embraced it with his desire, that he had yielded to a fatal +forgetfulness, his flesh, so long subdued and humiliated, profited by that +moment of error, and subdued him in its turn. + +A kind of frenzy had taken possession of his being in a moment, and in the +sleepless night which he had just passed, he had given himself up to an +absolute orgy in his over-excited imagination. + +That wandering girl who had just disappeared, had carried away his modesty. + +He felt his heart beating for her; but he felt that his heart was beating +for all alike; girls or women, he wanted them all, he defiled them all with +his thoughts. + +And so, after ten years of struggles, the virtue of the Curé of Althausen +dissolved one evening before the naked breast of a rope-dancer, like snow +before the sun. + +That day was a Sunday, and, as he did not come downstairs, his servant came +to warn him that the time for Mass was drawing near. + +She stood struck with the strange look on his countenance, at the fatigue +displayed on his features, and anxiously enquired of him the cause. + +The Curé assured her that she was mistaken, that he bad never felt better; +but at the same time he gave a glance at his mirror. + +He was frightened at his face and he remained a long time thoughtful, +contemplating the gloomy fire of his own look. + +That sinister countenance seemed to him to presage some approaching +calamity. + +Thus, there are men whom fate has marked on the forehead with a fatal +stamp. The mysterious sign is not displayed at every time and before all; +but at certain epochs of life, when the unknown breath caresses the +predestinated or cursed head, the mark all at once appeals, like a tawny +light in the depth of night. + +A curse! Fatality has moulded that man's brain, it has left its potent +impress on his skull. + +--With what seal then am I marked? he cried. Is it that of reprobation +which God has stamped upon my face? + +No, simpleton that thou art, it is the phosphorus of thy brain, which +catches fire from time to time. + + + + +IX. + + +DURING VESPERS. + + "There is a beautiful girl of sixteen, + white as milk, rosy as a rose-bud, fresh + as a spring morning,--and chaste as + Vesta." + + A. DELVAU (_Le Fumier d'Ennius_). + +He went up into the pulpit, and preached a sermon on this text: "Blessed +are the pure in heart." He had prepared it the day before, previous to the +arrival of that enchanting player, and his thoughts had been since then too +occupied with very different subjects for him to search for another theme. + +Bitter mockery! What could he say to these good people about hearts pure +and chaste? He tried, all the same, and said some excellent things. He +spoke above all about temptation, which, following the expression of a +Father of the Church, "is only, to commence with, an ant which tickles, and +finishes by becoming a devouring lion." + +"Alas," he said, "how many, without meaning it, have been thus devoured, +beginning perhaps with this pious individual." + +His sermon took great effect. An old woman wept, and several members of the +congregation appeared to sigh and think that it was a long time since they +had been devoured thus. + +He had an inclination to laugh, as he came down from the pulpit, at the +words which he had just uttered on purity of heart, and he wondered that he +had been able to bring so much conviction and warmth to bear upon a subject +to which he was henceforth completely a stranger. + +His own scepticism terrified him, and he saw that he had taken a long step +into evil Nevertheless he did concern himself at that, and from his place +near the pulpit he turned his impassioned gaze with more assurance on the +group of young girls. + +Passion is a brutal level which equalizes us all. There remained in him +nothing more of the priest, there only remained the man full of desires, +and he flung his desires in riot upon that gyneceum which he thought +belonged to him. + +In certain village churches, all the young girls are placed apart, near the +choir, sometimes even in the choir itself, under the eyes of the priest, as +if they wished to leave the most convenient choice to that never satiated +Priapus. + +The handsome Curé of Althausen made his choice therefore at his ease and +without the least shame. + +This one was fair and pale, that other dark and high in colour; this one +was thin and delicate, that one fat and plump; this one was prettier, that +other more graceful. He knew not upon which to stop. He would have wished +for them all, for they all had that provoking beauty which pleases the +devil so much: exuberant youth. + +And he could not grow weary of contemplating all these fresh faces; his +look, more than once, encountered sweet looks, and then he experienced a +delicious shock which stirred his heart. + +It was not only the faces which excited his longings. In spite of himself, +the opulent breast of the fair player entered his imagination and his +thoughts seemed to search each one's neckerchief, seeking this powerful +nourishment for his appetite. He bad tried to drive away these abominable +desires, but it was in vain: the forbidden fruit was there and something +seemed to tell him that he had only to stretch out his hand to seize it. + +As he tried to escape from this diabolical hallucination, he remarked +all at once in the gallery set apart for the wives of the principal +inhabitants, a young girl, a stranger, whose beauty struck him. + +She was pale and dark, and her full lips, of a brilliant red, were lightly +pencilled with a black down. + +Her deep, burning eyes darted flames, and were fixed on the priest with a +persistency which made him blush. + +The erotic fever which had possessed him disappeared at once. He was +ashamed of himself and of his secret thoughts, for it seemed to him that +this stranger read to the bottom of his soul. + +This flaming look which he had caught sight of, weighed upon him like +remorse. + +In the evening, at the _Salut_ he saw again the same face and the same +burning eyes, fastened on his own; but be thought he discovered that there +was nothing terrible about them, and that what in his trouble he had taken +for inquisition and wrath, might in reality be nothing but tenderness and +sweetness. + +He made skilful enquiries regarding the stranger; she was Mademoiselle +Suzanne Durand, who had just completed her education at Saint-Denis, the +daughter of Captain Durand, "a bad parishioner," his servant told him, "who +paid little regard to the service and treated the priests as humbugs." + + + + +X. + + +IN PARENTHESIS. + + "Is it meet for you to be among such + vicious people? Envy, anger and + avarice reign among some; modesty + is banished among others; these + abandon themselves to intemperance + and sloth, and the pride of these + rises to insolence. It is all over; + I will dwell no longer among the + seven deadly sins." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +I must take my courage with both hands to continue to unfold before you the +events however simple of this simple tale. Already I hear the eternal flock +of hypocrites and fools protesting and crying out at outraged morality. I +know them, these indignant voices of the defenders of morality. They arise +every time that we unveil the vilenesses, that we expose the gangrenes of +our institutions; corrupt magistracy, vicious clergy, rotten army; +tottering tripod which holds up that worm-eaten scaffolding which is called +_social order_. + +But the sages of the present day and a great number of those of former +times have always made me laugh, particularly where beneath the mask of the +venerable philosopher or the hood of the austere monk, I discovered the +grin of the rogue. + +I shall stop my ears then to their clamours and I shall continue the task I +have undertaken. + +Nevertheless, some sincere persons may object: "What sort then is this +cynical priest which you display to us? Is there nothing then remaining to +him, and in default of modesty and morality, in default of his energy, +which has foundered thus all at once, could he not still lay hold of the +wrecks of faith?" + +Faith? It had fled away long ago, since the day when he had laid aside his +dress of catechumen, and, initiated in the secrets of the sanctuary, he had +laid hand on the priestly jugglings. + +Then he had been filled with an infinite sorrow. But he had prudently +repressed it deep within, and in this centre of devout hypocrisy and holy +intrigue, he had covered himself again, like all the rest, with a varnish +of sanctity. + +Faith! What priest is he who, amidst the religious pageants, the public +falsehoods and the private apostacies, the burlesque scenes behind the +stage preceding the solemn performance, what priest is he who has preserved +his faith? + +What priest is he, upright and wishing to remain upright--there are such +lost in obscure positions--who has not said quietly to himself, in his +inmost being, all alone with his conscience, what the Curé of Althausen +often repeated to himself: + +"Faith, bitter mockery! to believe by order, without examination and +without reply! + +"Annihilation of the individual, murder of the thought, criminal denial of +the intelligence, the most sublime of man's gifts! + +"Oh miseries of the soul! filth of the body! vileness of the spirit! +unfathomable depths of human folly! What am I and what are we, and whom do +we wish to deceive? + +"What are we, we who say to others, 'Be just, humble, chaste, pitiful? Have +faith.' Oh! priests, my brethren, and you, my masters, you have tried to +close my soul as we close a book, to extinguish my thought like a too +lively flame and to bend my rebellious reason; but my soul unfolds in spite +of you; the book swollen with doubts, bursts under the clasp, my thought +rekindles at the first spark, and my reason rises to its full height to +protest from the deeps of darkness where you would bury it. + +"For I have followed you step by step in the tortuous ways of your dark +lives. I have listened to your words and I have seen your deeds, and the +deeds gave the lie to your words. + +"Then I said to myself: Perhaps we are living in an evil period. The curse +is upon this age. And I have sought to relieve my thoughts in less gloomy +pictures. I have ransacked history to find there the golden age of +Catholicism. But the pages of Catholic history are stained with mire and +blood. The dealers of the temple, more powerful than Christ, have in their +turn driven him out of the sanctuary. Humanity, imprisoned in the round of +hypocritical conventions and nefarious laws, revolves unceasingly on +itself, the eternal Ixion fastened to the eternal wheel. + +"Whither are we going? Whither are we going in the ocean of social +tempests, of political knaveries, of religious falsehoods? Centuries pass, +empires fall, nations disappear, religions, at first blazing torches, then +smoky harmful lamps, die out one by one, generations succeed generations +with hands stretched out towards the future whence the new light must +spring, and the future, gloomy gulf, will swallow up all, men and things, +worlds and gods. + +"I have ransacked history and I have discovered that yesterday as to-day, +there were among those men who call themselves shepherds of souls, pride, +falsehood, injustice, thirst of riches, hatred and luxury, but neither +belief, nor truth, nor faith." + +Do not cry out, saintly souls, virtuous prelates, gentle apostles, frank +and rosy curates, but let him among you who is without any of his sins, +rise up and cast the first stone at the Curé of Althausen. + + + + +XI. + + +THE FLESH. + + "The man tries in vain, he must yield to his nature: + A woman excites him untying her girdle." + + VICTOR HUGO. + +Eight days had passed away. + +Eight days, during which he had tried with supreme efforts to silence his +senses, and to chain down his wild thoughts. + +He had become calmer and more master of himself. + +The species of vertigo which had seized him is an accident frequent enough +among young priests, who in spite of all the seductions which surround them +and the occasions of falling, wish to remain steadfast in duty. + +"For we do not deny ourselves the inclinations of nature with impunity, it +is an age at which the physical delights of love become necessary to every +well organized being, and it is never but at the expense of health, and of +the repose of the whole life, that we can he faithful to the vows of +perpetual chastity."[1] + +The crisis, according to the temperament of the _subject_, is more or less +violent, and occurs again several times, until he finally yields to the +temptation, or again until madness seizes him. + +Then everybody is terrified to learn one day in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ +the horrible details of some crime so abominable that one would believe it +sprung from the horrors of a nightmare. + +Let them not be astonished! the wretch who has committed it was in reality +overcome by hallucination. In the struggles of the will against the +appetites, the reason expires. + +Madness has clasped the brain, too feeble to strive against the flesh in +revolt, and the latter has avenged itself as the brute avenge itself by the +act of a brute. + +"The torch of reason completely extinguished, the victim of senseless vows +has brought the piece to an end by a catastrophe which alarms modesty, +astonishes nature and disconcerts religion."[2] + +Meanwhile, I repeat, the Curé seemed calmer: to the crisis had succeeded a +kind of depression and languor. + +He resumed his studies with more eagerness, and only went out in order to +go from the parsonage to the church, conscientiously occupying himself in +his profession. + +His senses were slumbering again. + +But the mischievous devil was at his heels and did not lose sight of him. + +The old serpent, says the apostle, finds the means of tempting by the very +virtues which we possess, even to making them the occasions of sin to us; +how would he not tempt us when it is sin itself which dwells in our heart? + +[Footnote 1: _Dictionnaire des Sciences Médicales_. Vol. VI.] + +[Footnote 2: The inconveniences of compulsory chastity are more or less +grave according to different cases: with youthful subjects, vigorous, and +fed on succulent foods, mental derangement under the most horrible forms, +such as Satyriasis, Priapism, Erotomania, Nymphomania and even death may +quickly result from it. Instances are numerous. (Sciences médicales).] + + + + +XII. + + +THE TEMPTATION. + + "Alas! to return alone to our deserted home + With no open window to herald our approach, + If, when from the horizon we behold our roof, + We cannot say, 'My return gladdens my home'." + + LAMARTINE (_Jocelin_). + +It was at Sunday's Mass, in the sanctuary itself, that he waited for his +prey. The priest had scarcely reached the steps of the altar, his hands +laden with the holy vessels, when, lifting his eyes to the gallery, he +encountered the look he dreaded. + +Suzanne Durand was there, fixing on him her eyes, filled with magnetic +force. + +He returned once again full of trouble. + +His servant, surprised at his agitation, overwhelmed him with inquisitive +questions; he escaped from her and hastened towards the woods. He cast +himself on the moss at the foot of an old oak and began to reflect. The +dark eyes followed him everywhere. + +"Whither am I going?" he said to himself. "Why does the sight of this young +girl agitate my heart in this way?" And he examined his heart and found it +saturated with bitterness, disgust, weariness and regret, and in the midst +of all that, something unknown was springing up. It was like a germ of hope +which all at once had risen out of nothingness, a fleeting light which +flickered in the dense gloom of his life. + +He heard the sound of a voice at some distance, a fresh, gay, melodious +voice, to which a deeper note was answering. Spring, youth and love were +mingling their accents together. Between the foliage he saw them slowly +passing. They did not see him. Absorbed in the contemplation of themselves, +arm in arm, with joined hands, their faces together, they passed along with +bright looks, and open hearts, rejoicing in the seventh heaven. + +Now and again they stopped, and he all in play, took hold of her thick knot +of hair, drew her head backwards and gave her a long kiss on the lips. He +did not tire of it, but she pushed him back with all her strength, putting +her hand on his mouth and saying to him, "That's enough, naughty boy, +that's enough." The Curé knew them well. She was the best and prettiest +girl in his congregation, and he, the happy rogue, sang in the choir. And +he began to envy the happiness of this rustic; he would have wished to be +for a moment this rude ignorant peasant, and who knows, for a moment? why +not always? Would he not be happier going each morning to till the fruitful +soil, to sow the furrow, and then to cut the sheaves of the golden harvest, +than to vegetate as he was, casting his sterile grain upon arid souls. + +After the hard toil of the day, when he returned in the evening to his roof +of thatch, he would meet with a smile of welcome, the smile of a loved +wife, which would compensate him for his fatigues. + +He followed them with his eyes, full of envy and bitterness at heart, and +when they had buried themselves behind the young underwood, when he no +longer heard the sound of steps, or fresh bursts of laughter, he rose and +sadly resumed his way to the village. + +Evening had come. The twilight was stretching its dark veil over all. The +peasants dressed in their Sunday clothes were chatting on their door-steps +while they waited for supper. Near the inns there rose the confused sound +of gamblers' voices and drunkards' songs; but here and there through the +windows he saw the bright fire of vine-twigs blazing merrily on the hearth, +while the mother or the eldest daughter poured the steaming soup into the +large blue-flowered plates ranged on the white wood table. + +He saw it all, and he walked with slow steps to his solitary abode. + +He thought of his life wasted, of the years of his prime which were passing +away, without leaving any more traces than the skimming of the swallow's +wing leaves upon the verdant brook. + +Oh! the fleeting time which carries all away, the hour which glides away +dull and empty, the barren youth which flies, and the white hairs which +come with disillusion, discouragement and despair. "Stay, stay, oh youth; +stay but another day!" + +But what matters his youth to him? What joys has it brought him; what +pleasures has he tasted? has he breathed the burning breath of life, of +that fair life at twenty which unfolds like a ripe pomegranate, and casts +to the warm sun its treasures and its perfumes? + + + + +XIII. + + +THE RESOLUTION. + + "My life was blighted, my universe + was changed; I had entangled myself + without knowing it in an inextricable + drama. I must get out of it at any + cost, and I had no way of unravelling + it. I resolved by all means to find one." + + J. JANIN (_L'Ans morte_). + +He sat by his desolate hearth and began to think with terror of the eternal +solitude of that hearth. Alone! always alone! Already he had said to +himself very often that he had chosen the wrong road, that this arid and +desolate path was not the one needful to his ardent soul, that the hopes +with which he had formerly been deluded, were falsehoods in reality, and +that the God whom they had made him believe that he loved with such ardour, +left his soul empty and barren. + +To love God! The love of God! High-sounding, hollow words which enable +hypocrites to take advantage of the common people; fantastic passion +kindled in the heart of fools for the amazement of the simple! + +Ah! how willingly would he have replaced the worn-out vision of this +chimerical phantom with the likeness of some young girl, with sweet look +and smile, full of promise. + +And the burning memory of the wanton player came and blended with the fresh +and radiant memory of the charming pupil of Saint-Denis. + +"But why, priest, dost thou permit thy fevered guilty imagination to wander +thus? Pursue thy course, pursue it without stopping, without looking back; +henceforth it is too late to retrace thy path; anyhow be chaste, be chaste +under pain of shame and infamy. + +"Thou must not be chaste in view of recompense like a slave, thou must be +chaste without expectance."[1] + +He took up a book, his sovereign remedy in hours of temptation. It was the +life of St. Antony, written by his companion, St. Athanasius. + +"The demons presented to his mind thoughts of impurity, but Antony repulsed +them by prayer. The devil excited his senses, but Antony blushed with +shame, as though the fault were his own, and strengthened his body by +faith, by prayer and by vigil. The devil, seeing himself vanquished thus, +took the shape of a young and lovely woman and imitated the most lascivious +actions in order to beguile him, but Antony raising his thoughts towards +heaven and considering the loftiness and excellence of the soul which is +given to us, extinguished these burning coals by which the devil hoped to +inflame his heart through this deception, and drove away the devilish +creature." + +Marcel shrugged his shoulders and closed the book. How many times already +he had tried all those means without success. + +He leant his burning forehead on his hands and, in self-contemplation, +tried to see to the bottom of his soul. + +Chaste! always chaste! What! Was the flower of his youth wasted away thus, +in incessant, barren struggles? If only peace of heart, and a quiet +conscience remained to him; if quietude sat by his hearth, as his masters +many a time had promised him! But no, alone with himself, he felt himself +to be with an enemy. + +For many years, it had been so, and a lying voice had cried to him without +ceasing: "Wait for happiness, for sweet pure joys, wait for it till +to-morrow: to-morrow all this fury will have passed away, these raging +blasts which rise to thy brain will have vanished; thy vanquished senses +will leave thee in peace, and calm and strong, thou shalt rejoice over an +untroubled conscience and over the satisfaction of duty fulfilled." + +And he had waited in vain. Now he had reached ripe age, and the future is +visible ever more gloomy; to-morrow has come, as sad, as empty, and as +desolate as yesterday. + +He was tired at last of waiting, patiently, humbly, resigned like the beast +of burden which awaits the slaughterhouse. Beasts of burden! Are we not +that, all we who with brow bent under humiliation, injustice, thankless +toil; with the heart embittered by tedious deception and tedious despair, +miseries of heart and miseries of body, wait, wait ever, wait vainly for a +more brilliant sun to shine at last, until at the end of the day there +rises before us the only guest we have never expected, on whom we counted +not,--the solution of the great problem, the radical cure for all our +ills--DEATH. + +Death, which with its brutal hand, seizes us at the moment when perhaps at +last we are going to rest ourselves and rejoice. + +No, that shall not be. He will not continue to vegetate without happiness +in these dull, common-place surroundings; to walk at random in this road +bristling with thorns; to pursue his disheartening career, enclosed by +miserable vices. + +Nothing around him but stupid, vulgar prosiness, foolish moral +annihilation. No poetry, no golden ray, no rainbow! Everything most low, +unsightly, pitiful. Such was his lot as priest. + +Complaints of the soul, wandering flashes of the imagination, criminal +aspirations of the heart, sinful desires ... these ... that was all. + +Was this then life? + +Was it for this that God had created him, that his mother had drawn him +painfully forth from her entrails, that nature had one day counted one +intelligent being the more? + +Ah! he felt full well it was not so. He felt full well it was not so by his +thirst for emotions and enjoyment, by his altered lips, by his aspirations +for an unknown world. He was in haste to strip off for once at least this +old man's shell which enveloped him, this black, hideous, hardened covering +of the bad priest, beneath which he felt his vitality, his youth, his +strength, his heart of thirty, bounding, boiling, roaring, like burning +lava. + +The next day be remembered that though it was nearly six months since he +had taken possession of his cure, his pastoral visits were not yet +completed. + +In fact, he had gone everywhere, even to Captain Durand's. Only, he had +found the door closed and, after the information he received, he had fully +resolved not to go there again. + +[Footnote 1: The Antigone of Soto.] + + + + +XIV. + + +THE CAPTAIN. + + "The disposition of a man of sixty + is nearly always the happy or sad + reflection of his life. Young people + are such as Nature has made them; + old men have been fashioned by the + often awkward hands of society." + + ED. ABOUT (_Trente et Quarante_). + +The old Captain was in fact a bad parishioner, as his servant had told him, +and had only one good quality in the eyes of that careful housekeeper, +"that he was always shining like a new halfpenny." + +Durand, in fact, was what is called in a regiment "a smart soldier," which +means to say "a clean soldier." And still, one of his most important +occupations was to brush his things. The son of peasants, without +patronage, fortune or backstairs influence, he had raised himself, a rare +and difficult thing nowadays; therefore he was proud of himself, and would +say to anyone who would listen to him: "I am the son of my own deeds." + +He had been one of those serious-minded officers of whom Jules Noriac +speaks, who instead of dividing their many spare hours between the goddess +of play and the goddess of the bar, employ themselves in regimental +reforms. + +The dimensions of a spur-rowel, the length and thickness of a +trouser-strap, the improvement of a whitening for belts which does not +fall off, were questions which had more importance and interest for him +than a question of State. + +The slave of his duties, he was excessively severe in the service, and this +stiffness and severity he had brought, it was said, into his household. + +With these military qualities; passive obedience, scrupulous cleanliness +and the vulgar courage necessary for a son of Mars, Durand, with a good +reputation and full of zeal, had had when very young, a rapid advance. At +one moment he had foreseen a brilliant future, but his ambitious hopes had +been quickly deceived. He saw the Baron de Chipotier, the Comte de +Boisflottant, and the son of Pillardin, the lucky millionaire, successively +come into the regiment, and these sprigs of lofty lineage, full of +brilliancy and loquacity, naturally eclipsed the modest qualities of the +obscure upstart soldier. Spending their life in cafés, overwhelmed with +debt, loved by the women, they laughed among themselves at all the +_minutiae_ of the service, which they treated as beneath their notice, +ridiculed their superiors, and especially the serious-minded officers. +Everything was forgiven them, they were rich. Durand was filled with +indignation; he saw everything he had respected become an object of sarcasm +to these young men, and his most cherished convictions turned into +ridicule. He was like those devout persons who, when they hear an unseemly +oath or an impious word, tremble and pray heaven not to cast its avenging +lightning; he asked himself if social order was not overthrown, if the army +was not marching to its ruin. He began to talk of his apprehensions, of +this pitiable state of things, and they laughed in his face. But when these +frivolous, turbulent, incapable officers became his chiefs, chiefs over +him, the studious, model officer, the upright man, the slave to the +regulations, he began to mistrust everything, society, France, the empire, +the justice of God, and himself. It was from this period that the crabbed +character dated, by which he was known. + +He passed a long season thus, full of anger and jealousy: then the time for +his retirement arrived, that time to which all the forgotten, the obscure, +the pariahs of the army look forward during long years, and which casts +them forth into the social world, ignorant and strangers. + +Then he had retired to his own village, dividing his time between the +tending of his garden, and the cares which were occasioned him by his +daughter Suzanne. + + + + +XV. + + +MEMORIES. + + "Often risen from humble origin, he + has gained the respect of all and the + public esteem; but this cannot prevent + his having a restless spirit; he misses + the duty which has called him for + so long at the appointed hour. Around + him are scattered the memorials of + his regiment, his eye catches them + and a mist comes over it." + + ERNEST BILLAUDEL (_Les Hommes d'épée_). + +He was up by dawn, and the villagers on their way to their fields sometimes +stopped to cast an inquisitive look over his garden palings. They saw +him dressed in a linen jacket, with the glorious ribbon adorning his +button-hole, weeding his flower-garden, turning up his walks, pruning his +trees, clearing his flowers of caterpillars, watering his borders, with +great drops of sweat pouring down, bending over his labour like a negro +under the lash. + +"What a pity!" they said, "for a rich man to give himself so much trouble! +If it only repaid him!" And they shouted to him: "Good-morning, Captain +Durand, how are you to-day?"--"Pretty well, thank you," replied Durand, in +a peevish tone.--"Still warm to-day, Captain; but you had it warmer in +Africa, didn't you?" At the word Africa, the old soldier's eyes brightened, +his forehead lost its wrinkles, and a smile came to his lips. All his past +rose before him. Africa, the Bedouins, the gunshots, the razzias, the bare +desert, the fresh oases, the life in camp, the glasses of absinthe, the +days of rain and sun, the ostrich chases, the watch for the jackal and the +races over the plain. All this, helter-skelter, in crowds, crossing, +following, multiplying, like the sheaves of sparks which burst forth from a +rocket. + +Ah! Ah! that was the happy time. And then he would stop and forget his +work, his flowers, his grafts, and his espaliers; he would forget the +peasants who were there, laughing quietly and nudging one another, and +saying: "The old man is gone in the head." + +For they understood nothing of the tear, which all at once trickled from +the corner of his eye-lid, a bitter drop which overflowed from the too full +cup of his heart. + +Ah! youth has but one time, and they do well, who when the sun gilds their +brow, cast their sap to its warm caresses. The winter, gloomy shadow, will +come but too soon to freeze their slowly opened buds, leaving only a trunk, +dry and bare. + +Then, when nothing more than a few warm cinders remain at the bottom of the +human engine, we try to warm ourselves again at this cold hearth, and to +search among those dying sparks which we call memories. + +And these memories of a time for ever fled, these lights which gladden or +stir again your old heart sad and cold, these are the simple and fruitful +beliefs, the transports of the soul, the insane devotions, the ardent +passions, and all those orgies of heart and sense, all those frenzies of +imagination, and all those follies of youth, which cause the wise to cry +out so loudly, and which are the only feast-days of life. + +Hasten then, young man, hasten; take the good which comes to thee, and be +not decoyed by idle fancies; wait not till to-morrow to be glad. To-morrow +is the age of ripeness, of the falling fruit, the wrinkled brow, the faded +flower; it is the vanished locks; it is the blood which grows cold, the +smile which comes not back; it is in fine the worm of deceptions, which is +ever growing larger and gnawing what may be left of thy heart. + + + + +XVI. + + +THE EPAULET. + + "Really, yes! I love my calling. This + active adventurous life is amusing, + do you see? there is something as + regards discipline itself which has its + charm; it is wholesome and relieves + the spirit to have one's life ordered in + advance with no possible dispute, and + consequently with no irresolution or + regret. Thence comes lightness of + heart and gaiety. We know what we + must do, we do it, and we are content." + + EMILE AUGIER et JULES SANDEAU (_Le Gendre de M. Poirier_). + +And Durand threw down his rake or his spade. + +--Well! here you are already, cried the old housekeeper; breakfast is not +ready. + +--My paper? he said shortly. + +Sometimes the paper had not yet arrived; then he sat down near the window +and watched impatiently for the carrier. There he is, coming out of the +next street. He goes down with all haste to open the door himself, and take +the precious _Moniteur_. + +For it is the _Moniteur de l'Armée_! and he unfolds it with the respect +which we owe to holy things, and he reads it all religiously from the first +article to the everlasting advertisement of _Rob Boyreau Laffecteur_. He +reads it all, not because he is studying tactics or has need of Rob, but +because he has set himself the task of reading it all. His servant brings +him his morning coffee and brandy, and he believes himself still at father +Etienne's or mother Gaspard's, at the garrison café; this makes him quite +sprightly. + + "Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + Another glass! + Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + To midnight it wants a quarter!" + +But it is not the long, tedious military articles which first attract his +eye, nor the ministerial decrees, nor the studies on the sabretache, nor +the biographies of celebrated skin breeches, nor the improvement of gaiter +buttons, nor the changes of police caps; PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES, that is +what he wants. + +PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES! divine rubrics which have caused so many hearts to +beat. + +You all recollect it, my old brothers in arms, who have waited long, like +me. Years and years have passed. At length the hour is come and the +newspaper which is going to transform your life. That folded paper gleams +with all the fires of hope, it glitters like a sun, for it contains the +magic word which out of nothing is going to make you everything, to draw +you out of the obscure ranks to place you in the brilliant phalanx, which, +from a passive despised instrument, is going to create you an active and +respected head. + +How you are dazzled as you open it; with what palpitations and haste you +look for the blessed page, skipping the regiments, glancing over the ranks, +flying over the names in order to arrive at your own. Ah! you know well +where it ought to be; it is among the last; but what does it matter, it is +here above all that the last can arrive first. + +Here it is! here it is at last! What intoxication! young and old, we all +were twenty once. + +And meanwhile.... + +And meanwhile, the best days of your youth are lost in barren, vulgar, +common-place, at times repulsive occupations. Your spirit is extinguished, +your responsibility as an intelligent man is destroyed at settled hours by +the sound of the bugle or of the trumpet, those flourishes of gilded +servitude; and beneath the heavy hammer of passive obedience your temples +are already growing grey; you have wrinkles on your forehead and on your +heart, for you have reached that part of the cup of life, at which one +drinks little else than bitterness ... But you forget all that; a new life +full of enchantment is beginning. You are an officer! an officer! Ah! those +who have never borne the harness, do not know what fairy-land that magic +word contains. But you--you know it, and you took at your name, you spell +each letter of it and you say: "At last! It is I, it is really I! +Sub-lieutenant! I am sub-lieutenant!" + +Thus, ten to fifteen years of struggles, tribulation, obstacles, +humiliations, devotion, dangers, in order to reach the salary of a grocer's +clerk! + +But the old Captain, what was he looking for in the columns of the Service +newspaper? + +He had nothing to expect. No new promotion could swell his aged breast. He +had completed his career. Like a rejected charger whose ear has been slit, +or whose right flank has been branded, he had been laid aside for ever. +Henceforth he had nothing else to do but to plant his cabbages, until his +legs were seized by anchylosis, absolutely forgotten. + +And so with all those who go away. + +Amidst the thousand incidents of military life, so filled in its leisure +and so empty in its employments, has anyone the time to give a thought to +the absent one who must return no more? His place is taken; a new face is +seated there where we used to see him, and his is no longer familiar to us. +A few years hence and his name will be known no more. The army is for the +young! + +But does he forget? Does a man forget his youth, his glory, his dearest +memories, his whole life? Retired into some country nook, completely buried +in an obscure market-town, or become the modest citizen of some provincial +city, the old officer follows afar off with solicitude and envy the +different fortunes of his brothers in arms, living ever in thought amidst +that forgetful and ungrateful family which he loves as much as his own--the +Regiment. + +And that is why you, brave veterans, understand it well, that is why +Captain Durand used to read the _Moniteur_. + + + + +XVII. + + +THE VOLTAIRIAN. + + "For them religion is the most skillful + of juggling, the most favourable veil, + the most respectable disguise under + which man can conceal himself to lie + and deceive." + + BARNUM (_Les Blagues de l'Univers_). + +But, as I have said, he was a bad parishioner, a bunch of tare in the field +of God, a scabby sheep in the flock of the Lord. + +Taking no heed of his religious duties, reading the _Siècle_, speaking evil +of priests and refusing the blessed bread, he was the scandal of the godly +and not one of them in the village augured any good of him. + +Never did a publican from Belleville or a novice of freemasonry proclaim +with so much boldness his contempt for the things which everybody +venerates. He did not uncover himself in presence of funerals, saying he +did not want to bow to the dead; he called the church the priests' bank, +the altar a parade of mountebanks, the confessional the antechamber to the +brothel. + +"That man will perish on the scaffold!" the former Curé of the village +cried out one day in righteous indignation. + +How had he come by this hatred, vigorous as that which Alcestis demands +from virtuous souls against hypocrites and evil-doers? What had the +_black-coats_ done to him? He did not say, and perhaps he would have been +embarrassed to say. There are certain natures which will love at any price, +there are others on the contrary which need to hate. He was doubtless one +of the latter, and he discharged all his excess of gall on the servants of +Jesus. + +"They are criminals," he cried, "all without exception, from the first to +the last. Hypocrisy engenders wickedness. It is a sore which spreads and +becomes leprosy. Everything which touches it catches it. Those who +associate with hypocrites become hypocrites, and then scoundrels, slowly +but surely by infection. That is the logic of the scab. It is not necessary +to dress up in a black gown and to swallow God in public to make a perfect +priestling, it is enough to rub against the priest's cap. Look at the +sacristans, the beadles, the lackeys of the Bishop's palace, the hirers of +chairs, the choir-men, the sellers of tapers, the tradesmen by appointment +to the religious houses, the beggar who stretches out his hand to you at +the door, and the man who hands you the holy-water sprinkler, have they not +all the same hypocritical face, the same cunning, devoutly sanctimonious +look? Well! scratch the skins of the godly and you will find the hide of +the scoundrel." + +An honourable man and brutally frank like many old soldiers he had kept in +private life the tone and ways of barracks and camps. As he said himself, +he did not mince the truth to anybody, and he repeated readily, without +understanding it, the saying of Gonsalvo of Cordova, the great captain, +"_The cloth of honour should be coarsely woven_." + +When one evening, on returning home, he found the card of the Curé, he +nearly fell backwards. + +--What, he has had the audacity to come to my house, this holy water +merchant. They have not told him then what I am! + +--Good heavens, I cried, my dear Captain, what has this poor man done to +you? + +--To me! nothing at all. I don't know him. He is part of the holy +priesthood; that is enough for me. He is a scoundrel like the rest. + +--But it is not enough to call a man scoundrel, you must prove that he is. + +--Don't trouble me about your proofs. Do you suppose I am going to rummage +into this gentleman's private life and see what passes in his alcove? No, +indeed, I have no desire to do so, and I leave that care to my cook. + +--Come, Captain, you admit that this is to vilify a man on rather slender +grounds. There are fagots and fagots, and so there are Curés and Curés. +This one, I assure you, is an excellent fellow. + +--It may be so, but as I have no desire to make his acquaintance, I laugh +at his good qualities. + +--Everybody is not of your opinion, and it appears that all the women are +distracted about him. + +--Another reason why I detest him; women usually place their affections +very badly. + +--And he turns the heads of all the girls. + +--That is good! Oh, the good Curé. He reminds me of the one at Djidjelly +when I was a non-commissioned officer, the greatest girl-hunter that I have +ever known. The Kabyles used to call him _Bou-Zeb_, which means capable of +the thirteenth labour of Hercules, and they held him in high esteem, but +when he went near their tents they used to make all the women go inside. +Ah! that was a famous Curé! I wish that ours resembled him, and that he +would get a child out of all the girls, and that he would make cuckolds of +all the husbands. + +--Why so? + +--To teach these idiots to let their wives and their daughters be idle and +dance attendance at the churches, and relate all the details of their +household and their little sins to these bullies, as to their grand-dad. + +--I grant there is some danger when the confidant is a handsome bachelor. + +--There is no need to be handsome, sir. With the women, the cassock gives +charms to the ugliest. I have known a sweet and lovely creature become mad +after one of these rogues who had a head like a pitchfork. He did with her +what he wished. He made her devout, shrewish, and the worst of whores. Yes, +yes, they say that the red breeches get over the women, but the black gown +bewitches them. Explain that if you can. They want to know what is +underneath that wicked cassock. Something strange, mysterious, monstrous +attracts them. Women love enormities, and besides it must be said, +especially and above all, forbidden fruit. + +The Captain had mounted his favourite hobby, I could only let him go on. + +--They are vice incarnate, and know how to employ every means to seduce. +Religion, the confessional, the bible, the Mass, Vespers, the New +Testament, all the holy business is an auxiliary for them. For instance, +conceive anything more disgusting than that pardon promised beforehand to +guilty women. Play the whore all your life, deceive your husband, have +fifty lovers, provided that at the end you lament your faults, God will +have only tenderness for you, and will receive you with open arms. I should +like to know if by chance their Jesus had taken a wife, what would have +been his opinion then of the woman taken in adultery; but he remained +single and consequently incompetent to decide upon that delicate matter. +All that, you see, is an encouragement to debauchery and a stimulant to +lewdness. A devout woman, when she is young and pretty, is on a slope which +leads quite straight to Monsieur le Curé's bed. + + + + +XVIII. + + +THE VISIT. + + "Stupefied, the pedant closed his + mouth, and opened his eyes." + + LÉON CLADEL (Titi Foyssac IV). + +If there are any beings as blind as the husbands, they are certainly the +fathers; with the latter, as with the former, blindness reaches its utmost +limits. Since Molière no one laughs at them any more, and I don't know why, +for they always deserve to be laughed at, while all the sarcasms have +fallen on the head of the unhappy husbands. + +Folly and injustice! Conjugal love is as respectable as paternal affection. +Love is as good as affection, and what the heart chooses is quite as good +as what the blood gives you. + +Why then do they complain if it is papa who is deceived, and laugh if it is +a husband. Exactly the contrary ought to occur. Paternal love is egotistic. +It is for the most part vanity and self-love. The father looks for his own +likeness in his offspring, and if he believes himself to be an eagle, his +son naturally must be an eaglet. Most frequently he is only a foolish +gosling, but the father insists on finding on him an eagle's plumes. If +then he is deceived in his hopes, which are only a deduction from his own +infatuation, it is certainly permissible to laugh at it. + +While the husband.... + +This is what I observed to Durand, which put him in a great passion. + +--Because my daughter has gone to Mass? And you say: "fathers are blind." +Here is a self-contradictory individual. One can see plainly that you are +not a father, or you would alter your theories. Hang it! You can't say I am +enchanted at it, but you must put yourself in a man's place. She is a +child, who leaves school, mark that well, where she was obliged, compelled +to perform her religious duties, and one does not break off in a couple of +days the habits of ten years like that. Give her time to reach it. I reason +with her; hang it, I can't do everything in a day. When she goes from time +to time to Mass, on Sunday, it does not follow that she is becoming +religious. I am a free-thinker, but I am a father also, and what would you +have a father do when two pretty arms take hold of your neck and a sweet +little coaxing voice whispers to you, "Let me go there, my darling papa." +Hang it, one is not made of wood, after all! + +--Neither is the Curé made of wood. + +--You make one shiver. Can my daughter have anything in common with your +peasants' Curé? I say again that it is purely for diversion that she goes +to Mass. And I understand it. Where can she show her new dress? And what +place is more favourable for this little display than going into and coming +out of church? + +--Then the Church is a spectacle like another. There are chants, music, +tapers, perfumes, flowers, the half-light which comes through the coloured +windows. + +--Without speaking of the fellows covered with gold-tinsel who repeat in +unknown language the pater-nosters to which no one listens. It is enough to +make one burst with laughing, and, if I had not my cabbages to plant, I +would go myself now and again and entertain myself at these masquerades +which are as good as the theatres at the fair, and to complete the +resemblance, it only costs a couple of sous. + +--But the principal person of the troop attracts the looks, and the danger +is there. + +--Your priestling is young then? + +--And vigorous. Strong appetites. When I see him rambling in the village, I +begin to say: "Good people, the cock is loose, take care of your hens." It +is like your Curé of Djidjelly. + +--I am easy on that ground. The black cock will not come and rub his wings +here. He knows now that he has mistaken the door; they have informed him +regarding me, and he will not be so rude as to come again. + +But just at that moment the servant came into the room quite scared, and +said: + +--Here is Monsieur le Curé. + +--Who? what? said Durand; and turning towards me, Shall I receive him? +Well, we shall have a laugh! + +He was still undecided, when Marcel glided into the room. + + + + +XIX. + + +HARD WORDS. + + "I will speak, Madame, with the liberty + of a soldier who knows but ill how to + varnish the truth." + + RACINE (_Britannicus_). + +The old soldier, upright, with his hand leaning on the back of his +arm-chair, let the priest come forward with all the agreeableness of a +mastiff which is making ready to bite. + +The latter bowed gravely, and, although he felt himself to be in hostile +quarters, took the seat offered him with an easy air. + +Meanwhile his bearing and pleasant look produced their usual effect. + +Imbued with the theories of the army, which of all surroundings is that in +which one judges most by the appearance, where a good carriage is the first +condition of success, where in fact they salute the stripes and not the +man, the Captain was, in presence of this handsome young fellow, recalled +to less aggressive sentiments. + +--Hang it! he said to himself, what a splendid cuirassier this fellow would +have made! What devil of an idea has shoved him into a cassock? + +War being the most sublime of arts, as Maurice de Saxe remarked, there are +few old officers who understand how a man can choose another profession by +inclination. + +--I come, Monsieur le Capitaine, said Marcel, to pay you my visit as +pastor, although perhaps a little late. But you are aware doubtless that I +have had the honour of knocking once already at your door. + +--You should not have troubled yourself, my dear sir, and you should adhere +to that; I belong so little to the holy flock. + +--I owe myself to all, said Marcel smiling, to the bad sheep--I mean to the +wandering sheep, just as to the good ones; to watch over the one, to bring +back and cure the others. + +--Oh! Oh! Well, sir shepherd, you are losing your time finely, for I am a +worn-out goat. + +--There will be more joys in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.... + +--That is the story of the 99 just persons that you are going to tell us; +we know it, and, let me tell you, it is not encouraging for the 99 just +persons. + +The Curé, seeing himself on dangerous ground, hastened to leap elsewhere. + +--This is a charming little house, Captain; it is a sweet retreat after +toilsome and glorious years, for you have had numerous campaigns, have you +not? + +--Fifteen years in Africa, thirty-two campaigns, thirty years' service, two +wounds, one of them received at Rome when we fought for that old bully Pius +IX. + +Marcel had gone astray again; he quickly seized hold of the wounds. + +--Ah! two wounds! And are they still painful? + +--Sometimes, when the weather is stormy. And yours? + +--Mine, Captain! but I have none. I have not had like you the honour of +shedding any blood for our Holy Father. + +--A pretty cuckoo. It doesn't matter, you may have got a wound somewhere +else. + +--Where? enquired Marcel simply. + +--How do I know? We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of +it. + +--Like all accidents. + +--Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a +famous accident. He was a right worthy apostle. He wanted to teach the +catechism to the daughter of our cantinière, a bud of sixteen, and the +little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her +hatch. Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief. +Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as +snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise. A pretty Italian +gave him his reckoning. _Quinte_, _quatorze_ and the _point_. Game +finished. He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face. That was the best +action of his life. Well, old boy, what do you say to that? + +--I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his +countenance. + +--You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I +will be clearer. I see what you want--the dots on the i's. + +Marcel rose up alarmed. + +--No, no, cried Durand. Don't get up. Don't go away. Since you are here, we +must talk a little. Stay, it will not be long. It is the story of a cousin +of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife. Another of your confraternity. He +was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don't know what rank in your +regiment. At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see. Under pretence of +relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits. You can think if that +suited me, who already adored the cassock! Besides, on principle, I +detested cousins. It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid +it like the plague. Monsieur le Curé, if you have a pretty servant, beware +of cousins. I only say that. My wife used to say to me: "What has this poor +boy done to you that you receive him so badly? Are you jealous of him? Ah! +I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot +endure my poor relations." So to have peace I tolerated my cousin. He, +convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little +presents. There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit +of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from +Jerusalem. Nothing wrong so far. My wife availed herself of the concert +tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into +the garden. But soon his gifts changed their character. He brought us some +hairs of St. Pancratius, a tooth of St. Alacoque, a rag which had wiped +something or other off St. Anastasius or St. Cunegunda. My wife clasped her +hands, was in ecstasy and transported with joy, and I went and brought up +my dinner. I foresaw the time when he would bring us extraordinary things; +a louse of St. Labre, a testicle of St. Origen, the coccyx of St. Antony, +the parts of St. Gudule or the prepuce of Jesus Christ. + +The Curé rose again. + +--I see that my presence is _de trop_ here, Captain; pardon my having +disturbed you. + +--Not at all. Good Lord. Not at all. Sit down. It gives me extraordinary +pleasure to talk to you. Besides, I have not finished the story of my +cousin. Sit down, I pray you; I resume. + +He had given a very pretty engraving, a reproduction of a picture by +somebody, _Jesus and the woman taken in adultery_. My wife had had it +framed very carefully, and had hung it up in our bedroom: a bad sign. That +seemed to say to me, "See, my friend, imitate Jesus." One day returning +home very quietly, I surprised both of them, squeezed one against the +other, holding each others hand, looking at the picture with emotion. I +took the little cousin by the shoulders, and I threw him out of doors. I +never saw him again. Do you understand the moral? + +--Yes, Captain, I understand, said Marcel rising again, and this time fully +decided to go away. But the door opened, and Suzanne showed herself on the +threshold. + + + + +XX. + + +KICKS. + + "I should have wished, mischievously, + to put him in the wrong, and that a + thoughtless or insulting word on his + part, should serve as a justification for + the insult which I meditated." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Servitude et Grandeur militaires_). + +She had on her school-girl dress of black, which made the whiteness of her +complexion more dazzling, and imparted something grave and serious to her +beauty. + +She was hardly eighteen, and already by the harmonious outlines of her +bust, by the undulating movements of her hips and above all by the flash of +her great dark eyes, one foresaw in this young girl, still a child to-day, +the woman of to-morrow: a daughter of Eve of our modern civilization; +forward, precocious, charming. + +She was one of those the sight alone of whom is the most radiant and the +most dangerous of spectacles, and who, like others, distilling holiness and +blessings from heaven, shed around them a perfume of love. + +The bright fire of their heart shines out in their look; it reveals itself +in the sound of their voice, in their gestures and in their walk. +Everything in them is soft, trembling, passionate. Sweet creatures who see +only one goal in life, love, and, when the goal is missed, death. + +There are women who are but half women. They are quickly recognized; vulgar +and awkward, they hide under their ungraceful petticoats the instincts of +man, and masculinity is displayed up to their corsage. They form the +fantastical cohort of learned women, of the disciples of Stuart Mill and +rivals of Miss Taylor, hybrid natures which may possess a heart of gold and +a manly soul, but are incapable of being the joy of the hearth. + +Others are women to the tips of their rosy nails, to the root of their +abundant hair; women above all by their faults, that is to say their +weaknesses, and this weakness is one of their attractions. Impressionable +and easily led, they become, according to the surroundings which hold them +and the destiny which urges them, heroines or saints, courtesans or nuns, +but invariably martyrs of that blind despot, their heart. + +They are Magdalene or St. Theresa, Madame de Guyon or Heloïse, the nun in +love with Jesus or the light girl in love with the passer-by. + +In a second the priest had understood this sweet nature, or rather he had +felt it, and his quivering nostrils inhaled the keen perfume of pleasure, +while his look was lost in ecstasy. It was but a flash, but if beneath the +watchful eye of the Captain it appeared impossible, the young girl could +read the dumb language which every woman understands. + +She came forward, blushing. + +--This is my daughter, said the Captain. + +--I believe, said the Curé, with a bow, that I have had the pleasure of +seeing Mademoiselle several times already in our modest church. + +--And you concluded therefore that my daughter was going to increase the +blessed flock. Don't be misled, comrade. + +Suzanne cast a look of reproach upon her father. + +--What! said Marcel, hurt, must not Mademoiselle follow her religion? work +out her salvation? + +--Her salvation? There is a word which always makes me laugh. It reminds me +of my Colonel's wife who, when her husband gave orders for a review and +parade for Sunday, said, "My dear, you want then to deprive the poor +soldiers of the holy Mass, ought they not to work out their salvation?" A +magnificent creature, sir, but too much inclined to the cassock. + +Her husband, however, had nothing to complain of, for one fine morning he +picked up the stars of his epaulets in some sacristy or other. What have +you come for, my child? + +--Nothing, papa. I knew Monsieur le Curé was there and I came in. + +--I was having a little edifying conversation with Monsieur, and you have +interrupted us, but we can talk of something else: You hold the first rank +now, gentlemen, continued the Captain, I must do you that justice; and as +times go, it is better to be the son of a bishop than of a general. I +myself, if I had only had some high influential canon for my father, should +have reached the highest offices. Come, you seem to me to be a good fellow, +and I want to give you a word of advice. If papa is a bishop, make use of +him, and don't stagnate in this village, you will get no good there: I tell +you so on my word of honour! I suppose that with you, promotion is as it is +with us? + +"The cup of humiliation is full," said Marcel to himself. Nevertheless, he +answered, I don't understand exactly what you mean by that. + +--I mean by that that promotion is a lottery from which they begin by +withdrawing all the big numbers to distribute them to Monsieur Cretinard +whose papa is a millionaire, to Monsieur Tartuffe whose papa is a Jesuit, +or to a Marquis de Carabas whose mamma has the good graces of my Lord the +Bishop, and they make the poor devils draw from the rest. It is so in the +army--and with you? + +--Among the clergy, sir, promotion is generally given to merit. + +--I don't believe it; for if it were so, you would be a bishop at least. +Don't blush, it is the general report. + +--Captain.... + +--No false modesty. I hear your virtues praised everywhere. There is a +chorus of praises from every quarter. My friend here was just declaring to +me that all the women are wild about you. + +--Sir ... cried the Curé, blushing up to his ears, and not daring to raise +his eyes to Suzanne, who sat in a corner, convulsively turning over the +leaves of an album. + +--Don't protest, we know that true merit is modest; besides, I was by way +of asking myself, if I should not beg you to complete my daughter's +education. + +--You are making pleasant jokes, Captain, and I ask your pardon for not +being able to rise to the level of these witticisms. I see that my visit +has been unseasonable. It only remains for me to make my excuses and to say +to Mademoiselle, how pained I am to have made her acquaintance under such +unfavourable auspices, but I hope.... + +--Stop that, Monsieur le Curé, interrupted Durand in a curt tone. + +Marcel made a low bow, but as he withdraw, he caught an appealing look from +Suzanne. + + + + +XXI. + + +THE PAST. + + "Look not upon the past with grief, it + will not come back; wisely improve + the present, it is thine; and go onwards + fearlessly and with a strong heart + towards the mysterious future." + + LONGFELLOW (_Hyperion_). + +Marcel returned home exceedingly indignant. Although he had not expected an +over-cordial reception from the old Captain, whose irascible character and +surly ways were known to all, he did not think that he would have carried +so far his disregard of the most elementary propriety. + +"It serves me right," he said to himself, "what business had I there? +Nevertheless, on reflection, I have lost nothing. My reception by this old +dotard has taken away for ever my wish to go back there: and who knows what +might have happened, if I had had free admission to that house, if I had +met a friendly face and a kindly welcome? Oh, fool! I have found all that +in the sweet look of his adorable daughter, that appealing look which +seemed to implore my indulgence and pardon for the malevolent words of that +ill-bred soldier. Come, think no more of it, drive back to the lowest +depths those foolish thoughts which excite the brain. All that he does, God +does well. I was on the brink of the abyss; one step more and I should have +rolled to the bottom. Let me stop then, there is still time. Let me forget, +forget. Forget! better still, I will write and ask to be changed. Could I +forget her if I were to meet again that burning look, which pursues me to +the steps of the altar, and troubles me to the bottom of my soul?" + +He wrote in fact and began his letter ten times afresh. What could he say? +What reason could he bring? He had filled this cure for scarcely six +months. What pretext could he raise before his superiors? And how would any +complaint from him be received at the Palace? + +Night came. He felt himself oppressed by a vague and indefinable grief. + +Then little by little the present vanished. His infancy rose up before him. +He saw it again as in a glass, smiling, simple, pure; and he forgot himself +in these sweet memories. + +In proportion as we advance in life, we are attached to the things of the +past. It clothes itself then with those brilliant colours with which we +love to invest what we have lost. Youthful years, bright with poetry and +sunlight, come and gild the gloomy and prosaic nooks of ripened age, the +twilight of the eternal night. + +The young man full of illusions and dreams pursues his road without casting +a look backwards. What matters, indeed, the past to him? He expects nothing +but from the future. Proud at having escaped from infancy, at arriving at +the age of man, at flying on his wings, he pities the years when he was +small and weak, ignorant and credulous. + +But when he has met with obstacles and ruts on that road which appeared to +him so wide and so fair, when he has torn his heart with the first briars +of life, when his thought has ripened beneath the sun of passions, and his +soul, stripped of its illusions, feels all chilly and bare amidst the ice +of reality, then he returns to the joys of infancy, he warms himself again +with the memory of his mother, and sits once again in the pleasant corner +of the family fire-side, on the little stool of his childhood. + +Marcel saw himself again at the little seminary of Pont-à -Mousson, on the +benches, all blackened with ink, of the school-room, studying with ardour +the _Epitome_ or the _De Viris_ beneath the paternal eye of Father Martin, +a father aged 24, a deacon with curly hair, as timid as a maid. Then he ran +in the long corridors, or in the great square court lined with galleries +shaded by the chapel. He remembered his joy when he had slipped on some +excuse into the Seniors' garden: "Ah! there is little Marcel, come here, +you brat!" And everyone wished to give him a caress. + +Then, the first time when he was called to the honour of serving the Mass. +He had thought of it a week beforehand, full of emotion and fear. At length +the day has come. He is dressed in the white surplice, wearing on his head +the red cap. He would have wished the whole world to see him; but the +pupils alone were present, and that diminished his happiness. + +Father Barbelin, the censor, a severe but just man, officiated. He trembled +in every limb, as he responded the sacramental verses to this formidable +functionary. That was a great business; his little comrades called him in a +whisper from behind: Marcel! Marcel! and laughed and nudged each other, +while the elder ones, their nose in their book, with sanctimonious face and +ecstatic look were wrapt in God. + +Then his success, his entrance to the great seminary at Nancy, his first +sermon in the chapel. His voice trembled at the commencement, but little by +little, growing stronger, taking courage, inspired by the sacred text, he +forgot everything, and the Superior, old Father Richard, who watched him +with his little bright cunning eyes, and the unmoved professors, and his +watchful fellow-students, jeering and scoffing at first, then at last +astonished and jealous. "There is the stuff of an orator in him," the +Professor of Sacred Eloquence had said, "we must push this lad forward." +"He is full of talent and virtue," the Superior had replied, "he will get +on. He is our chosen vessel." And the same day he had dined at the master's +table, and they had spoken of him to Monseigneur. He had in fact been +pushed forward ... and with his talents, his learning, his virtues and his +eloquence, he had come to teaching the catechism to the little peasants of +Althausen! + +Althausen! That was the blow of the hammer which recalled him to reality. +He found himself again the poor village Curé, and he began to laugh. + +"Poor fool!" he cried, "I shall never be but a common imbecile! Is not my +way all traced out? I must continue my career, and let myself go with the +current of life. Is it then so hard? Why delude myself with phantoms? I +will try to slay the muttering passions, to drive away the fits of ambition +which rise to my brain; and perhaps by dint of subduing all that is +rebellious in me, I shall come to follow piously the line marked out by my +superiors. I will watch patiently amidst my flock, by the corner of my +fire, among the Fathers and my weariness. + +"Weariness, that cold demon with the gloomy eye, but I will remain chaste +... and after a life filled with little nothingnesses and little works I +shall pass away in peace in the bosom of the Lord. And there is my life. +Nothing else to choose. No turning aside to the right or to the left. I +must remain a martyr, a martyr to my duty, or an apostate, and infamous +renegade. The triumph or the shame!" + +And, as he just uttered these words with bitterness, a soft voice answered +like an echo: + +--The shame? + +The Curé started and raised his head. His lamp was out, and the dying +embers on the hearth cast only a feeble light into the room. + +He distinguished, however, a few steps from him the outline of a woman's +form. + +--Who is there? he cried with a sort of terror. + +The shadowy outline stood forth more clearly. + +He recognized his servant. + +--Why the shame? she said. + + + + +XXII. + + +THE SERVANT. + + "I have already said that dame + Jacinthe although little superannuated, + had still kept her bloom. It is true that + she spared nothing to preserve it: + besides taking a clyster every day, she + swallowed some excellent jelly during + the day and on going to bed." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +She looked at him fixedly with burning, feverish eyes. + +She was a lusty lass, already arrived at the age of discretion, as Le Sage +says, that is to say, she had passed her fortieth year, the canonical +period for the servants of Curés, but was fair and fresh still, in spite of +some wrinkles and her hair growing gray. She possessed that modest and +appetizing plumpness, somewhat rare among mature virgins, the sign of a +quiet conscience, a good digestion and feelings satisfied. + +What pious souls call holiness exuded from every pore: cast-down eyes, +chaste deportment, gentle movements. She did not walk, she glided over the +ground as if she already felt the wings of seraphim hanging on her +shoulders; she did not speak, she murmured unctuous words with a soft, low, +mysterious voice like a prayer. When she said: "Would Monsieur le Curé he +pleased to come to breakfast? Perhaps Monsieur le Curé could eat a boiled +egg?" or "Ah! the sermon which Monsieur le Curé has been pleased to give +has gone to my heart!" it was in the same tone as she would say: "_Lamb of +God which takest away the sins of the world_...." and one was tempted to +answer: _Kyrie eleison_. + +And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long, +silent look. + +She said so well: "my duty," "I wish to do my duty," that one felt filled +with admiration for this holy maid. + +Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently +penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold. + +Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by +her austere deportment and her substantial charms. More than one buxom +village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the +gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon +this delicate subject with her. + +But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body +and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune +of her pastor. + +She approached the hearth with slow steps, blew on the embers, relighted +the lamp, and placing it so as to throw the light on her master's face, she +said to him anxiously: + +--You are in pain, are you not? + +--You were there then? said the Curé dissatisfied. + +--Yes, she answered him with the affectionate tone of a mother, I was +there, pardon me; I was going to bed, and I heard you talking aloud, there +was no light; I feared you were ill, and I ventured to come in. + +--And you have heard? + +--I have heard that you were not happy, that is all. + +--No one is happy in this world, Veronica. + +--Yes, we are so only in the other, I know that. And yet happiness is so +easy. + +The Curé put his head between his hands without replying. + +The servant went on: + +--Can it be that I, your servant, a poor ignorant village girl, should say +that to you, Monsieur le Curé? + +--What, Veronica? + +--But what matters our condition on earth? We are in a state of transition. +Holy Mary, she too, was a poor servant and now she is far above a queen. + +--Without doubt, said the Curé. + +--We must then despise nobody. Under the most humble appearance, God often +conceals his most faithful servants. + +--Most certainly. But what are you driving at? + +--At this, Monsieur le Curé; that we must be good and indulgent to +everybody: that the great sometimes have need of the little, and that when +we are able to render a service to our neighbour we must do it without +hesitation. + +--It is Jesus who commands it, Veronica. But explain yourself, I pray. + +--Well! yes, I will speak, she replied, for I am pained to see you thus, +and the more so as it is certainly allowed me to tell you so, me who am +destined, please God, to live with you. I have only known you since you +were our Curé, but you have been so good to me that I love you like ... a +sister. I was all alone here, like a poor forsaken creature, after the +death of my old master, the Abbé Fortin--may God keep his soul,--and you +consented to keep me when taking the parsonage. It is good of you, for you +might have brought with you your former servant, or again some niece, as +many do. + +--I have no niece, Veronica. + +--A niece, or a sister, or a relation. After all you have kept me, although +you could have found a better than myself. Oh, very easily, I know ... and +I thank you from the bottom of my heart, yes, from the bottom of my heart. +But could you have found one more devoted, more discreet? I believe not; as +much, perhaps; but more, I believe not. Ah! I tell you here, Monsieur le +Curé, you can do everything you want, nobody shall ever know anything of +it. + +The Curé looked at his servant with amazement. + +--What do you mean by that, Veronica? he asked in a stern voice. + +--Oh! nothing, I mean nothing. I mean that you can have entire confidence +in your poor servant. + +--I thank you, Veronica, but I don't know what you mean. + +--I explain myself badly doubtless, Monsieur le Curé. Ah! pardon me, I was +forgetting ... here, there is a letter which I have just found and which +has been slipped under the door at night. + +He looked at the address. It was an elegant and bold hand, the hand of a +woman. + + + + +XXIII. + + +THE LETTER + + "The beauty then, to end this war, + Offers but a single way which we can hardly guess." + + R. IMBERT (_Nouvelles_). + +A sweet perfume was exhaled from it. + +He opened it with a trembling hand. + +That strange intuition of the heart which is named presentiment, told him +that it came from Suzanne. + +Pale with emotion he read: + + +"MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ, + +"I do not wish the day to pass without coming to ask your pardon for my +father's conduct towards you, and assure you that he does not think a +single one of his wicked words. + +"Do not keep, I pray, an evil memory of me, and believe that I should he +grieved if a single doubt were to remain in your mind as to the sympathy +and respect which you inspire in + +"Suzanne Durand. + +"P.S. I have much need of your counsels." + + +Marcel, full of a delicious trouble, read and re-read this letter. He did +not take careful note of his sensations, but he felt an ineffable joy +overflow his heart, and at the same time a vague anxiety. + +His servant's voice recalled Him to himself. + +--Doubtless it is a sick person who asks for religious aid, she said. + +Was there a slight irony in that question? + +The priest thought he saw it. He called out sharply: + +--You are still there, Veronica? Who has called you? I don't want you any +longer. + +--Pardon me, Monsieuur le Curé, she answered humbly and softly, I was +waiting.... I thought that perhaps you were going out _to visit this sick +person_ and that then I could be useful to you in some way. + +--You cannot be useful to me in any way, Veronica, But truly you astonish +me. What have you then to say to me? Come, explain yourself at once. + +--No, Monsieur le Curé, there is midnight striking. It is time to repose, I +wish you good-night, sir. + +--Good-night, Veronica. + +"What a strange woman," said Marcel to himself, "what can she want with me. +One would say that she had a secret to confide to me and that she does not +dare.... Could she have any suspicion? No, it is impossible. How could she +know what I want to hide from myself. She has caught two or three words +perhaps; but what could she understand, and what have I let drop to +compromise me? She has evidently heard others, for she was here before me, +and these old walls have been witnesses, I am sure, of many groanings of +the soul.... Let us be cautious, nevertheless, and repress within ourselves +the thoughts which would come forth. A wise precept. It was a precept of my +master of rhetoric. Yes, let us be cautious; in spite of this woman's +appearance of devotion, who would trust to such marks of affection? The +servant's enemy is his master; and I clearly see that independently of my +dignity, I must not make the least false step; what torments I should +reserve to myself for the future. + +"And this letter of Suzanne, the adorable and lovely Suzanne! What an +emotion suddenly seized me at the sight of that unknown handwriting, which +I had a presentiment was here. Oh! what a strange mystery is man's heart. +I, a priest, with a nature said to be energetic and strong. I trembled and +was affected like a child, because it has pleased a little school-girl to +write me a couple of lines in order to excuse her father's rudeness. What +is more natural than such conduct? Is it not the act of a well-bred girl? +And yet already my foolish brain is beating the country and travelling into +the land of fancies ... of abominable fancies. + +"She asks me for counsel; doubtless I will give it her. Is it not my duty +and business as priest? but where, but when can I see her?..." + +And he went very thoughtfully to bed, with his head full of dreams. + + + + +XXIV. + + +THE FIRST MEETING. + + "Ah! let him, my child, + Ah! let him proceed. + When I was a Curate + I did much the same." + + ANONYMOUS (_Le chant du Curé_). + +The first person he saw the next day at morning Mass was Suzanne Durand. +She had not yet come to these low Masses, which are affected usually by the +devout, because the church is then more empty, and they feel themselves +more alone with God or with the priest; therefore the Curé was deeply +affected by this pious eagerness. + +It is doubtful whether, on that day, his prayers reached the throne of the +Eternal, for he brought but little fervour to the holy sacrifice. + +A good woman who had given twenty sous to buy a place in the firmament for +her defunct spouse, was quite scandalized to remark that the Curé was +eating in a heedless manner the wafer which, for nearly 2000 years, serves +as a lodging for Christ. + +His words rose with the incense to the arches of the old church, but his +soul remained below, fluttering round that fair young girl, as if to +envelop her with embraces. + +When he had dismissed the faithful with the sacramental words _Ite missa +est_, he felt a momentary confusion and he felt his knees tremble. He was +afraid of himself, for he saw the Captain's daughter rise from her seat and +slowly make her way to the confessional. + +What! It was perfectly true then, she had asked for his counsel, and while +he, the priest, was hesitating and seeking where he could converse with her +without exposing himself to the brutal invective of the father or the +senseless scandals of the village, this simple girl had found, without any +aid from him, the safest spot, the sanctuary of which he had inwardly +dreamed. + +He was then about to listen all alone to the divine accents of that +charming mouth; to see her kneeling before him, her face wreathed with a +modest blush,--before him who had wished to kiss her foot-prints. + +Oh, God supreme! who could depict his transports, his emotion, the thrill +which ran through all his frame. She, she so near to him, so near that her +sweet breath caresses his face like a breeze come from heaven. + +He felt wild with joy. But she also is affected, she also trembles, and +beneath her palpitating breast, he seems to hear the beatings of her heart. +What passed? What avowal did this maiden of ardent feeling make to this +hot-passioned man? There is one of those mysteries which remain for ever +buried between priest and woman, between penitent and confessor. What they +said to one another no one knows, but from that confessional into which he +entered pensive, wavering, it is true, but still contending, he went out +with his face radiant, and his heart intoxicated with love. + + + + +XXV. + + +LOVE. + + "All loves around us: all around is heard, + Hard by the warbler's quivering kiss, + That voiceless song of flowers, which the lark, + by love distracted, to his mate translates." + + EMILE DARIO (_Sonnets_). + +He returned to the parsonage with a light step, hearing the birds singing +in the lime-trees the same joyous song which his own heart was singing. He +breakfasted with a good appetite, smiled at his servant, and gave pleasant +answers to her questions. + +It seemed to him that a new world was opening. New ideas sprang up in him, +and he discovered sensations till then unknown. + +He felt better; life smiled upon him, and all the things of life. + +The past had altogether vanished; the present was radiant, the future was +laden with rosy dreams. + +That same morning he had risen as usual, with no settled wish, aimless and +hopeless. Till then, he had acted like a machine, hardly knowing whither he +went, following his road by chance, walking onwards in the line which had +been traced out for him, with no relish, full of weariness and sadness. + +What was he expecting then? Nothing. He was clinging to the fragments of +his beliefs, he remained hanging there, not daring to stir, to think, or to +turn, for fear of rolling to the bottom of some unknown abyss. But suddenly +everything is changed, everything is transformed, everything takes another +aspect. The whole world is illumined. Religion, dogma, mysteries, altar, +priest, what is all that? God even. He thinks no more of him. + +A woman's look has obliterated all. + +A woman's voice has murmured in his ear and he perceives that he is young, +that he is strong, that he has a heart, and that all cries to him at once: +Love! Love! + +Oh! what a wonderful thing love is! What frenzy, what delirium, what +madness! Sublime madness, ravishing delirium, delicious frenzy. + +First and last mystery of nature, first and last voice of the universe. + +It is thou, oh God, who givest life to all, who dost animate all, who art +the principle of all. Thou art Alpha and Omega; thou art the potent arm +which has caused the worlds to rise, which has re-united the scattered +forces of matter, which has made order out of chaos. + +And there are found men, creatures, works of love like everything which +moves, breathes, buds, shoots forth, there are found creatures who have +dared to say: Love is evil. + +They have sworn to renounce love. They have spat in thy face, fruitful, +creative Divinity, they have denied thee on their impure altars. + +But it is their God who is evil, as Proudhon said, that senseless and +ludicrous God who delights in grotesque saturnalia, in ridiculous prayers, +in shameful mummeries, in vows contrary to nature. + +Marcel felt himself transformed. + +A new feeling was born in him and plunged him into ineffable delight. + +Nevertheless, as I have said, he experienced a vague fear; he had had a +glimpse of the unknown, and he was one of those delicate and timid souls +with their thoughts in some way turned upon themselves, which are terrified +at the unknown. + +Seized with a restless apprehension and with a mysterious trouble, he felt +the hour coming which was about to change his life. + + + + +XXVI. + + +OF YOUNG GIRLS IN GENERAL. + + "You tell me, Madame, that this description + is neither in the taste of Ovid + nor that of Quinault. I agree, my + dear, but I am not in a humour to + say soft things." + + VOLTAIRE (_Dict. Phil._). + +The great fault, in my opinion, both of the writer and of the poet, is to +idealize woman too much, and especially the young girl. + +On the stage just as in the novel, the heroines are placed on a sort of +pedestal where they receive haughtily the incense and homage of poor +mankind. + +They are perfect beings, of superior essence, gifted with all the beauties +and all the virtues, whose white robes of innocence never receive, amidst +all the impurities, of our social state, the slightest splash. + +Why then raise thus upon a pedestal of Parian marble these statues of clay? +Why place reverentially beneath a tabernacle of gold these pasteboard +divinities? + +Good Heavens! women are women, that is to say: the females of man, nothing +more. They are above all what men make them, and as we are generally +vicious and spoilt, since from the most tender age we take care to defile +ourselves in the street, in the workshop or on the school-benches; as the +atmosphere we breathe is corrupt, we have no claim to believe that our +wives, our sisters and our daughters can remain unspotted by our touch, and +that this same atmosphere which they breathe, will purify itself in passing +through their chaste nostrils. + +If then the woman is not worse than we, as some assert, assuredly she is no +better. + +And how could they be better, who are our pupils, and when the share we +have given them in society is so slight and so strangely ordered that, if +they cannot by means of supreme efforts expand and grow in it morally and +intellectually, every latitude is allowed them on the other hand to corrupt +themselves in it beyond measure, and to fall lower than the man into the +lowest depths. + +"Fools!" said Machiavelli, "you sow hemlock and pretend you see ears of +corn growing ripe." + +Why then idealize and make a divinity of this creature, when we know that +the education she ordinarily receives, takes away from her, little by +little, all which remains attractive, divine and ideal! + +Certainly a chaste and simple young girl, fair and fresh as a spring +morning, sweet as the perfume of the violet, and whose mind and body alike +are as pure as the petals of a half-opened lily, is the most heavenly and +the most adorable thing in the world. + +But, outside the pages of your novel, how many of them have you met in the +world? + +I have often heard the modest virtues of the middle classes extolled, and +it is from such surroundings that the novelist of to-day most frequently +draws his feminine ideal. It is among the middle classes indeed that all +the qualifications seem to unite at first. It is the intermediate +condition, the most happy of all, as the excellent Monsieur Daru said in +1820, since it is only disinherited of the highest favours of fortune, and +the social and intellectual advantages of it are accessible to a reasonable +ambition. + +But they evidently benefit very little by their advantages, for I, and you +also, have always found them coquettish, ignorant, frivolous and vain, +bringing up their children very badly, but in revenge, generally deceiving +their husbands very well. + +"In middle-class households, bickering; among fashionable people, adultery. +In fashionable middle-class households, either one or the other and +sometimes both."[1] + +And how could it be otherwise? + +The daughters of devout and consequently narrow-minded and ignorant +mothers, of sceptical and libertine fathers, they spend five or six years +at school, where they consummate the loss of what may have escaped the +baneful example of their family. + +They have taken from their mother foolish vanity, ridiculous prejudices, +the art of lying; from their father scepticism and an elastic conscience; +perhaps they will preserve their virtue and modesty? The pernicious +contacts of the school soon carry them away. + +They still have a blush on their face, a down-cast eye, a timid bearing. +But their affected timidity is the token of their knowledge of _good and +evil_; like Eve, if they have not yet tasted of the forbidden fruit, they +burn to taste it, for their thought is sullied, their imagination is +vagrant and at the bottom of their soul there is a germ of corruption. + +They leave the boarding-school _virgins_, but chaste, never. + +Let us then represent the world as it la, women such as they are, and not +such as they ought to be; let us call things by their names, and when there +is moral deformity somewhere, let us show that deformity. + +When we make wonders of the heroines of a novel, possessing the charms of +the _three Graces_ and the virtues of the seven sages of Greece, who when +they fall, fall in spite of themselves, impelled by a fatal concurrence of +circumstances, but with so much candour and innocence, that we cannot do +otherwise than pardon their fall and even fail to comprehend that they have +fallen, we are completely amazed when we descend from this imaginary world +to enter the world of reality. + +The idealization of woman has therefore, besides other faults, that of +causing as to take a dislike to our ordinary companions. How, indeed, after +being present at the devotion of Sophonisba, at the suicide of the chaste +Lucretia, at the display of the virtues of Mademoiselle Agnes, and at that +of the form of Venus at the bath, can we contemplate with ravished eye the +wife no less plain than lawful, who is sitting with sullen air at our +fire-side, who has no other care than that of her person, no other moral +capital than a round enough sum of prejudices and follies, and whose +charms, finally, resemble more those of a Hottentot Venus than those of +Venus Aphrodite. + +The picture of virtues is an excellent thing, but still it is necessary +that these virtues should exist. We must not enunciate an idea simply +because it is moral, but because it is true. _Amicus Plato, sed magis amica +veritas_. + +That is why I shall not depict the little person, whom I am going to make +better known to you, as a model of virtue. She is an inquisitive girl, she +is vehement, she has been brought up in an atmosphere where depravity is +more generally inhaled than holiness. I should then be badly advised in +presenting you with an angel of candour and wisdom. + +An angel! She is at that age indeed, at which foolish men call women +angels. + + "Before they are wed, they are angels so gentle, + But quickly they change to vulgarian scolds, + She-demons who truly make hell of their homes." + +[Footnote 1: H. Taine (Notes sur Paris).] + + + + +XXVII. + + +OF SUZANNE IN PARTICULAR. + + "An exalted, romantic imagination of + vivid dreams, peopled with sumptuous + hotels, with smart equipages, fêtes, + balls, rubies, gold and azure. This is + what I have most surely gathered at + this school and is called: a brilliant + education." + + V. SARDOU (_Maison Neuve_). + +But she was a ravishing demon, this child, and more than one saint might +have damned himself for her black eyes, those deep limpid eyes which let +one read to her soul. And there one paused perfectly fascinated, for this +fresh resplendent soul displayed in large characters the radiant word, +Love. + +Have you never read this word in a maiden's two eyes? Seek in your memory +and seek the fairest, and you will have the delightful portrait of Suzanne. + +I am unable to say, however, that she was a perfect girl. What girl is +perfect here below? She had left school, and it would have been a miracle +if she were, and we know that away from Lourdes, God works no more +miracles. + +She had even many faults: those of her age doubled by those which education +gives to girls. Many a time, when opening the holy Bible, the only book +capable of cheering me in the hours of sadness, I have come across these +words of Ezekiel, + +"They are proud, full of appetites, abounding in idleness." + +It is of the daughters of Sodom that the holy prophet is complaining! What +would he say to-day to _the young ladies_ of our modern Sodoms? + +But if the little Suzanne had all the darling faults of forward flowers +forced in the warm soil of our enervating education, and our decayed +civilization, she was better than many plainer ones, and I do not think +that the sum total of her errors could weigh heavy on her conscience. +Perhaps she was culpable in thought; but if the imagination was sick, the +heart was good and sound. She had not sinned, but she said to herself, that +sinning would be sweet! + +Well! there is no great crime there. Does not every woman love instinctive +pleasure? Among them there are few stoics. They who are so, are so by +compulsion, and so they cannot make a virtue of it. Suzanne loved pleasure +then, and she loved it the more because she only knew it by hear-say. + +The education of Saint-Denis had contributed no little to develop her +natural disposition. + +Everything has been said about the _House of the Legion of Honour_, about +its curious system of education with regard to young girls, nearly all of +them poor, and brought up as if, when they left school, they would find an +income of £2,000 a year. + +It is known that in this establishment intended for the daughters of +officers _with no fortune_, everything is taught except that which is most +necessary for a woman to know. They leave having a barren, superficial +education, principally composed of words, and in which consequently, to the +exclusion of the intelligence and the heart, the memory plays the principal +part; none of the childish rules of ceremonial are spared them, none of the +frivolous accomplishments indispensable for access to a world which, for +the greater part, they will never be invited to see; and they return to +their father's humble roof, dreaming of balls, fêtes, equipages, hotels, +drawing-rooms, the only surroundings in which they could profitably display +the useless accomplishments with which they have been endowed, but also +perfectly incapable of darning their stockings or of boiling an egg. + +And so they soon blush at their father's obscure condition and evince a +mortal disgust of the modest joys of the poor fire-side. + +"Heavens! how little it all is!" Such was the first word which escaped her +when she returned to her father's house. + +She had grown, and everything she saw on her return had shrank; her father +like the rest, perhaps more than the rest. She loved him all the same, but +she could not help finding him common. + +She, the dainty young lady, brought up with the daughters of +country-gentlemen and generals, she said to herself that she was only the +daughter of an obscure captain, and it humiliated her. Ah! if her haughty +friends with whom she had exchanged confidences and dreams, had seen her +coming down the sumptuous stairs of her castles in Spain to go and live in +a poor village, while her father perspired over his cabbage-planting. + +Her dreams! You know them well, and have also told them in quiet at the age +when you know how to form them: + +At the age when you cease to be called a little girl, when the dress-maker +has just lengthened your dress, when your father's friends are no longer +familiar, but say with a smile: _Mademoiselle_. + +At the age, when you feel the attraction of the unknown redouble its power, +when for the first time you feel a conscious blush at the look of a man. + +At the age when the likeness of the young cousin you saw yesterday, appears +all at once on the page of your history or grammar, and strange to say, +pursues you at your games; when the noisy games of your companions weary +you, and you betake yourself to solitude in order to screen your thoughts. + +And solitude, a bad adviser, takes possession of your thoughts, isolates +them from the rest of the real world, in order to immerse them in imaginary +worlds, and then agitates, reflects, whirls, polishes all that marvellous +enchanted universe in which the daughters of Eve wander with each wild +license, whom the base-born sons of Adam approach only a single step. + +But when that step is taken, the enchanted world vanishes. The scaffolding +cracks and falls down. Palaces, geail, heroes and bounteous fairies +disappear pell-mell into the lowest depth. The old farce of humanity, the +comedy of love is played out. + +Ah! how ugly it all is then! Under the smoky lamp of reality you vaguely +distinguish the battered grotesque shapes, rising in the ruins. + +Suzanne therefore, like all her young friends, like you, Mademoiselle, and +also like you formerly, Madame, had commenced her little romance, had +sketched her little plot. She had loved, oh truly loved, with a love +necessarily confined to the platonic state, the handsome young men with +tasty cravats, whom she had seen on days when she walked out. What +delightful chapters were sketched upon their brown or fair heads! Oh! when +would she be free? When would she cease to have the ever-open eye of an +inquisitive under-mistress upon her slightest gesture? + +And then the day of liberty had come, and under the breath of that liberty, +so eagerly and impatiently expected, the chapters she had begun were +blotted out, and so was the handsome head of a cherub or an Amadis in a +sublieutenant's cap or in a chimney-pot. + +Fallen from these enervating heights of fictitious passions and +hair-dressers' scents into the prosaic but generous and brave arms of +paternal lore, on the breast of true and mighty nature, she had forgotten +for a moment her dreams. + +She lavished on her father all the treasures of affection which her heart +contained, and treated him with all manner of solicitude and caresses; and +the old soldier before this youthful future which shone before him, himself +forgot his dreams of the past. + + + + +XXVIII. + + +THE SHADOW. + + "Troubled by a vague emotion, I said + to myself, I wanted to be loved, and + I looked around me; I saw no one + who inspired me with love, no one + who appeared to me capable of feeling it." + + BENJAMIN CONSTANT (_Adolphe_). + +But what is the liberty that a well-behaved girl can enjoy? She had run +like a wild thing in the meadows, letting her hair fly in the wind, and +elated by the kisses of the breeze. She had relished the long mornings of +idleness in bed, recollecting, in order to double her enjoyment, that at +that very moment the friends she had left at school, were turning pale +beneath the smoky lamps of the school-room; and in the evening she read the +delightful novels of Droz by her lamp, and thought with pleasure that her +same friends had been in bed for a long while. Then she closed her book, +and reflected again and said with a yawn: "They are asleep, poor little +things, and I am awake, I am free to be awake." + +And she wrote long letters to them in which she told them, how happy she +was, assuming a charming air of superiority, treating them as children who +knew nothing yet of life. But she thought that she knew nothing more of it +herself, and yearned to be instructed. + +She felt that there was something wanting, and that her father's affection +was not enough to fill her heart. + +She had looked well about her, but she had found only what was commonplace. +No more young clerks with curled hair, who darted inflammatory looks at the +women from behind the shop-windows, no Saint-Cyrion with delicate +moustache, no doctors of twenty-five or poets of eighteen. Besides her +father and the notabilities of the village, middle-aged dignitaries, +nothing but peasants only. + +She held the belief which all girls hold; a nice little belief very +convenient and very simple: the sweet Jesus, the Paschal Lamb, and the +Immaculate Conception. Around this trio gravitated all the rest, but +graceful and light as the mists which float at sun-rise. + +Therefore the Captain had not thought it his duty to disappoint his +daughter, when she said to him one Sunday morning, "My darling papa, I am +going to Mass." He let her go, grumbling; and she noticed Marcel. + +The fine figure of the priest struck her; she was touched by the sound of +his voice, and while she fixed her gaze upon him, she encountered his, and +their eyes fell. + +In the days when she took her walks at Saint-Denis, and saw for the first +time that she was admired by some handsome young men, she had not +experienced a more delicious emotion. + +She was astonished and almost ashamed at it, and nevertheless she returned +for Vespers on purpose to see the Curé. She soon gained the certainty that +she had attracted his attention, and she was flattered at it. What! she, a +little school-girl, was she distracting from his prayers, at the very foot +of the altar, a minister of the altar? She felt herself rise in importance. +But her natural modesty made her reflect directly: "Has he looked at me +because I am a stranger, or because I am pretty?" + +She was almost afraid that it was not this latter reason; Marcel's eyes +reassured her. + +Nevertheless, the first impulse of self-love satisfied, what did it concern +her? How did this priest's admiration affect her? Is a priest a man? It +must be no more thought of. But she could not prevent herself from thinking +of him, being pleased at his finding her pretty. Others, doubtless, had +found her pretty before he did; perhaps had told her so in a whisper, but +was that the same thing? + +The silent admiration of this grave personage, clothed in a sacred +character, raised her all at once in her own eyes more than a thousand warm +glances or timid declarations from insignificant and common-place youths. +Besides, he was young, he was handsome, and his position, his studies +placed him far above the ignorant and common people, whom she elbowed since +her return. + +At night, the pale fine countenance of the Curé of Althausen crossed her +dreams several times; she was not disturbed at it, but she said to herself +that she would like to have a closer acquaintance with this shepherd of +men, who had made so deep an impression on her. + +She was affected by his grave voice, soft and sad, more than by his look, +and, with a school-girl's simplicity, she asked herself, if a heart could +not beat beneath that black robe. + +The visit of Marcel filled her with a strange trouble, and she hesitated a +long time before showing herself to him. Then the bitter raillery of her +father tortured her heart and wounded her in her delicate maidenly +sentiments. She suffered more than he from the insults which he received, +and she vowed to herself to have them forgiven. + + + + +XXIX. + + +OTHER MEETINGS. + + "There was no seduction on her part + or on mine: love simply came, and I + was her lover before I had even thought + that I could become so." + + MAXIME DU CAMP (_Mémoires d'un suicidé_). + +They saw one another again very soon: sometimes on the road which leads to +the little chapel of Saint Anne, sometimes behind the village gardens, +other times on the high-road lined with poplars. From the furthest point at +which he caught sight of her dress or her large straw-hat, trimmed with red +ribbon, he trembled and became pale. + +The first time he quickened his pace as he passed her, as though he were +afraid of being retained by a force stronger than his own will, or perhaps +from fear of ridicule, and he bowed to her as one bows to a queen. + +She returned his bow graciously, and that was all. He had his sum of +happiness for the rest of the day. + +The second time they met, they had both thought so much of one another that +they accosted one another like old acquaintances. The heart of each had +broken the ice and made all the advances before they had taken the first +steps. The young girl had read in the priest's eyes the wish to accost her, +and he saw that he would be welcome. + +Was anything more necessary? Therefore, mutually content, when they +separated, they each had the desire to see the other again. + +It was very often then that they saw one another; but especially at the +morning Masses; then, when he turned towards the nave, and raising his look +towards the gallery encountered hers, he asked no other joy from heaven. + + + + +XXX. + + +SERAPHIC LOVE. + + "How many times does it not occur + to me to blush at my tastes? to hide + them from myself? to feign with myself + that I have them not? to find some + covering for them beneath which I + conceal them, in order to play a part + a little less foolish in my own conscience?" + + JULES SIMON (_Le Devoir_). + +But one day the Curé awoke full of dismay. The first intoxication had +slightly dissipated, he had taken time to look closely within himself, and +when he sought to analyze in cool blood this new and ravishing sensation, +he saw the abyss beneath his feet. + +"What! he said to himself, whither am I going? What am I doing? I, a +priest, a minister of the altar, I should be at that point a slave of sin; +I shall continue to cast myself from darkness to darkness until the +definite and final fall. Oh! Lord, stop me, come to my aid; suffer not this +shame and this crime." + +But he altered his mind. When the devil has succeeded in bringing a soul to +sin, there is no artifice he does not use to blind him beforehand, and to +turn away his thought from everything capable of making him see the unhappy +state in which he is. That is what the Church teaches. + +Soon he viewed this passion under a new aspect, and he asked himself why he +had not the right to love. Had not all the saints loved? Had not St. Jerome +loved St. Paula? Had not Francis de Sales loved Madame de Chantal? Had not +Fénélon loved Madame Guyon? St. Theresa, her spiritual director, and +Venillot, his cook? + +Were there not two kinds of love? The ethereal, ideal, chaste, seraphic +love, the love of the creature grateful for the perfect work of the +creator; platonic love, free from all impurity, allowed to the virtuous +confessor for his virtuous penitent, the love of the wise man in fact; +or--the other. Then with that art of the rhetorician which sacred +scholasticism teaches to every Levite, he said to himself, "Yes, I can +love, for it is the spotless love of the angels." + +But his conscience protested and cried to him: "It is the other!" + + + + +XXXI. + + +THE VIRGIN. + + "In whatever place I was, whatever + occupation I imposed on myself, I + could not think of women, the sight + of a woman made me tremble. How + many times have I risen at night, + bathed in sweat, to fasten my mouth + on our ramparts, feeling myself ready + to suffocate." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +It was the other. He was soon obliged to confess this to himself; for +slumber abandoned his couch. + +In vain in the day-time he wearied his body under the labour which kills +thought. He sought to fly from the seductive image. He did not go out, for +fear of seeing her. He rushed upon every hard and unfruitful labour that he +could find. He rooted up his trees in order to re-plant them elsewhere; dug +useless banks in his garden; changed his library from its place, and +carried one after another his enormous folios to the upper story. He would +have liked to go upon the road, sit at the bottom of some ditch, and take +the stone-breaker's hammer. + +But the thought which he silenced by day, took its revenge by night. How +many times, during the long silent hours, his servant heard him get up all +at once and march with long steps in his room, as if he had to accomplish +some terrible vow. + +It was the devil, whispering low mysterious words in his ear, while his +impetuous desires constrained him with all the power of his vitality. He +walked like a madman from his bed to his window, which he dared not open. +He had often formerly, leant his elbows there during the hours of +sleeplessness, and breathed with delight the keen freshness of the valley. +But now he dared no longer; warm vapours rose up to him and completed the +conflagration of his senses. Nature was re-awakening from the long slumber +of winter, and already setting to work, was accomplishing from every +quarter the mysterious work of love. And within and without he felt its +formidable power growing and enveloping him. + +Nameless thoughts tumultuously invaded his sick brain and ruled there as +despots. They attached themselves to him like an implacable furious old +woman, who attaches herself the more closely to her young lover, the more +she feels he is going to escape her. + +He saw again in continual hallucinations, sometimes the lascivious player +as she had appeared to him near her little white bed, sometimes the fresh +face of the religious school-girl who smiled to him from the height of the +gallery. At other times he saw them both together, and each of them called +him and said to him: Come, come. + +Oh! why all these obstacles, these doors, these walls, these prejudices and +that formidable barrier which he dared not pass, duty. + +It seemed to him that a burning lava was escaping from his heart, running +into his veins and devouring him. His limbs were heavy and bruised; his +head was on fire like his heart, and his thoughts were enveloped in mire. +Often with his eye fixed on space, he contemplated some phantom visible to +himself alone; then big tears rolled slowly on his cheeks and fell one by +one on his bare chest, and he felt that they relieved him. + +He had placed a statue of the Virgin at the foot of his bed: the one which +has a heart in flames and open arms. He looked on it as he went to sleep +and prayed the Mother, eternally chaste, to watch over his dreams. + +But many times in his delirium he saw the Virgin come to life and take the +well-known face of her from whom he sought to flee, and come and find him +in his couch. And he woke with a start full of terror of himself at the +moment when, in his impious sacrilege, he felt the chaste bosom of the +Mother of God quiver beneath his kisses. + +Then he opened his scared eyes and perceived before him the sweet form +which stretched its plaster arms to him in the shadow, and full of agony he +cried: + +"_Mater inviolata, ora pro nobis_!" + +But once he thought he heard a voice which answered: + +"_Christe, audi nos_." + + + + + +XXXII. + + +THE DEATH'S-HEAD. + + "God is my witness that I did then + everything in the world to divert myself + and to heal myself." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +One night he went out by stealth, crossed the market-place, and descended +the hill. He had the look of a man who was hiding himself, and he went back +several times, as if he was afraid of being followed. He reached the +cemetery, took a key from his pocket, cautiously opened the gate and closed +it behind him. At the bottom of the principal path there was a little +chapel which served for an ossuary. In it was a hideous accumulation of the +remains of several generations. The cemetery was becoming too full and it +had been necessary to make room. Here as elsewhere the cry was: "Room for +the young." And it is only justice. What would become of as if all the old +remained? There is overcrowding under ground as there is above. "Keep off! +Keep off!" Therefore their ancestors' bones were in the way, and they had +cast them into this retreat to wait for the common grave. But the common +grave is again a place which must be taken, and the recent gluttonous dead +want everything. "Keep off! Keep off!" Let us not say anything ourselves, +perhaps they will dispute with us the corner of ground which should shelter +our bones! + +Marcel went into the gloomy chapel; he lighted a dark lantern and began to +search among the pile. + +Then he returned to the parsonage like a thief, afraid of being caught, and +shut himself up in his room. + +He had a parcel under his arm; he opened it and, carefully placing its +contents on the table, he sat down in front of it and contemplated it for a +long time. + + + + +XXXIII. + + +FRENZY. + + "Abstinence has its deadly exhaustions." + + BALZAC (_Le Lys dans la Vallée_). + +A few days before, the gravedigger, while digging up the whitened bones of +the ancient dead, had broken up with his pick-axe a mouldering coffin, and +a head rolled to his feet It was of later date, for the lower jaw was still +fastened to it and it had not the calcareous colour of bones buried long +ago. It was the more horrible. + +The gravedigger threw it into his wheel-barrow with its neighbour's +shin-bones, and carried it to the common heap. It was this _thing_ that the +Curé of Althausen had coveted and stolen. + +He had then placed it on his table and contemplated it in silence. The top +of the skull was polished and blunt, the front narrow, the bones small and +apparently not having attained their full development. It was therefore a +youthful head, the head of an adolescent cut down at the moment, when life +completely unfolds itself to hope; while the elliptical shape of the lower +maxillary, the small and similarly-shaped teeth, the slight separation of +the nasal bones, a few long hairs still adhering to the occiput, clearly +indicated its feminine origin. + +"A young girl!" murmured Marcel, "a young girl! beautiful perhaps; loved +without doubt ... and there is what remains. Ah! if he who was pleased to +kiss your lips, could see your dreadful laugh." + +And, after he had meditated a long while, he went to his bed, took the +plaster virgin from its pedestal, and taking in his two hands the skull, he +put it in its place between the serge curtains. + +And when the fever seized him, when he was burning with all the flames +which the fiery _simoom_ of passion breathed on him, and he felt the frenzy +taking possession of his pillow, he turned towards the wall and looked at +this new companion. Sometimes a moon-beam came and lighted up the hideous +skull and played in the gloomy cavities of its sightless eyes. The head +then seemed to become animate and its bare teeth gave an infernal grin. + +This was his remedy for love. + +But we grow used to everything. Custom destroys sensations. Death and its +mysteries, the horrible, and all its threatening shapes soon present +nothing to our eyes but worn-out pictures. He accustomed himself to +contemplate without emotion this lugubrious ruin. As before, the frenzy +seized him and shook him before the skull. It did more. It clothed it again +with flesh. It planted long hairs upon that shining, yellow forehead. It +placed in the hollow orbits large eyes full of love; it hid the wasted +cartillages under quivering nostrils, and upon that horrible jaw it laid +rosy lips and a sweet mouth, like a maiden's first kiss. And it is thus +that it appeared to him in the shadow, wrapped in the curtains of his bed, +like a modest girl who hides herself from sight. + +"Oh! sweet phantom, return to life," he said. "Take again thy body adorned +with its graces and with its charms; come, clothed in thy sixteen years." + +And he stretched his arms towards the enchanting vision, while the +death's-head, with its bare jaw, gave its eternal grin. + +He woke and found himself kneeling near his bed, facing the wreck of +humanity. + +Horror soiled him. His empty room was filled with spectres. He saw +hell-hags with death's-heads sporting and swarming on his bed. At the same +time, little sharp, hasty, shrill knocks shook his window. + +Fall of terror he ran to open it. A gust of wind, mingled with rain and +hail, heat against his face. He was ashamed of his fears and leant his head +out to catch the beneficent shower. His brain cooled and his blood grew +calm. + +He was there for a few minutes, when all at once, under the trees in the +market-place, he thought he distinguished two motionless shadows. He +thought for an instant that his hallucination lasted still, but soon the +shadows drew near. They seemed to walk carefully under the young foliage of +the limes in order to avoid the rain, and in one of them he recognized +distinctly Suzanne. + + + + +XXXIV. + + +THE PROHIBITION. + + "Do you know any means of making + a woman do that which she has decided + that she will not do?" + + ERNEST FEYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +That same day, after supper, the Captain had entered the drawing-room where +Suzanne was playing the _Requiem_ of Mozart. + +--So you are playing Church airs now? he said to her. + +--Don't you like this piece, father? + +--Not at all. + +--Perhaps, said Suzanne smiling, because it is a Mass. + +--My dear child, do you want me to tell you what you are with all your +Masses? + +--What? + +--Where did you go this morning? + +--At what time? + +--At the time when you went out. + +--I only went out to go to Mass. + +--And the day before yesterday? + +--Why this questioning, dearest papa? + +--Ah! dearest papa, dearest papa. There is no dearest papa here, I want to +know the truth. + +--But what truth? I have nothing wrong to hide from you. I went to Mass. Is +that forbidden? + +--To Mass! Good Heavens! To Mass! That is most decidedly making up your +mind to disobey me! + +--But papa, you have not forbidden it to me. + +--Not in so many words, it is true; because I counted on your reason and +good sense. Have I not spoken loudly enough my way of thinking on this +subject? + +--But, papa, your way of thinking is completely contrary to that which I +have been taught. You ought to have said when you sent me to Saint-Denis: +"You are not to teach my daughter any religion." They have taught me +religion, what is more natural than for me to follow it. + +--And what has your religion in common with your Mass? If you want to pray +to God, can you not pray to him at home? + +--Am I not a Catholic before all? + +It was the first time that Suzanne had spoken to her father in this firm +and decided tone. Nothing more was wanted to irritate the irascible +soldier: + +--Ah! I know the hidden and villainous insinuation! he cried, Catholic +before all! It is that indeed. Before being daughter! before being wife! +before being mother! the Church, the priest first; the rest only comes +after. The Mass, the Church! the Church, the Mass! With that they cover +every vileness. Well, do you want me to tell you what I think of women who +frequent churches? They are either lazy, or hypocrites, or idiots, or +finally hussies in love with the Curé. There are no others. In which +category do you want to be placed, my daughter? + +--And all that because I discharge my religious duties! + +--You have spoken to that Curé? I see it. Where have you spoken to him? + +--I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not +given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe. + +--So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in +secret. + +--I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I +was accustomed to do at school. + +--Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal, +after what I have told you concerning all his like! + +--All priests are not alike. + +--Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the +model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know +that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model +of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me +say too much. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from +my daughter? + +--You have every right, father. + +--Well, I forbid you for the future to put your foot inside the church. + +--In truth, father, would not one say that you were talking of some +ill-reputed place? + +--Worse than that. Those who enter a place of ill-repute, know beforehand +where they go and to what they expose themselves, which the little fools +who frequent churches never know. + +Suzanne made no reply and went down into the garden. + +The old governess who bad brought her up and who loved her tenderly, came +to meet her. + +--Your father is after the Curés again. What can these poor people of God +have done to the man? + +They walked a long time round the kitchen-garden, then they sat down under +an arbour of honeysuckle. + +--What time is it, Marianne? the young girl said all at once, fixing her +eyes on the window of her father's room. + +--It is late, my child, it is ten o'clock at least; everybody in the +village has gone to bed. Come, your father has finished his newspaper, +there is no longer any light in his room; he has just blown out his lamp. +Let us go in. + +They were near the little back-gate which led out to the meadows. Suzanne +opened it cautiously: "No, let us go out," she said. + + + + +XXXV. + + +THE SHELTER. + + "Is it a chance? No. And besides; + chance, what is it after all but the + effect of a cause which escapes us?" + + ERCHMAN-CHATRIAN (_Contes fantastiques_). + +As soon as Marcel had recognized Suzanne, he did not take time to reflect, +and say to himself: + +"What is it you are going to do, idiot?" He ran downstairs, stumbling like +a drunken man, and gently opened the door. What did he intend? He did not +know. Was he going to call these women? He did not know. He opened his +door, that was all, and his thought went no further. + +The same morning at church, he had seen Suzanne, and said to himself, "I +will not look at her." He did not look at her. He kept his eyes lowered +when he turned towards the nave, but he could have said how many times +Suzanne lifted hers, if she were joyous or sad, and if she had a red ribbon +or a blue ribbon at her neck. + +Oh! the eternal contradiction of mankind. He had not wanted to look at her +by day, and here he is throwing himself in her path in the middle of the +night. + +The steps approached and his heart beat with violence; he was so agitated +that, at the moment when the two women passed before his door to reach the +lane which led to the bottom of the hill, he could hardly articulate in a +hesitating voice: + +"Mademoiselle Durand." + +They uttered a cry. + +--It is I, he said coming forward. Is it possible? You here at such an hour +and in the rain? + +--I had gone out with my maid, said Suzanne, and the rain has surprised us. + +--Do not go farther. Shelter yourselves under my door. It is an April +shower; it will soon have passed. + +At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne's +hand. Never had he felt such boldness. + +--I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a +refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof. + +Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs +and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the +first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind. + +The Curé shut the door again and, passing near the two women, drawn up +against the wall, he brushed against the young girl's damp dress with his +hand. + +--But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be +wise to remain in this cold passage. Should I dare to ask you to go +upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire? + +His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near +hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne's. He seized it +therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: "Go up, I pray, go up," +he said. + +She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was +his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his +dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a +cheerful flame lighted up the hearth. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +THE HOT WINE. + + "I looked at her; she tried to show + nothing of what she felt in her heart. + She held herself straight, like an + oarsman who feels that the current is + carrying him away, and her nostrils + quivered." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Contes flamands et wallons_). + +Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of +the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while +Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast +around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on +the ground, was drawing up the fire. + +--Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close, +Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don't you find it +so? + +He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this +blazing fire. + +Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one +of the fire-dogs. The priest's eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line, +the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of +her dress. + +--I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at +such an hour. + +--Ought not the priest's house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour? +It is open to the poor man who passes by; it is open sometimes to the +vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter +against the storm? + +--It is true, it is the house of God, said Marianne. The young girl looked +at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no +longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained +standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran +through her frame. + +Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety. + +--Are you in pain? he said. + +She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed +her and answered with a kind of hesitation: + +--No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself +here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of +me? + +--But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here +because Monsieur le Curé has had the goodness to bring us in. Don't you +hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we +are at Monsieur le Curé's. + +--Reassure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because +you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the +good Marianne has just said, in the house of God, and I will say in my +turn, beneath the eye of God. These are very great words about so small a +matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a +cold already. + +He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to +be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant. + +Marianne opposed this with all her power. + +--Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady, +she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica! +what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right. + +--Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is +necessary. + +They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to +disturb Veronica's slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of +dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes. + +--Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne +alone. + +He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of +the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly +remounted the stair-case. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +TÊTE-À-TÊTE. + + "'Tis yours to use aright the hour + Which destiny may leave you, + To drain the cup of oldest wine, + And pluck the morning's roses." + + A. BUSQUET (_La poésie des heures_). + +He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to +commit a crime. + +He passed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What! +Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his +own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was +it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he +remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of +seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her +charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing +through her fingers. + +He sprang towards her. + +--Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these +tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to +you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them. + +--You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes. + +--I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things; +he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not +hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend. + +He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent; +he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which +raged in his own heart. + +At length he broke the silence. + +--Mademoiselle, dear young lady, he said with his most insinuating voice, +do you lack confidence then in me? Ah! I see but too well, your father's +prejudices have left their marks. + +--Do not believe it, she cried eagerly, do not believe it. + +--Thank you, dear young lady. I should so much wish to have your +confidence. And in whom could you better repose it? What others could +receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings? Ah, +that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account +that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those +who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the +afflicted. Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is +the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness. +Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our +arms to you, to me, who now say to you: "Open your heart to me, confide +to me your troubles. However sick your soul may be, mine will understand +it." + +The priest's voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne's +heart. She cast on him a look full of compassion: You are unhappy, she +asked. + +--Do not say that, do not say that! Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but +now I am so no longer. Are you not there? Has not your presence caused all +the dark clouds to fly away? No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a +blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of +his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my +hearth! + +--Happiness! I bring happiness to you! But who am I? a little girl just out +of school, who knows nothing of life. + +--And that is what makes you more charming. You are a rose which the breath +of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched. Life! dear child, do not +seek to know it too soon. It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best +are those who have suffered most deception and weeping. + +--But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows.... + +--Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know +all that passes at the bottom of a man's heart. + +Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the +difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you +cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can +open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no +loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your +intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all +families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and +no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have +no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our +weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I +mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little +disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ... +speak. + +--Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I +used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go +out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my +father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don't +believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my +father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met +you. + +Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl's hand, but he quickly dropped +it, fearing she might observe his agitation. + +--Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my +companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the +under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I +must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner +then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me +here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties. +That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this +evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I +grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my +life. + +She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence. +Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without +comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him, +but he only thought of one thing. She had said: "Your looks avoided mine." + +When she had finished speaking, he was surprised to hear her no longer and +listened afresh. + +--I have spoken with open heart to my confessor, said Suzanne timidly, +astonished at this silence. + +--To the confessor! no, no, dear child; to the friend, to the friend, is it +not? Do you want him? Will you trust yourself to me? Will you let yourself +be guided by me? I will bring you by a way from which I will remove all the +thorns. + +--But my father? + +This was like the blow from a club to Marcel. + +--Your father! Ah, yes! your father! Well, but what are we going to do? + +--I have just asked you. + +--It is written in the Gospel: "No one can serve two masters at the same +time." You have a master who is God. Your father places himself between God +and your duty. You must choose. + +Suzanne did not reply. + +--Consult your conscience, my child. What says your conscience? + +--My conscience says nothing to me. + +Marcel thought perhaps he had gone a little too far, he added: + +--You must decide nevertheless. It is also written, "Render unto Caesar the +things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." + +--How am I to unite the respect and submission which I owe to my father +with my duties as a Christian? That, repeated Suzanne, is what I wanted to +ask you. + +--And we will solve the problem, dear child. Yes, we will come forth from +this evil pass, to our advantage and to our glory. Nothing happens but by +the will of God, and it is He, doubt it not, who has guided you into my +path in order that I may take care of your young and beautiful soul. The +ancients were in the habit of marking their happy days; I count already two +days in my life which I shall never obliterate from my memory, two days +marked in the golden book of my remembrances. The one is that on which I +saw you for the first time. You were in the gallery of our church. The +light was streaming behind you through the painted windows and surrounded +you with a halo. I said to myself: "Is it not one of the virgins detached +from the window?" The other is to-day.--Do you believe in presentiments, +Mademoiselle? + +--Sometimes. + +--Well! I had a presentiment as it were of this visit. Yes, shall I dare to +tell you so? The whole day I have been wild with joy! I had an intuition of +an approaching happiness, a very rare event with me, Mademoiselle. + +--Of what happiness? + +--Why of this, of this which I enjoy at this moment; this of seeing you +sitting at my hearth, in front of me, near to me, this of hearing your +sweet voice, and reading your pure eyes. But what am I saying? Pardon me, +Mademoiselle. See how happiness make us egotistic! I talk to you about +myself, while it is about you that we ought to occupy ourselves, of you, +and of your future. + +And he looked at her with such glowing eyes, that she was a little +frightened. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +THE KISS. + + "That strange kiss makes me shudder + still." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Premières poesies_). + +--Are you not cold? said Marcel; and he stooped down to draw up the fire. + +But on sitting down again it happened that his seat was quite close to that +of Suzanne, so close that their knees were touching, and that he had only +to make a slight movement to take one of her hands. + +--Dear, dear child. + +And he began to talk to her of God in his unctuous voice. He talked to her +also of her duties as a Christian, and of the probable struggles she would +have to undergo. He talked to her again of the purity of her heart and +compared her to the angels. + +And while he talked, he began to fondle this little soft white hand, +lifting delicately the slender fingers with their rosy nails, drawing over +the soft and satiny tips his brown and muscular fingers. + +Soon his warm hand became burning. Magnetic influences were evolved. +Invisible sparks broke forth suddenly at the contact of these two +epidermises, ran through his veins, inflamed his heart and set his brain +a-blaze. + +[PLATE II: THE KISS. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent +over it, and pressed it to his lips.] + +[Illustration] + +He lost his presence of mind, his will wavered and sank in the molten lava +of his desires; he lost perception of his surroundings, of all those +formidable things which until then had bound him with the strong bands of +moral authority; he thought no longer of anything, he paused no longer at +anything, he saw nothing but this fair young girl whom he coveted, who was +alone with him, her hand in his, sitting by his fire-side, in the silence +and the mystery of the night. His clasp became convulsive. Under the fire +of his burning gaze Suzanne raised her head, and a second time fell back in +dismay. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent over it, and +pressed it to his lips. + +The door opened wide. + +--Don't get impatient, said Marianne, there is the hot wine. I have been a +long time, but the wood was green. Are you better? + +But Suzanne, trembling all over, remained silent. + + + + +XXXIX. + + +THE DEVIL IN PETTICOATS. + + "I know an infallible means of + drawing you back from the precipice + on which you stand." + + CHARLES (_Des Illustres Françaises_). + +--Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all +loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base +Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My +priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my +iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer +master of myself. + +Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of +my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!... It must have happened. +Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is +the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to +subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God. +They tried at the seminary by means of _nenuphar_ and _infusions of nitre_ +to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain +efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain +you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God +to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all +your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in +its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not +recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling +into an abyss of iniquity. + +Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me? +How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written +there?... She, she, what will she think of me?... To kiss her hand, her +soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going? +I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me. + +So spoke the Curé, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his +conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent +rapture. + +--Yes, it is shame, it is shame. + +--Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice. + +Marcel turned round, terror-struck. + +His servant was behind him. + +She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange, +green eyes. + +--Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that +pretty young lady will hold her tongue. + +She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the +priest's heart like a steel blade. + +Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a +passion. + +--You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then? +What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening +then at the doors? + +--That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously. + +--What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it? + +--There are many others who ought to blush and yet don't blush. + +--What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want? + +--Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn. + +--What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so. + +--You are, at the very least, most indiscreet. + +--Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a +witness of what passed. + +--Eh! what has passed then? + +--Sir, don't question me, she said in a pitying tone, _I have heard and +seen_. + +--You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen +then, wretched woman? + +And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon +the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door. + +--Please, Monsieur le Curé, she implored, don't hurt me. + +These words recalled the priest to himself. + +--No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I +flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am +calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me. + +--I will do so. Ah! you frighten me.... + +--It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion? + +--It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very +peaceably, like the _other_, it is so nice. + +--Please, enough of that subject. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is just about that I want to speak to you. + +--Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable +indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any +more. + +--A momentary error, which would have led you to some pretty things, +Monsieur le Curé. Good God! if Marianne had not arrived in time, who knows +what might have happened. + +--It is not for you to blame me, Veronica. There is only God who is without +sin. + +--I know that well. Therefore, I have not said that to you in order to +blame you. Quite the contrary, I was astonished that with a temperament ... +as strong as yours, you have remained free from fault till to-day. + +--And, please God, I will always remain so. + +--Oh! God does not ask for impossibilities, as my old master, Monsieur le +Curé Fortin, used to say: he was a good-natured man. He often repeated to +me: "You see, Veronica, provided appearances are saved, everything is +saved. God is content, he asks for no more." + +--What, the Abbé Fortin said that? + +--Yes, and many other things too. He was so honest, so delicate a man--not +more than you, however, Monsieur le Curé--but he understood his case better +than any other. He said again: "Beware of bad example, keep yourself from +scandal. Dirty linen should be washed at home." Good rules, are they not, +Monsieur Marcel? + +--Certainly. + +--He knew so well how to compassionate human infirmities. Ah! when nature +speaks, she speaks very loudly. + +--Do you know anything about it, Veronica? + +--Who does not know it? I can certainly acknowledge that to you, since you +are my Curé and my confessor. + +--That is true, Veronica. + +--And to whom should a poor servant acknowledge her secret thoughts, if not +to her Curé and her confessor? He is her only friend in this world, is he +not? + +The Curé did not reply. He considered the strange shape the conversation +was taking, and cast a look of defiance at the woman. + +--You do not answer, sir, she said. You do not look upon me as your friend, +that is wrong. Is it because I have surprised your secrets? + +--I have no secrets. + +--Yes?.... Suzanne? + +--Enough on that subject. Do not revive my shame, since you call yourself +my friend. + +--Oh! sir, it is precisely for that, it is because I do not want you to +distress yourself about so little. Listen to me, sir, I am older than you, +and although I am not so learned, I have the experience which, as they say, +is not picked up in books: well, this experience has taught me many things +which perhaps you do not suspect. + +--Explain yourself. + +--I would have explained already, if you had wished it. The other evening +you were quite sad, sitting by that fireless grate; you were thinking of I +don't know what, but certainly it was not of anything very lively, so much +so that it went to my heart. I suspected what was vexing you; I wanted to +speak to you, but you repulsed me almost brutally. Nevertheless, if you had +listened to me that day, what has just happened might not have occurred. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will make myself understood ... if you allow me. + + + + +XL. + + +LITTLE CONFESSIONS. + + "To relate one's misfortunes often + alleviates them." + + CORNEILLE (_Polyeucte_). + +The Curé laid his forehead between his hands, and rested his elbows on his +knees, a common attitude among confessors. + +--I am listening to you, he said. + +--I said to you, Monsieur le Curé, do not despair. You will excuse a poor +servant's boldness, but it is the friendship I have for you which has urged +me; nothing else, believe me; I am an honest girl, entirely devoted to my +masters. You are the fourth, Monsieur le Curé, yes, the fourth master. +Well! the three others have never had to complain about me a single moment +for indiscretion, or for idleness, or for want of attention, or for +anything, in fact, for anything. Never a harsh word. "You have done well, +Veronica; that's quite right, Veronica; do as you think proper, Veronica; +your advice is excellent, Veronica." Those are all the rough words which +have been said to me, Monsieur Marcel. Therefore, I repeat, really it went +to my heart to hear you speaking harshly sometimes to me, and to see that +you did not appear satisfied with me. I had not been accustomed to that. + +And the servant, picking up the corner of her apron, burst into tears. + +--Why! Veronica, are you mad? Why do you cry so? Who has made you suppose +that I was not satisfied with you? I may have spoken harshly to you, it is +possible; but it was in a moment of excitement or of impatience, which I +regret. You well know that I am not ill-natured. + +--Oh, no, sir, that is just what grieves me. You are so kind to everybody. +You are only severe to me. + +--You are wrong again, Veronica. I may have felt hurt at your indiscretion, +but that is all. Put yourself in my place, and you will allow that it is +humiliating for a priest.... + +--Do not speak of that again, Monsieur le Curé. You are very wrong to +disturb yourself about it, and if you had had confidence in me before, I +should have told you that all have acted like you, all have gone through +that, all, all. + +--What do you mean? + +--I mean that young and old have fallen into the same fault.... If we can +call it a fault, as Monsieur Fortin used to say. And the old still more +than the young. After that, perhaps you will say to me that it is the place +which is wicked. + +--Be silent, Veronica. What you say is very wrong, for if I perfectly +understand you, you are bringing an infamous accusation against my +predecessors. Perhaps you think to palliate my fault thus in my own eyes. I +thank you for the intention, but it is an improper course, and the reproach +which you try to cast upon the worthy priests who have succeeded one +another in this parish, takes away none of my remorse. + +--Monsieur Fortin had not so many scruples. He was, however, a most +respectable man, and one who never dared to look a young girl in her face, +he was so bashful. "Well," he often used to say, "God has well done all +that he has done, and He is too wise to be angry when we make use of His +benefits!" + +--That is rather an elastic morality. + +--It was Monsieur Fortin who taught me that. After all, that is perhaps +morality in word, you are ... morality in deed. + +--Veronica, you are strangely misusing the rights which I have allowed you +to take. + +--Do not put yourself in a rage, Monsieur le Curé, if I talk to you so. I +wanted to persuade you thoroughly that you can rely upon me in everything, +that I can keep a secret, though you sometimes call me a tattler, and that +I am not, after all, such a worthless girl as you believe. We like, when +the moment has come to get ourselves appreciated, to profit by it to our +utmost. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, I hardly know what you want to arrive at; but I +wish to speak frankly to you, since you have behaved frankly towards me. I +recognize all the wisdom of your proceeding, although you will agree it has +something offensive and humiliating for me, but after all, it is preferable +that you should come and tell me this to my face, than that you should go +and chatter in the village and tattle without my knowledge. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, Veronica is not capable of that. + +--Therefore, since you have discovered ... discovered a secret which would +ruin me, what do you calculate on making from this secret, and what do you +demand? + +--I, Monsieur le Curé, cried the servant, I demand nothing ... oh! nothing. + +--You are hesitating. Yes, you want something. Come, it is you now who hang +your head and blush, while it is I who am the culprit.... Come, place +yourself there, close to me. + +--Oh! Monsieur le Curé, I shall never presume. + +--Presume then to-day. Have you not told me that you were my friend?... +Yes. Well then, place yourself there. Tell me, Veronica, what is your age? + +--Mine, Monsieur le Curé. What a question! I am not too old; come, not so +old as you think. I am forty. + +--Forty! why you are still of an age to get married. + +--I quite think so. + +--And you have never intended to do so? + +--To get married? Oh, upon my word, if I had wanted to do so, I should not +have waited until now. + +--I believe you, Veronica. You could have done very well before now. But +you may have changed your ideas. Our characters, our tastes change with +time, and a thing displeases us to-day, which will please us to-morrow. +There are often, it is true, certain considerations which stop us and make +us reflect. Perhaps you have not a round enough sum. With a little money, +at your age, you could still make an excellent match. + +--And even without money, Monsieur le Curé. If I were willing, somebody has +been pestering me for a long time for that. + +--And you are not willing. The person doubtless does not suit you? + +--Oh, I have my choice. + +--Well and good. We cannot use too much reflection upon a matter of this +importance. I am not rich, Veronica, but I should like to help you and to +increase, if it be possible, your little savings, your dowry in fact. + +--You are very good, sir, but I do not wish to get married. + +--Why so? + +--It depends on tastes, you know.... You are in a great hurry then to get +rid of me, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Not at all: do not believe it. + +--Come, come, Monsieur le Curé. I see your intentions. You say to yourself: +"she holds a secret which may prove troublesome to me; with a little money +I will put a padlock on her tongue, I will get her married, and by this +means she will trouble me no more." Is it a bad guess? + +--You have not guessed it the least in world, Veronica. + +--Oh, it is! But it is a bad calculation, and for two reasons. In the first +place, if I marry, your secret is more in danger than if I remain single. +You know that a woman ought not to hide anything from her husband. + +--There are certain things.... + +--No, nothing at all: no secret, or mystery. The husband ought to see all, +to know all, to be acquainted with all that concerns his wife. Ah! I know +how to live, though I am an old maid. + +--You are a pearl, Veronica. + +--You want to make fun of me; but others have said that to me before you, +and they were talking seriously. On the other hand, she continued, if you +keep me, you need not fear my slandering you, since I am in your hands and +the day you hear any rumour, you can turn me away. + +--Your argument is just, and believe me that my words had but a single +object, not that of separating myself from you, but of being useful to you. +Since you are desirous of remaining with me, at which I am happy, let us +therefore try to live on good terms, and do you for your part forget my +weaknesses; I for mine will forget your inquisitiveness; and let us talk no +more about them. + +--Oh yes, we will talk again. + +--I consent to it. Let us therefore make peace, and give me your hand. + +--Here it is, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Ah, Veronica. _Errare humanum est_. + +--Yes, I know, Monsieur Fortin often repeated it. That means to say that +the devil is sly, and the flesh is weak. + +--It is something like that. So then I trust to your honesty. + +--You can do so without fear. + +--To your discretion. + +--You can do so with all confidence. + +--To your friendship for me. Have you really a little, Veronica? + +--I have, sir, said the servant, affected. You ask me that: what must I +then do to convince you? + +--Be discreet, that is all. + +--Oh! you might require more than that. But could I also, in my turn, ask +something of you? + +--Ask on. + +--It will be perhaps very hard for you. + +--Speak freely. What do you want? Are you not mistress here? Is not +everything at your disposal? + +--Oh, no. + +--No! You surprise me. Have I hurt you without knowing it? I do not +remember it, I assure you. Tell me then, that I may atone for my fault. + +--I hardly know how to tell you. + +--Is it then very serious? + +--Not precisely, but.... + +--You are putting me on thorns. What is it then? + +--Oh, nothing. + +--What nothing? Do you wish to vex me, Veronica. + +--I don't intend it; it is far from that. + +--Speak then. + +--Well no, I will say no more. You will guess it perhaps. But meanwhile.... + +--Meanwhile.... + +--It is quite understood between us that you will never see that little +hussy again. + +--What hussy? + +--That little hussy, who was here just now. + +--Oh, Veronica! Veronica! + +--It is for your interests, Monsieur le Curé, in short ... the proprieties. + +--My dignity is as dear to me as it is to you, my daughter, be answered +sharply. + +--Good-night, Monsieur le Curé; take counsel with your pillow. + + + + +XLI. + + +MORAL REFLECTIONS. + + "Ah, poor grandmamma, what grand-dam's tales + You used to sing to me in praise of virtue; + Everywhere have I asked: 'What is this stranger?' + They laughed at me and said, 'Whence hast thou come?'" + + G. MELOTTE (_Les Temps nouveaux_). + +The Curé of Althausen had no need of reflection to understand the kind of +shameful bargain which his servant had allowed him to catch a glimpse of. + +The lustful look of the woman had spoken too clearly, and when he had taken +her hand, he had felt it burn and tremble in his. + +Then certain circumstances, certain facts to which he had not attended at +first, came back to his memory. + +Two or three times, Veronica, on frivolous pretexts had entered his bedroom +at night; and each time, he remembered well, she was in somewhat indecent +undress, which contrasted strangely with her ordinarily severe appearance. + +He recalled to himself all the stories of Curés' servants who shared their +masters' bed. Stories told in a whisper at certain _general repasts_, when +the priests of the district met together at the senior's house to observe +the feast of some saint or other--the great Saint Priapus perhaps--and +where lively talk and sprightly stories ran merrily round the table. + +And what he had taken for jokes in bad taste, and refused to believe till +now, he began to understand. + +For he could no longer doubt that he had set his servant's passions aflame, +and he must either expose himself to her venomous tongue and incur the +shame and scandal, or else appease the erotic rage of this kitchen +Messalina. + +He tried to drive away this horrible thought, to believe that he had been +mistaken, to persuade himself that he was the dope of erroneous +appearances; he wished to convince himself that he had been the victim of +errors engendered by his own depravity, that he judged according to his +secret sentiments; his efforts were vain; the woman's feverish eyes, her +restless solicitude, her jealous rage, her incessant watching, the evidence +in short was there which contradicted all his hopes to the contrary. + +And then, the latest confessions regarding his predecessors: "All have +acted like you, all," possessed his mind. Like him! What had they done? +They also had attempted then to seduce young girls, and perhaps had +consummated their infernal design. What? respectable priests, ministers of +the Gospel, pastors of God's flock! Was it possible? But was not he a +respectable priest and respected by all, a minister of God, a leader of the +holy flock, a pastor of men, and yet.... + +How then? where is virtue? + +"Virtue," answered that voice which we have within ourselves, that voice +odious to hypocrites and deceivers, which the Church calls the Devil's +voice, and which is the voice of reason. Virtue? Of which do you speak, +fool? Without counting the _three theological_, there are fifty thousand +kinds of virtues. It is like happiness, institutions, reputations, +religions, morals, principles: Truth on this side the mount, error on that. + +There are as many kinds of virtues as there are different peoples. History +swarms with virtuous people who have been so in their own way. Socrates was +virtuous, and yet what strange familiarities he allowed himself with the +young Alcibiades. The virtuous Brutus virtuously assassinated his father. +The virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary had herself whipped by her confessor, the +virtuous Conrad, and the virtuous Janicot doted on virtuous little boys; +and finally Monseigneur is virtuous, but his old lady friends look down and +smile when he talks of virtue. + +See this priest of austere countenance and whitened hair. He too, during +long years, has believed in that virtue which forms his torment. Candid and +trustful, he felt the fervency of religion fill his heart from his youth. +He had faith, he was filled with the spirit of charity and love. He said +like the apostle: _Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est_. And he believed +that God was with him, and that alone with God he was peacefully pursuing +his road. But he had counted without that troublesome guest who comes and +places himself as a third between the creature and the Creator, and who, +more powerful than the God of legend, quickly banishes him, for he is the +principle of life and the other is the principle of death; it is the +fruitful love and the other is the wasting barren love; it is present and +active, while the other is inert, dumb and in the clouds of your sickly +brain. + +"It is in vain that in his successive halts from parish to parish, he has +resisted the thousand seductions which surround the priest, from the timid +gaze of the simple school-girl, smitten with a holy love for the young +curate, to the veiled smile of the languishing woman. In vain will he +attempt, like Fénélon formerly, to put the warmth of his heart and the +incitements of the flesh upon the wrong scent by carrying on a platonic +love with some chosen souls; what is the result in the end of his efforts +and his struggles? Now he is old; ought he not to be appeased? No, weighty +and imperious matter has regained the upper hand. He loves no longer, he is +not able to love any longer, but the fury urges him on. He seduces his +cook, or dishonours his niece." + +And yet those most courageous natures exist, for they have resisted to the +end. We blame them, we are wrong. Who would have been capable of such +efforts and sacrifices? Who would sustain during ten, fifteen, twenty +years, similar straggles between the imperious requirements of nature and +the miserable duties of convention? They, therefore, who see their hair +fall before their virtue are very rare. + +The crowd of priests strike themselves against the obstacles of the road +from the first steps, they tear their catechumen's robe with the white +thorns of May, and when they have arrived at the end of their career, they +have stopped many a time under some mysterious thicket, unknown by the +vulgar, relishing the forbidden fruit. + +Let us leave them in peace. It is not I who will disturb their sweet +tête-à -tête. + + + + +XLII. + + +MEMORY LOOKING BACK. + + "Man can do nothing against Destiny. + We go, time flies, and that which must + arrive, arrives." + + LÉON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Baufs_). + +Marcel was one of those energetic natures who believe that struggle is one +of the conditions of life. He had valiantly accepted the task which was +incumbent upon him. + +But there are hours of discouragement and exhaustion, in which the boldest +and the strongest succumb, and he had reached one of those hours. + +And then, it is so difficult to struggle without ceasing, especially when +we catch no glimpse of calmer days. Weariness quickly comes and we sink +down on the road. + +Then a friendly hand should be stretched towards us, should lift us up and +say to us "Courage." But Marcel could not lean on any friendly hand. + +He had no one to whom he could confide his struggles, his vexations, and +the apprehension of his coming weaknesses. + +Although his life as priest had been spotless up to then, his brethren held +aloof from him, for there was a bad mark against him at the Bishop's +Palace. It had been attached at the commencement of his career. He was one +of those catechumens on whom from the very first the most brilliant hopes +are founded. Knowledge, intelligence, respectful obedience, appearance of +piety, sympathetic face, everything was present in him. + +The Bishop, a frivolous old man, a great lover of little girls, who +combined the sinecure of his bishopric with that of almoner to a +second-hand empress, whose name will remain celebrated in the annals of +devout gallantry or of gallant devotion, the Bishop, a worthy pastor for +such a sheep, passed the greater portion of his time in the intrigues of +petticoats and sacristies, and left to the young secretary the care of +matters spiritual. + +It was he who, like Gil-Blas, composed the mandates and sometimes the +sermons of Monseigneur. + +This confidence did not fail to arouse secret storms in the episcopal +guest-chamber. + +A Grand-Vicar, jealous of the influence which the young Abbé was assuming +over his master's mind, had resolved upon his dismissal and fall. + +With a church-man's tortuous diplomacy, he pried into the young man's +heart, as yet fresh and inexperienced. + +He insinuated himself into the most hidden recesses of his conscience, +seized, so to say, in their flight the timid fleeting transports of his +thought, of his vigorous imagination, and soon discovered with secret +satisfaction that he was straying from the ancient path of orthodoxy. + +Marcel, indeed, belonged to that younger generation of the clergy which +believes that everything which alienates the Church from new ideas, brings +it nearer to its ruin. And the day when the foolish Pius IX presumed to +proclaim and define, to the great joy of free-thinkers and the enemies of +Catholicism, the ridiculous dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the +presence of two hundred dumb complaisant prelates, on that day he +experienced profound grief. According to his ideas this was the severest +blow which had been inflicted on the foundations of the Church for +centuries. + +He had studied theology deeply, but he had not confined himself to the +letter; he believed he saw something beyond. + +--The letter killeth, he said, the spirit giveth life. + +--The spirit giveth life when it is wholesome and pure, the Grand-Vicar +answered him with a smile, but is it healthy in a young man who believes +himself to be wiser than his elders? + +Marcel then without mistrust and urged by questions, developed his +theories. He believed in the absolute equality of men before God, in the +transmutation of souls: and the resurrection of the flesh seemed to him +the utmost absurdity. He quite thought that there were future rewards and +penalties, but he had too much faith in the goodness of God to suppose +that the expiation could be eternal. He allied himself in that to the +Universalists, who were, he said, the most reasonable sect of American +Protestantism. + +--Reasonable! reasonable! repeated the Grand-Vicar scoffingly; in truth, my +poor friend, you make me doubt your reason. Can there be anything +reasonable in the turpitude of heresy? + +Then he hurried to find the Bishop: + +--I have emptied our young man's bag, he said to him. Do you know, +Monseigneur, what there was at the bottom? + +--Oh, oh. Has he been inclined to debauchery? He is so young. + +--Would to heaven it were only that, Monseigneur. But it is a hundred times +worse. + +--What do you tell me? Must I fear then for all my little sheep? We must +look after him then. + +--I repeat, Monseigneur, that that would be nothing.... It is the +abomination of abomination, a whole world of turpitude, heresies in embryo. + +--Heresies! Oh, oh! That is serious. + +--Heresies which would make the cursed shades of John Huss, Wickliffe, +Luther and Calvin himself tremble, if they appeared again. + +--What do you say? + +--I tell you, Monseigneur, that you have warmed a viper in your bosom. + +--Ah, well, I will drive out this wicked viper. + +The Bishop, who kept two nieces in the episcopal seraglio, would willingly +have pardoned his secretary if he had been accused of immorality, but he +could not carry his condescension so far as heresy. He wanted, however, to +assure himself personally, and as Marcel was incapable of lying, he quickly +recognized the sad reality. + +The young Abbé was severely punished. He was compelled to make an apology, +to retract his horrible ideas, to stifle the germ of these infant +monstrosities; then he was condemned to spend six months in one of those +ecclesiastical prisons called _houses of retreat_, where the guilty priest +is exposed to every torment and every vexation. + +He was definitely marked and classed as a dangerous individual. + +His enemy, the Grand-Vicar, pursued him with his indefatigable hatred, so +far that from disgrace to disgrace he had reached the cure of Althausen. + + + + +XLIII. + + +ESPIONAGE. + + "A sunbeam had traversed his heart; + it had just disappeared." + + ERNEST DAUDET (_Les Duperies de l'Amour_). + +Since the fatal evening when the secret of his new-born love had been +discovered by his servant, Marcel had observed the woman on his steps, +watching his slightest proceedings, scrutinizing his most innocent +gestures. + +He encountered everywhere her keen inquisitive look. + +He wished at first to meet it with the greatest circumspection and the most +absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead +him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness. + +But he was soon obliged to renounce this means. + +The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Curé +pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt, +the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full +of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened +with a start by terrible noises during the night. + +He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and +threatened to leave him. + +--You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had +enough of it. + +--Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if +I were not afraid of your cursed tongue. + +Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and +smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant's manners changed +directly. + +She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive. + +Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the +same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to +conceal. + +He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her +usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place +remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed +without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing +gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the _Laudate pueri dominum_ with +the voice of the _De profundis_. + +Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from +coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before +upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and +with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He +saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him +in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were +astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he +forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church, +and whom he would meet again at his house. + +Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a +moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague +which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his +life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a +month ago; only a stranger. + +Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be +aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their +sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under +these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the +commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but +wishes to see the world at her feet. + +And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more +irritating and more insupportable. + +In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far, +very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant's gaze following him, and +weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted +jealousy. + +He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when +he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the +width of the village and the depth of the woods. + +She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye +searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds +of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to +strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts. + + + + +XLIV. + + +THE GARRET WINDOW. + + "Do I direct my love? It directs me. + And I could abide it if I would!... + And I would, after all, that I could not." + + V. SARDOU (_Nos Intimes_). + +Other days passed, and then others. + +From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view +of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain +Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several +times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet +object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he +forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts. + +Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream +edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with +the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne. + +Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber +and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with +that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable +complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the +tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul. + +But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of +observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught +one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under +the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in +that loft? + +He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his +pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his +flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled +his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment. + +He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers, +that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he +heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot. + +And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which +he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again +Suzanne's emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without +anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a +second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left +there. + + + + +XLV. + + +TREACHEROUS MANOEUVRE. + + "He stepped more lightly than a + bird; love traced out his progress." + + CHAMPFLEURY (_La Comédie Académique_). + +"I must know," he said to himself, "where I stand." + +And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village. + +He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But +after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being +watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged +with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the +circuit of Althausen. + +Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the +Captain's house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect, +resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could +suspect his secret agitation. + +He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the +other. + +To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though +it would break. + +In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine +argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever +under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating. + +Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its +nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever +increasing, consumed it. + +To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat +crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to +inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat. + +And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the +load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was +filled with a wild hope. + +A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the +little house, always so smart and white. + +Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind +it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a +goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore. + +There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which +crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed +of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than +once he had caught sight of a crabbed face. + +Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour +embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern. + +What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her? + +Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look +is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he +hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young +girl? Is he not her Curé? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has +he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the +disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another +blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after +what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore +rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is +enough. + +He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the +old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise. + +What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, +and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh, +that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of +love, into that chaste virgin conch. + +Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of +footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it +she? + +He turns round. + +Veronica is behind him. + + + + +XLVI. + + +THE LETTER. + + "Let them take but one step within + your door. They will soon have taken + four." + + LA FONTAINE (_Fables_). + +She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the +bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: "Ah, +ah, I have caught you here." + +--Come, Monsieur le Curé, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been +looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody +is waiting for you. + +--Who! + +But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards +home. The Curé followed her hanging his head. + +He reached the parsonage directly after her. + +--Who is waiting for me then? he said again. + +--It's the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait +till to-morrow. He had a letter for you ... for _you_ only, she added, +lingering over these words with a scornful smile. + +Marcel blushed. + +--Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of +mysteries there are here. Really it's worse than the Catechism. Your +letters for you only! Isn't that enough to humiliate me? You have reason +then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your +letters to _yourself only_. Holy Virgin! it's a pretty thing. What can they +think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your +letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don't matter to me. Would +they not say...? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in +this way? + +--There you are with your recrimination again! + +-Oh, Monsieur le Curé, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I +certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that +way with me. + +--Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish. + +--I see very well, that you don't ask advice from anyone.... And with the +insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added: +You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has +happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself? + +--Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I +consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions. + +--My business! Well, Monsieur le Curé, yours is mine just a bit, since I am +your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I +know. + +--Insolent woman. + +--Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Curé. I let you do as you like with +me. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded +with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you +want to arrive at? + +And the Curé approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes. + +--Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired. + +--I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica. + +Marcel's wrath passed all bounds. + +--Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; +tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless +narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. +Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, +beware of doing it a third time. + +--Be quiet, Monsieur le Curé, said Veronica softly, be quiet. + +--Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an +arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands. + +The servant came near him: + +--It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with +solicitude: shall I make you a little tea? + +--I don't want anything. + +--Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am +not. + +--It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica. + +--Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Curé, you will +understand it one day. + +--Leave me, I say. + +The servant withdrew. + +--It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a +horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation! +Ah, the apostle is right: "As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall +into the abyss." And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this +servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of +her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has +discovered.... Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a +dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!... dear +Suzanne ... no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so +loudly. + +He waited with feverish impatience for the postman's return. + +Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant's +inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his +letters to himself only. + +He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too +discovered excellent reasons for not going out. + +She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the +mysterious letter. + +Marcel's countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read +on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy. + + + + +XLVII. + + +GOOD NEWS. + + "Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia + O filii et filiae... + Et Maria Magdalena + Et Jacobi, et Salome! + Alleluia." + + (_Easter-Mass Hymn_). + +"Rejoice, my son, and sing with me _Hosannah! Hosannah!_ The ways of the +Lord are infinite. + +"Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest, +Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, _non tum +vilis quam nullus_, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a +guilty wretch as he is. + +"Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It +is written: 'If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.' Anastasius Gobin +has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it. +_Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu_, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you +will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will +relate the matter to you in private. + +"_Ergo_. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now +only a question of regaining Monseigneur's favour. The serpent is no longer +there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When +the beast is dead, the venom is dead. + +"I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it +costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has +been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope, +experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. _Filii Sion exultate et +laetimini in Domino Deo nostro_. + +"I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will +form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend, +you will do honour to your old master. _Tu quoque Marcellus eris_! + +"As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is +worth more, I am going to stir up the arrière-ban of the sacristies. + +"I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything +in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de +Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that +before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbé Marcel alone. + +"That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an +Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure--that at +length you shall leave your Thebaid. + +"Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to +dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your +wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will +discuss what is best to do. + +"Have patience then till then. _Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis, +fratres_, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you. + +"I embrace you tenderly, + +"Your spiritual Father + +"MARCEL RIDOUX + +"_Curé of St. Nicholas_." + + + + +XLVIII. + + +RECONCILIATION. + + "The fair Eglé chooses her part on a sudden + In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming." + + CHAMPFORT (_Contes_). + +"Here is salvation," said Marcel to himself, "the solution of the problem, +the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot +which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!" +And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him: + +--Good news! Veronica. + +--I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you +nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit? + +--Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbé +Ridoux, gives notice of his. + +--Monsieur le Curé of Saint Nicholas? + +--Himself. Do you know him? + +--Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul) +regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it +appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in +the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the +world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It's +he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a +little diversion, for we don't often laugh. + +--That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest's +house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where +there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness. +Our Saviour has said: "Every house divided against itself shall perish." + +--He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Curé. + +--We must not perish, Veronica. + +--I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war. + +--Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle +might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic +differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We +are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself, +it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we can come to an understanding directly, if you +wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice. + +--Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after +supper. + +--I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service. + +--And we will celebrate the good news. + +--I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you do not +know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I +am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another's, and when we +must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to +laugh, and do not give up my share. + +--Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only +way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to +my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my +secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is +at the bottom of your bag of iniquity. + + + + + +XLIX. + + +CONFIDENCES. + + "To thee I wish to confide this secret, + Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet + They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Curé of Althausen had +coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups. + +--You have asked somebody then? she enquired. + +--Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica. + +The woman smiled. + +She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the +shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed +partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her +master. + +--We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us. + +Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his +servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he +thought, and he answered quietly: + +--We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do +anything wrong. + +--Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your +table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would +begin to chatter. + +--It is true. + +--And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so, +Monsieur le Curé? + +Marcel bent his head: + +--You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one +cannot usually with a ... common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand +me. Then, after a moment's hesitation: + +--Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a +serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it. + +--Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Curé, I deserved everything that you +have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly +towards you. + +--I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate +all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely. + +--Monsieur le Curé is too good. + +--No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved +differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of +ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, +and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we +can come to an understanding. + +--Yes, I am easy to accommodate. + +--Let us save appearances, that is essential. + +--You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could +ever reproach me for setting a bad example. + +--I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is +well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we +must wash our dirty linen at home. + +--Poor Monsieur Fortin. + +--That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my +disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and +you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little +confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little +brandy? There! now sit close to me. + +--Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees. + +--At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I +mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, +but by right of a friend. + +--I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé. + +--There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, +but not a priest. Are you willing? + +--I am quite willing. + +--You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to +you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say +regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me. + +--What do you want me to tell you? + +--They committed faults then?... + +--I have told you so, sir,--sometimes--like you. + +--Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day. + +--Seven times! + +--Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but +I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater +saints? + +--Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between +ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar. + +--Oh, Veronica, Veronica. + +--Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another +thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted +their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them. + +--What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things? + +--One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one +sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to +his _valet de chambre_; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I +tell you so. + +--But that is blasphemy, Veronica. + +--Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel. + +--Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness? + +--Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who +surprised me. + +--You!... And how then? + +--Monsieur le Curé, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their +weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine. + +--Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? +these ecclesiastics? + +--Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet ... if Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand.... + +--Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to +me. It is wrong of you to forget that. + +--Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand +that since you, you have erred, the others.... + +--And what have they done? + +--Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus! + +--Let us see. + +--I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it. + +--Come, let us see, speak ... you have nothing to be afraid of before me +... speak, Veronica, speak. + +--Where must I begin? + +--Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose. + +--There are several of them. + +--Several beginnings? + +--Yes; I have had three masters, you know. + +--Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I +knew slightly. + +--He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no. + +--The Abbé Fortin? + +--Lord God, yes, the Abbé Fortin! + +--What has he done then? + +--My God ... you know well, that which one does when one ... is a man ... +and has a warm temperament. + +--To you, Veronica, to you? + +--Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, I am so good-natured, I don't +know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to +resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your +confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a +certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be +quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out +through the parsonage door. + +--Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad. + +--And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we +are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed +is a sin half pardoned. + +--Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what +causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence." + +--Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so? + +--A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe. + +--I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least? + +--He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman. + +--That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would +believe in us without that? I say _us_, for I am also somewhat a +church-_woman_. + +--Undoubtedly. + +--I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St. +Eprive's and my mother the Curé's housekeeper. + +--That is your title. + +--Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the +head of the association of the Holy Virgin. + +--No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy +and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot +contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!... And how did he go to work to +... seduce you? He must have used much deceit. + +--All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge. + + + + +L. + + +MAMMOSA VIRGO! + + "The monk could not refrain from admiring + the freshness and plumpness of + this woman. For a long time he made + his eyes speak, and he managed it so + well that in the end he inspired the + lady with the same desire with which + he was burning." + + BOCCACIO (_La Décaméron_). + +Veronica took several sips of the brandy which remained at the bottom of +the cup, collected her thoughts for a moment, and casting her eyes down +with a modest air, she proceeded: + +--The good Monsieur Fortin, as perhaps you know, used to drink a little of +an evening. + +--Oh, he used to drink! + +--Yes, not every day, but every now and then; two or three times a week: +but you know ... quite nicely, properly, without making any noise; he was +gayer than usual, that was all. But when he reached that point, though he +was ordinarily as timid as a lay-brother, he became as bold as a gendarme, +and he was very ... how shall I say?... very enterprising. I may say that +between ourselves, Monsieur le Curé, you understand that strangers never +knew anything about it. If by chance anyone came and asked for him at these +times, I used to say that he had gone out, or that he was ill. One day, I +was finely put out. Christopher Gilquin's daughter came to call him to her +mother who was at the point of death. He took it into his head to try and +kiss her. The little one, who was hardly fifteen, did not know what it +meant. I made her understand that it was to console her, and through pure +affection for her and for her mamma. It passed muster. But when she had +gone I gave it to him finely, and I made him go to bed ... and sharply too. + +--And he obeyed you? + +--I should think so, and without a word. He saw very well he was wrong. One +evening then ... I had been in his service hardly six months--I must tell +you first that he had looked at me very queerly for some time; I let him do +so and said to myself: "Here is another of them who will do like the rest." +And I waited for it to happen. I was better-looking then than I am now: I +was ten years younger, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Ten years younger! but you were thirty then. How could you be a Curé's +servant at that age? Our rules are opposed to it. + +--I passed as his relation. And that was tolerated. Besides, when +Monseigneur made his visitation, I did not show myself ... for form's sake, +for Monseigneur knew very well that I was there. I met him once on the +stairs; he took hold of my chin, looked at me very hard, and said in a sly +way: "Here is this little _spiritual sister_ then; faith, she is a pretty +little rogue." I was so bashful. I asked Monsieur Fortin what a _spiritual +sister_ was, and he told me that they used formerly to call women so who +lived with priests. They say that all had two or three _spiritual sisters_. +What indecency! I should not have allowed that. + +--Spiritual sister is not exactly the expression, said Marcel, it is +_adoptive sister_, because they were adopted.[1] Alas, Veronica, the clergy +were slightly dissolute in former times: it is no longer so in our days, in +which so many holy ecclesiastics give an example of the rarest virtues. + +--Oh, three wives, Monsieur le Curé! three wives! sweet Jesus! they must +have torn out each other's eyes. + +--No, Veronica. They agreed very well among themselves. They had different +ideas at that time to what we have now. + +--One evening then Monsieur Fortin had drunk at table a little more than +usual. I was going to bring the dessert and I leaned over to take up a dish +which was before him. As the dish was heavy and rather far from my hand, I +supported myself on the back of his chair, and involuntarily I rubbed +against his body with my stomach. "Oh, oh," he said, "if that happens again +I shall pinch that big breast." + +--What! Monsieur Fortin used that expression? + +--Yes, sir, and many others besides. I blush when I think of it.... Then I +looked at him quite astounded. He began to laugh. I went to look for the +cheese, and I passed again beside him on purpose, and supported myself on +his chair again to place it on the table. "Ah," he cried, "she is beginning +again. _O, mammosa virgo_!"--he repeated it so many times to me that I +remember it--"so much the worse, I keep my promises." And he pinched me. + +--Where? + +--Where he had said. He made no error. I blushed for shame and drew back as +quickly as possible: "How can he," I said to myself, "use Latin words to +deceive poor women?" Then he cried: "Are you ticklish?"--Yes, sir. "Ah, you +are ticklish. The big Veronica is ticklish! Who would have believed it?" +And he laughed, but I saw clearly that his laugh was put on, and that +something else preoccupied him. And from that moment, each time that I +passed near him and stooped down to clear away, he tried to pinch me where +he could: "And there," he said, "are you ticklish? are you ticklish there?" +I was so stupefied that I could not get over it. "It is a little too much, +Holy Mother of God," I said to myself, "a man like him! to pinch me in this +way! who would believe it! One would not credit it, if one saw it! Ah, I +will see how far he will go, and to-morrow I will give him an account." At +last, when I saw that he would not stop it, and that he was going too far, +I said to him severely: Monsieur le Curé, if you continue to tease me in +this way, you shall see something. + +--What shall I see? he said getting up suddenly, I want to see it directly. +Ah, _mammosa virgo_! you threaten your master! Wait, wait, I will teach you +respect. + +And, pretending to punish me, he caught hold of as much as he could grasp +with both hands; yes, sir, as much as he could. Ah, I was very angry, God +can tell you so. + +--And did he stop? + +--Not at all, sir; quite the contrary. I escaped from his hands, and I +turned round the table saying: "Ah, sweet Jesus, what is going to happen? +Divine Saviour! How far will he dare to go?" To complete the misfortune, I +let the lamp fall, and it went out. Then he put himself into a great +passion, and soon caught me. "You have upset the oil," he cried. "I will +teach you to spill the oil." He held me with all his might. Then I got +angry in earnest, in earnest, you know. + +--Well? + +--Well, that was useless. I was taken like a poor fly. It was too late. It +was all over. + +--All over! + +--All over. Monsieur Fortin let me go then. Ah! sir, if you knew how +ashamed I was. + +[Footnote 1: They are still called _sisters agapetae_ or _subintroduced_ +women. Perhaps it is not unnecessary to recall the fact that Gregory VII +was the first of the popes to impose celibacy on the clergy. He nullified +acts performed by married priests and compelled them to choose between +their wives and the priesthood. In spite of this, and in spite of +excommunication with which he threatened them, many kept their wives +secretly, the rest contented themselves with concubines. Besides, the +majority of the bishops, who lived after the same manner, tolerated for +bribes infractions of the rule by the lower and higher clergy. The Council +of Paris, in 1212, forbade them to receive money, proceeding from this +source. At the present time, however, the Catholic priests of the +Greeks-United, those of Libar and different Oriental communions, all under +papal authority, not only may, but must take wives. + +St. Paul said: "Choose for priest him who shall have but one wife." Would +he find many of them at the present time?] + + + + +LI. + + +CHAMBER MORALITY. + + "Practise moderation and prudence + with regard to certain virtues which + may ruin the health of the body." + + THE REV. FATHER LAURENT SCUPOLI (_Le Combat Spirituel_). + +--What a strange story, said Marcel. Oh, Veronica. But did you not make +more resistance? + +--Resistance! I was lame from it for more than a fortnight. I walked like a +duck. People said to me: "What is the matter with you, Mademoiselle +Veronica? They say you have broken something!" Ah, if they had suspected +what it was. + +--What a scandal! Monsieur Fortin! + +--He was stronger than I; but I don't give him all the blame. We must be +just. It was my fault too. That is what comes of playing with fire. + +--But it seems to me, Veronica, that you displayed a little willingness. + +--Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you are scolding me for telling you all this so +plainly. Was it not better for me to act thus, than to let Monsieur Fortin +run right and left and expose himself to all sorts of affronts, as some do? +That man had a temperament of fire. And that temperament must have expended +itself on someone. The business about little Gilquin made me reflect. I +sacrificed myself, and I acted as much in his interests as in the interests +of religion. + +--And does not temperament speak in you also, Veronica? + +--Ah, that is only told in confession. + +--Nevertheless it is fine to rule your passions, to be chaste. + +--Ah, yes, as you were saying once when I came in: "Chaste without hope." +All that is rubbish. God has well done all that he has done; I can't get +away from that. + +--How can you bring the holy name of God into these abominable things? + +--Abominable! that is rubbish again. Monsieur Fortin and I often asked +ourselves what evil that could do to God, when neither of us did any to +other people. Monsieur Fortin used to say to me: "Are we doing evil to our +neighbours, Veronica?" "Not that I know of, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we +causing a scandal?" "Ah, Jesus, no, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we setting a +bad example?" "No, Monsieur le Curé, no." "Are we populating the land with +orphans?" "Oh, as to that, no." "Well then, in what way can we be offending +God?" That was very well said all the same, the more so as his health +depended on it. + +--But, replied Marcel, wishing to change the conversation which was verging +upon dangerous ground, have you not told me that you have been in the +service of ecclesiastics for nearly five-and-twenty years. That appears to +me to be very extraordinary for, after all, you are hardly forty. + +--Thirty-nine, corrected Veronica, who was past forty-five. + +--Reason the more. + +--That is true, Monsieur le Curé, but I began early. At fifteen I went to +the Abbé Braqueminet's. + +--I was acquainted with a Braqueminet, who was Bishop _in partibus_. A very +worthy prelate. + +--That he is, sir; he went to America. + +--Come! this is too much, Veronica; you want to make a fool of me. At +fifteen, do you say, that is too much! At thirty you were with the Abbé +Fortin. I have no objection to that, since you passed as his relation, +although with regard to this, our rules are precise, and we cannot take a +housekeeper, till she is over a certain age. Sometimes, it is true, they +smuggle in a few years: but fifteen years! + +--It is the exact truth, however, sir. I was fifteen years old, and no more +at the Abbé Braqueminet's, and you will believe me, when I tell you that I +was his niece. + +-Monseigneur Braqueminet's niece! you, Veronica? + +-Yes, sir, his niece; the Holy Virgin who hears me, will tell you that I +was his niece, and I will explain to you how. + + + + +LII. + + +THE POSSET. + + "This little maid, so fair, with teasing ways, + Was made to be a lovely man's support. + For many a foolish thing in former days + He did to gain a face less fair than thine." + + BÉRANGER (_la Célibataire_). + +My father, as I have told you, was beadle at Saint Eprive's, and my mother +was servant to Monsieur le Curé. These were two good situations, but they +had a number of children, and not much time to attend to them. Therefore +when I was thirteen, they entrusted me to an old aunt who was willing to +take charge of me. She was servant to Monsieur Braqueminet, who was then at +Mirecourt. She placed me at first with a lady who made me look after her +little children. At the end of a year Monsieur l'Abbé had a change, and +went away to a village near Saint-Dié. He said to my aunt: "You cannot +leave Veronica alone at Mirecourt; she will soon be fifteen; she is tall +and nice-looking; she will run too much risk, and we must take her with us; +but as it would make these foolish peasants chatter if their Curé had a +strange young girl in the house, she shall pass as my niece. What do you +say to this proposal?" My aunt was delighted and agreed to it directly, and +all the more because I would have to assist her in the household work, and +that her labour would thus be lightened. They took me away from my +situation, they taught me my lesson, and I went away with them, very +pleased to be Monsieur le Curé's niece. Ah! that was the best time of my +life. My aunt spoilt me, Monsieur le Curé was excessively fond of me, I had +all my wishes. All the ladies in the neighbourhood spoke to me civilly, the +Collector's wife, the lawyer's wife, the Mayoress, the wife of the +exciseman, they all, in short, made much of me. Mademoiselle Veronica here! +Mademoiselle Veronica there! I had my place in the gallery. They invited me +to dinner and they were rivals as to who should make me little presents, as +if I were really his true niece; everybody believed it, and my aunt +herself, by dint of hearing it said, ended by believing it herself, for she +never called me anything else than Mademoiselle Veronica. + +Unfortunately after some time my aunt died. When we had both of us wept +copiously for her, Monsieur le Curé said to me: "Now your aunt is dead, +Veronica, what are you going to do?" I made no answer and burst again into +tears. "You must not cry like that, little one, you will spoil your pretty +eyes; will you remain with me? will you continue to be my niece?" That was +my dream; I asked for nothing more. I thanked Monsieur Braqueminet with all +my soul, and told him that as he wanted me to be his niece, I would remain +his niece all my life.--"That is agreed," he said to me, "you shall keep my +little house for me, and I will take another maid-servant for the heavy +work only." For he was so nice to me that he would not allow me to fatigue +myself in anything. Ah, the men, Monsieur le Curé, who can trust the men! +See what he has made of me after all his fine promises: a poor servant, +nothing more. + +--Had he then any reason to complain of you? + +--To complain of me! ah, sweet Paschal Lamb! Never has he said a word of +reproach. But since I am in the mood to tell you everything, I may as well +do so at once. It was he who had my innocence. + +--What! it was not the Abbé Fortin then? + +-No, Monsieur le Curé, it was the Abbé Braqueminet. + +--And how did he go to work to have your innocence? + +--Ah, he was a very clever man. First he knew how to inspire affection, he +was so kind to me. It was I who managed everything. I was mistress of all, +although so young, and, pray believe me, everything proceeded well. But ... +one fine day a real niece turned up, no one knows whence ... and, faith, I +was obliged to retire. I might have made an exposure, but I preferred to +sacrifice myself. + +--Was she younger than you then? + +--The same age, sir, but she was fresh fruit. She appeared so innocent that +one would have given her the sacrament without confession. Monsieur +Braqueminet, he undertook to give her the Sacrament.... Yes, he undertook +it, that man!... + +--But was she really his niece? + +--Yes, sir, his own sister's daughter. I have had proofs of it; do you +think I should have gone away, without that? This sister hated me, and I +thoroughly returned it; but when I saw her daughter arrive, I said to +myself: I am well revenged. + +--But your innocence.... how did he have it? + +--Ah, you are anxious to know that. I must tell you everything then! +everything! this is how it happened. He suffered a little from his chest, +and every evening my aunt used to carry him up a posset. When my aunt was +dead, I was obliged to take her place, for the servant we had taken was +married, and went home at the end of the day. He knew very well what he was +doing, and I, poor little lamb of God, believed everything. I was like a +new-born child. It is not right to be so silly as that. God has punished me +for it: it is quite right. I don't complain at it. So I used to take him up +his posset every evening. Then he used to kiss me and squeeze me to his +heart, calling me his dear niece, and charging me to be good: + +--You will always be good? he used to say to me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Always! you promise me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Ah, let me kiss you for that kind promise. I found that he kissed me for +rather a long time and although it was very pleasant to me, still it used +to give me reason for reflection: "How can he love me so much, I thought, +when he is not my uncle?" + +You can judge by that if I was not silly. But it is perfectly conceivable, +for I had never been to school, so who was there then to teach me +naughtiness. A young girl's brain is active, and I formed a thousand +fancies of every kind. "Perhaps he has some interest concealed underneath," +I said artlessly to myself, "and perhaps he does not love me as he wishes +me to believe." I was hardly fifteen, and you see I was quite candid and +simple. I thought I would pretend to be ill, in order to make a trial of +him, and see if he would be grieved and if he would come and nurse me. So +one evening, when he had finished supper, I told him that I was not well, +and that I was going to bed. He was reading his newspaper and did not +appear to hear me. At least he made no reply. I went away very sadly and +sorrowfully, thinking that his affection for me was not very great, as he +did not give the least attention to my complaints. In short, I went to bed. + +"He will go to bed too very soon," I said to myself, "he will call for his +posset and he will be obliged to get up to see why I do not bring it to +him." + +Indeed, about an hour after, I heard his bell. I wrapped myself up in the +sheets and pretended to be asleep. He rang a second time. "Veronica, +Veronica," he cried, "my posset; what are you doing then? Have you +forgotten it? Veronica!" + +I turned a deaf ear. + + + + +LIII. + + +THE LEG. + + "One is compelled sometimes to say to oneself, + 'On what does ruin or safety depend?'" + + J. TOURGUENEFF (_Les eaux printanières_). + +Then I heard him come upstairs cautiously and stop at the door of my room. +All at once he opened it. He remained standing still for a moment, then he +came near my bed on tip-toe. + +I half-opened my eyes quickly, and the first thing I saw was his naked +legs--my word, he had a very well-made leg! I looked again and saw that he +was covered with an old black cloak which served him as a dressing-gown. + +I closed my eyes again quickly, and, without giving an account of my +feelings, I was overcome by a strong emotion. + +My uncle passed his hand over my forehead. He found it burning, for he +cried out directly: "But she is really ill, she is really ill, poor child." +Then leaning over me: "Little one, little one, where are you in pain?" + +I pretended to wake up with a start, and I stared wildly at him, as if I +was much surprised to see him there. We women have the instinct of deceit +from birth; believe me, what I tell you is true, Monsieur le Curé. + +--It is possible, Veronica. + +--Well, then be said to me, "Where are you in pain, little one?" I put my +finger on the pit of my stomach, and replied in a feeble voice "Here." + +He put his hand there, and I saw that he moved it about with complacency on +that part. + +This touch seemed to make him beside himself, "Oh, the pretty little girl, +the pretty little girl!" he said, "she is ill, poor dear child." And his +hand continued to caress me. + +You may think how I was trembling. Although he did it very decently, I said +to myself that it was not altogether proper, but I took good care not to +utter a word. A girl is inquisitive, you know, and I was not displeased to +see what he would come to. + +"Will you have a fomentation?" he said to me after a moment. "No, uncle," I +answered, "I feel I am getting better, it is not worth while; I am even +going to get up to make you your posset." "To get up, do you dream of +it?... All the same, perhaps you are right, there is still some fire in my +room: will you come there? you will warm yourself better than in your bed." +"I will, if it does not disturb you." "Disturb me! no, no, don't be afraid +of disturbing me; come, put on a dress and come." + +I sat up in bed, thinking that he would go out of the room to let me dress, +but he remained standing in front of me, and his looks frightened me. + +I remained sitting on the bed, without stirring. "Well, well, little girl, +you are not getting up?" + +"I dare not get up before you, uncle." "Are you silly? What are you afraid +of? Are you not my niece? Come, come, out of bed, little stupid." He said +that in a gentle insinuating voice, and I dared not hesitate any more. I +put one leg out of bed. He followed my movements with the greatest +attention; "Well, well, and that other leg?" + +I put out the other leg, blushing all over with shame, and I wanted to take +my petticoat. + +But he came near directly and said: "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty +she is like this.... You will always be good, will you not?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"How pretty you are when you are good. You will always be so? You promise?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Oh, I want to kiss you for that kind promise." + +--I held out my cheek to him without resistance, but it was my mouth which +received the kiss. It was followed by a thousand others. One is not of +iron, Monsieur le Curé, and that was how ... I ... lost my innocence. + +--What, Veronica, you fell so easily! They say that it is only the first +step which is painful, but it seems hardly to have been painful to you. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we women are full of faults, and we deserve only +eternal damnation. + +--I do not say that, Veronica. Certainly in this circumstance all the fault +lies on your seducer, but I should have preferred more struggle on your +part. + +--You men are very good with your struggle. To hear you, we never make +enough resistance. Would one not say that the poor women are made of +another paste than you, and that they ought to be harder? + +--No, but it is necessary to know how to govern one's passions. That is the +noble, the lofty, the meritorious thing. Resist temptation, everything lies +in that. + +[PLATE III: THE LEG. "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like +this..."] + +[Illustration] + +--Everything lies in that, I know it well; but what would you? I had lost +my head entirely like Monsieur Braqueminet. And I did not know what he +wanted, or what he was going to do. I only understood when it was too late. + +--Ah, Veronica, you singular woman, you have made me quite beside myself +with your stories. + +--It was you who wished it. + +--The Abbé Fortin! the Abbé Braqueminet! God of heaven! and who besides? + +--The Abbé Marcel! + +--Yes, it is true, I also ... I have been on the point of transgressing. +Ah! temptation is sometimes very strong, Veronica, my good Veronica; the +noble thing is to resist. + +The greatest saints have succumbed. St. Origen was obliged to employ a +grand means, you know what, my daughter? + +--Monsieur Fortin has told me. But you must not act like that saint; that +would be a pity, it would be better to succumb, dear Monsieur Marcel. How I +like your name, Marcel, Marcel, it is so soft to the mouth. + +--To resist temptation like Jesus on the mountain.... + +--There was but one Jesus. + +--Like St. Antony in the desert.... + +--That is rubbish; in the desert no one could tempt him. + +--Leave the room, Veronica; since you have talked to me, I understand the +fault of your former masters; leave the room. + +--Are you afraid of me then? Angels of heaven, a woman like me. Is it +possible? Ah, I should have been very proud of it. + +--Proud to make me sin? + +--Sin! Sin! Monsieur le Curé: why do we call that a sin? + +She came nearer to him. He wished to rise from his chair, but his hand went +astray, he never knew how, on his servant's waist. + +Oh vow of chastity, sentiments of modesty, manly dignity and priestly +virtue, where were you, where were you? + + + + +LIV. + + +MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. + + "Well, you have found it, this ephemeral happiness." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +Sadness succeeds to joy, deception to illusion, the awakening to the dream, +the head-ache to the debauch. + +When the crime is perpetrated, remorse, the avenging lash of virtue, comes +and scourges the conscience. "Come, up, vile thing! thou hast slept over +long." + +And it exposes to the wretch the emptiness of pleasures, purchased at the +price of honour. + +The dawn found the Curé of Althausen groaning secretly to himself on his +couch. + +He had made himself guilty of an abominable wickedness, he had just +committed an inexcusable crime, he had succumbed cowardly, ignominiously; +he had betrayed his faith, abjured his priestly oaths, forgotten his +duties, prostituted his dignity on the withered breast of an old corrupted +maid-servant. + +Suzanne, the adorable young girl, who in the first place had insensibly and +involuntarily drawn him on the road of perjury, for whom he would have +sacrificed honour, reputation, the universe and his God, he had abjured her +also in the arms of this drab. + +And that was the wound which consumed his heart the most. + +For as soon as we have yielded to the infernal temptation, the lying prism +vanishes, the halo disappears, and there only remains vice in all its +hideousness and repulsive nudity. It is then that we hear a threatening +voice mutter secretly in the depths of our being. + +Happy is he who, already slipping on the fatal descent, listens to that +voice: "Stop, stop; there is still time, raise thyself up." + +But most frequently we remain deaf to that importunate cry. And, weary of +crying in vain, conscience is silent. It no more casts its solemn serious +note into the intoxicating music of facile love. + +And the wretch, devoured by insatiable desire, pursues his coarse and looks +not back. He goes on, he ever goes on, leaving right and left, like the +trees on the way-side, his vigour and his youth which he scatters behind +him. He set forth young, robust and strong, and he arrives at the +halting-place, worn-out, soiled and blemished. There is the ditch, and he +tumbles headlong into it. He falls into the common grave of cowardice and +infamy. The lowest depths receive him and restore him not again. + +Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums +have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened. Disturb +not this corpse, it is only putrefaction. + +The poet has said: + + "Evil to him who has permitted lewdness + Beneath his breast its foremost nail to delve! + The pure man's heart is like a goblet deep: + Whe the first water poured therin is foul, + The sea itself could not wash out the spot, + So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie." + +Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid +descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself: + +"Shall I ever be able to see the light of day? Shall I ever dare to raise +my eyes after this filthy crime? Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me. Avenging +thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the +nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth." + +But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest +rumbling of thunder. Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no +minister of God had sinned. The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and +danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the +pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden. + +There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the +burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile. +She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with +pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless +curiosity. + +[PLATE IV: MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. ...he sprang out of bed, surfeited with +disgust.... And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a +madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.] + +[Illustration] + +Doubtless she was saying to herself: "Is it really possible? Am I then in +bed with this handsome priest? Is my dream then realised?" + +And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in the +Curé of Althausen's bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones: + +--You say nothing, my handsome master. You seem to be dejected. What! you +are not tired out already? + +And she put out her hand to give him a caress. But he sprang out of bed, +surfeited with disgust. + +--Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful. I was forgetting your +Mass. + +And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and +carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm. + + + + +LV. + + +IN THE FOOT-PATH. + + "'Tis the comer blest where God's creatures dwell, + The wild birds' haunt and the dragon-fly's home, + Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell, + Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +"Abomination of abomination!" murmured Marcel, and he went out in haste; he +would not remain another minute in that cursed house. It seemed to him that +the walls of his room reeked of debauchery, and that everything there was +impregnated with the odour of foul orgies. + +He went out of the village, unconscious of his road, like a hunted +criminal; he tried to escape from himself, for that harsh officer, remorse, +had laid vigorous hold of his conscience. Be followed at random the +foot-paths, lined by gardens by which he had passed so many times with +placid brow and a clean heart; he walked on, he walked on, with bare head, +and blank and haggard eyes, thinking of nothing but his crime, seeing +nothing, hearing nothing, not oven the bell which summoned him to his +morning Mass, as it cheerfully filled the air with its silver notes. + +The morning was as bright as the face of a bride. May was shedding its +perfumes and flowers on the paths, and displaying everywhere its marvellous +adornments of universal life,--labour and love. The children were already +tumbling about in the foot-paths, the birds were warbling in the hawthorn +hedges, and in the moist grass the grasshopper was saluting the rising sun. + +And he, in the midst of all this joy and all this life, was walking on with +his head filled with vague ideas of suicide. A few peasants passed near him +and sainted him: he saw them not; he saw not the children who stopped still +and gazed in bewilderment at his strange appearance: he saw not Suzanne who +was approaching at the end of the path. + +She was only a few paces away when he raised his head, and all his blood +rushed to his heart. Vision blessed and cursed at the same time. She, she +there, at the vary moment of the consummation of his shame. She before him +when he had just dug an abyss between them. What should he say? Would she +not read on his troubled face the shameful secret of the drama within? Was +not his crime written on his sullied brow in indelible soars? He would have +wished the earth to open under his feet. + +Meanwhile she advanced blushing, perhaps as greatly agitated as himself. + +And from the smile on her rosy lips, from the brightness of her dark eyes, +from the gram of her carriage, from the chaste swelling of her bosom, from +the folds of her dress which, blown by the morning breeze, revealed the +harmonious outlines of her fairy leg, from all those inexpressible maiden +charms, there breathed forth that _something_, for which there is no name +in the language of men, but which accelerates the beating of the heart, +which pours into the veins an unknown fluid, and bids us murmur low to the +stranger who passes by, and whom perhaps we may never see again: "My life +is thine, is thine!" + +Mysterious sensation, which, in the golden days of youth, we have all +experienced once at least with ravishing delight. + +And everything seemed to say to Marcel: "Fool! If thou hadst wished it, we +were thine. The delights of paradise were thine, and thou hast preferred +the impurities of hell!" + +Oh, if he had been able, if he had dared, he would have cast himself at +this maiden's feet, he would have kissed her knees, he would have grovelled +on the ground and cried with tears: "Pardon! pardon! Fate has caused it +all. Almighty God will never pardon me, but it is thou whom I implore, and +what matters it, if thou, thou dost pardon me." + +The feeling of the reality recalled him to himself. Who was aware of his +fault, and what was there, besides, in common between this young girl and +himself? One evening when alone with her, he had acted imprudently, that +was all, and it was now long ago. Then, through desperation and also to +show that he attached no importance to that act of imprudence which he had +almost forgotten, he assumed an icy demeanour. + +She advanced with a smile, but she felt it congeal on her lips before this +insolent coldness, while he, gravely bowing to her as before, a stranger, +passed on. + + + + +LVI. + + +DOUBLE REMORSE. + + "Ah, how much better are the love-tales + which we spelt in our eyes with + our hearts." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Croquis d'automne_). + +His Mass said, Marcel did not want to return to the parsonage. He made his +way slowly to the wood, absorbed by a world of thoughts. All was quite +changed since the day before, and what a revolution had been wrought in his +soul in one day. + +The day before there was still time to stop, there was time to cast far +away temptations and impure desires, to avoid the infernal snares and +ambushes, to take refuge, according to the Apostle's advice, in the bosom +of God; now it was too late, it was no longer in his power; he found +himself hemmed in within the circle of abominations, and he did not see how +he could get forth. + +A double remorse tormented him, and wrung his conscience with fierce +fingers. + +On the one hand, there was his servant, become his accomplice and his +mistress, an odious thing; his servant defiling his couch, hitherto +immaculate; his couch of a virtuous priest. + +Then, on the other, there was the fair pale face of Suzanne, full of +reproaches, surprised and sad. Why had he not stopped? What fury had urged +him forward, cold and scornful, when he burned to hear once again the sound +of that voice which stirred his heart! + +And the memory of that meeting, at the very moment of the consummation of +his infamy, was the blow of the lash which laid bare the open wound of his +remorse. He did not curse his crime more than the inopportuneness and the +awkwardness of that crime. + +What! be had given himself up to a despicable old woman, he had slaked the +thirst of that ghoul with his generous blood, he had abandoned to that +hell-hag the promises of his young body and his virgin soul, while a young +girl whose like he had never seen but in fairy tales and dreams, came to +him and seemed to say to him: "You may love me." + +And he had repulsed her in order to give himself up to the former: that +horrible creature, that hypocrite, that sorceress. + +And now that his judgment was calm, he could not understand how he had +allowed himself to be carried away by such clumsy manoeuvres, that he had +fallen in so cowardly a way, and for such an object. + +If, at least, it had been in the arms of the lovely school-girl! If his +virtue had melted under the kisses of her charming lips! But no, none of +all that: none of those unparalleled joys, of those ineffable delights, of +those divine and sweet pleasures. + +Unclean touches, a withered body, an impure mouth. Lewdness instead of +love. + +And his servant's caresses recurred to him and froze him like the infernal +spectres of a hideous nightmare. + +He saw again her face, lighted up by amorous fever, her fiery lecherous +look, fastening on him with all the wild fury of her forty-five years, with +the cynicism of the sham saint who has thrown away her mask, and who, after +long fasting, continence and privation, finds at length the means of +glutting herself, and wallows more than any other in the sewer of +obscenities and Saturnalia. + +He saw her again like the old courtesan of Horace, + + ...._Mulier nigris dignissima barris_ + +soliciting horribly her too avaricious caresses, and employing all the +arsenal of her filthy seduction to excite him. + +Meanwhile the hours were passing away. The spirit travels in vain into the +land of phantoms; nature performs her modest functions without caring for +the wanderings of the spirit. + +He felt by the pangs of his stomach that he had as yet only breakfasted on +the body of Christ, a meagre repast after a night consecrated to Venus. In +short, he was hungry, and he decided to return to the parsonage. + + + + +LVII. + + +THE EXPLOSION. + + "What dost thou want with me, old + vixen, worthy to have black elephants + for thy lovers.... With what passion + dost thou reproach me for my disgust." + + HORACE (_Epodes_). + +Veronica was waiting for him with a puckered smile. At another time she +would have made a great uproar, for the hour for the meal had struck long +ago; but she did not wish to abuse her freshly conquered rights, and she +contended herself with asking in accents of soft reproach. + +--How late you are. Where have you come from? I was beginning to be +anxious. + +Marcel made no reply. + +--You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have +you come from? + +--I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply. + +The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the +table. + +--Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went +towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here +quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are +all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they +scorn her. + +This sentence struck the Curé to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his +wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he +wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him. + +--You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly. + +--There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I +said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not +young enough or pretty enough for you. + +--I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting. + +--What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick. + +--I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think. + +--I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken. Ah! I am +revolting! revolting! Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth. But +it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, +yesterday, she cried insolently. + +--Yesterday! yesterday! Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you. I would +that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of +the tomb. + +--Yes? is that your thought? Well, for my part, I will forget nothing. Oh! +you are pleased to wish to forget, are you? Therefore, you give yourself up +to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, +and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with +no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say: "Let us forget." +Ah! I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who +preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do +you hear? + +--Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven. + +--I will not be silent, I will not. So much the worse if they hear me. What +does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am? It is not I who am +guilty, it is you. It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you. +It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and +morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked +tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night +under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned +her back. Yes, yes, you have done that. I blush for you. And you are +Monsieur le Curé! Monsieur le Curé. If that wouldn't make the hens laugh. +Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it +is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you. Have I gone and +sought for you, have I? You have made me tell you a lot of stories which +ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside +you, drink brandy,... and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me. +Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has +been all her life the victim of priests like you. No, I will not be silent, +I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must. Ah! you have taken me like a +thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, +when one has no more need of it: I understand you; but I have more +self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant. + +You want to forget. Very good. But I do not want to forget, and I shall not +forget. Oh, I well know what it is your want, Messieurs les Curés; you want +young girls, quite young girls, green fruit, which you pick like that at +the Confessional, or in some corner, without appearing to touch it, and all +the while praying to God. I am aware of that, you know. You cannot teach +any tricks to me. You did not get up early enough, my good master. Your +Suzanne! there is what would please you. You would not tell her that she is +revolting. Affected thing! But they will give you them, wait a little. _Go +and see if they are coming, Jean_. The little girls come like that and +throw themselves at your neck! You would allow it perhaps. That is what +would be revolting. But the mammas are watching, and the papas are opening +their eyes. You hear, Monsieur le Curé? The papas; that is what annoys you. +Papa Durand. + +--Here! cried a voice of thunder from the bottom of the stair-case, and it +resounded in Marcel's ears like the trumpet of the last judgment. + +Pale and terrified, he questioned Veronica with his eyes. + +--It is he, she said, hurrying to the landing-place. + + + + +LVIII. + + +PROVOCATION. + + "For her, for her I will drink the cup to the dregs." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Chatterton_). + +--A thousand pardons, said the Captain, but the door was open and I have +knocked twice. Monsieur le Curé, I have the honour to salute you. I am not +disturbing you? + +--Not at all, Monsieur le Capitaine, quite the contrary, I am happy to see +you; please come in, stammered Marcel, trying to conceal his confusion, and +to look pleasantly at the old soldier. He eagerly brought forward an +arm-chair for him, the one on which Suzanne had sat. + +"Ah," he thought, "if he knew that his daughter was there, at this same +place!" + +The Captain sat down, and, tapping his cane on the floor, seemed to be +seeking for a way of entering on his subject; he appeared anxious, and +Marcel noticed that he no longer had his decisive scoffing manner. + +--Monsieur le Curé, he said after a moment's silence, you must be a little +surprised to see me ... although, after what I believe I heard, I may not +be altogether a stranger here. + +--My parishioners are no strangers, Captain. + +--Parishioner! oh, I am hardly that. I was not making allusion to that +title, but to my name, which was uttered at the very moment when I was at +your door. + +--Your name, Captain, said Marcel growing red; but there are several +persons of your name. + +--That is what I said to myself. There is more than one donkey which is +called Neddy, and more than one _Papa_ Durand in the world. _Papa_! that +recalls to me my position as father, sir, and the purpose of my presence +here. + +Marcel trembled. + +--For you may guess that independently of the pleasure of paying you a +call, I have moreover another object in view. + +--Proceed, Captain. + +--Yes, sir. I wish to talk to you about my daughter. + +--About your daughter! cried Marcel. + +--About my daughter, if you allow me. + +--Do so, I beg of you. + +--Monsieur le Curé, you have been in this neighbourhood some six or eight +months. People have certainly spoken to you about me; they have told you +who I am; a miscreant, a man without religion, who regards neither law or +Gospel: that is to say, only worth hanging. In spite of that, you came to +see me. Very good. You know that I do not pick and choose my words, that I +do not seek a lot of little twisting ways to express my meaning. You have +had a proof of it. I am blunt, and even brutal, that is well known; but I +am open and true. + +--I do not doubt it, Captain. + +--After our little conversation the other day, you must have decided on my +sentiments with regard to those of your profession. Are those sentiments +right or wrong? That is my business. I am not come to begin a controversy, +I am come to ask for an explanation. + +--Please go on, said Marcel alarmed. + +--Not liking the priests, I should have wished to bring up my daughter in +these principles. You see I am straightforward. Unfortunately, like many +other things, her education has slipped out of my hands. We soldiers do not +accumulate property, and those who have the best share, if they have no +private fortune, remain as poor as Job. We are not able therefore to bring +up our children as we intend. The State, in its solicitude, is willing to +undertake this care: we are glad of it, and we are thankful to the State; +but our children slip out of our hands; they become what the State wishes +them to be, that is to say, its humble servants, and, if they are +daughters, anything but what their father has ever dreamed. + +Marcel breathed again: + +--The vocation of children, he said softly, is often in contradiction to +the wishes of parents, and that is precisely the sign of the real vocation +... to shatter obstacles. Where is the great artist, the great man, the +hero, the saint, the martyr, who has not had to struggle with his own +family? + +--I am not speaking of a vocation, sir, but of prejudices, of fatal habits, +of disheartening nonsense, which children, and especially young girls, +imbibe in certain surroundings. The education which my daughter has +received, has inoculated her with ideas which I am far from blaming in a +woman--I have my religion myself too--but the abuse of which I resent. I am +not then at war with my daughter because she has her own, and her own is +more receptive, but what I blame with all my power, and what I am +determined to oppose with all my power is the excessive attendance at +church and on the priest ... on the priest, above all. You are a man, sir, +and you understand me, do you not? + +--I understand, Captain, that you do not wish your daughter to go to +church. + +--As little as possible, sir. + +--Nevertheless, as a Christian and as a Catholic, she has duties to +perform. + +--What do you mean by duties? + +--Why, the first elements which the Catechism prescribes. + +--I do not remember exactly what your catechism prescribes, but if you mean +by that the little box where they tell their sins, that is exactly what I +absolutely forbid. + +--Nevertheless a young person has need of counsel. + +--Undoubtedly; but that counsel I intend to give myself. + +--There is also the priest's part, Captain. + +--Allow me to have another opinion. Besides, the adviser is too young; that +is why, Monsieur le Curé, I ask you to abstain in the future from all +advice, and undertake to abandon any intention you may have with regard to +the direction of this young soul. Such is the purport of my visit. + +--Monsieur le Capitaine, answered Marcel, relieved from a great weight, I +am an honourable man. Another perhaps might be offended at this proceeding. +I will take no offence at it. Another perhaps might answer: "It is a soul +to contend for with Satan; it is the struggle between the Church and the +family; an old struggle, sir, an eternal struggle. You are master to impose +your will among your own, just as among us, we are masters to act according +to our conscience. As a father of a family, your rights are sacred, but +they stop at the entrance to the holy place. You desire the struggle. It +lies between us." For myself I simply reply: "Let it be done according to +your wish, and may the will of God equally be done!" + +--And what does that mean? + +--That your daughter is and shall be in my eyes like all the souls which +Heaven has willed to entrust to my care. If she does not come to church, I +will not go to seek her; but if she comes there, I cannot ask her to +depart. + +--You are really too good. And if she comes and kneels in the little box? + +--Then the will of God will be stronger than the paternal will. + +--That is no answer. + +--Well! what can I do? humbly replied Marcel. + +--Allow me, sir; I ask you what you would do in such a case. + +--I make you the judge of it; can I treat your daughter differently to the +other ladies of the parish? + +--That is to say that you will receive her confession? + +--That will be my duty, Captain. I am frank also, you see. + +--But, Monsieur le Curé, the first of your duties is not to encourage the +disobedience of children, and not to place yourself between a father and +his daughter. + +--I place myself on no side, Captain. I confine myself, as far as I can, to +the very obscure and modest character of a poor priest. I am charged with +an office; is it possible, I ask you yourself, for me to repel those who +address themselves to that office? + +--Very good, sir, said the Captain rising; I know henceforth what to rely +on. + +--Pardon me, Captain, but allow me to say that your proceedings and +apprehensions appear to me a trifle superfluous; for indeed, if you have a +reproach to make your daughter, it is not that of excessive devotion, for +it is a long time since she has come to church. + +--I have forbidden it to her, sir. But my daughter is grieved, and that +pains me. I came to address myself to you, man to man, and as you see, I am +disappointed. + +--Believe me, Captain, let the thing alone. Do nothing in a hurry. Young +people are irritated by obstacles. They need freedom and diversion. Think +of this young lady's position, dropped from her school into the midst of +this solitude, having neither friends or companions any longer; at that +age, the family is not everything; books, walks, music are not sufficient, +What harm is there in her coming sometimes on Sunday, to hear Divine +Service? We do not conceal it from ourselves, sir, that many women whom we +see at service, come there for relaxation. + +--And it is precisely that relaxation which ruins them. + +--Not in the church, sir. + +--Not there, no. But behind, in the sacristy, or at the back of some +well-closed room. Adieu, sir. + +--I do not want to criticize your language, Captain But one word more, I +ask. Is your daughter acquainted with your proceeding? + +--Why that question? + +--Because then my task will be all traced out. + +--What task? + +--To avoid every sort.... + +--Of intercourse. Do what honour counsels you, and trust to me for the +rest. I will act with my daughter as it will be suitable for me to act. As +for you, you have asserted that any other priest _less honourable_ would +have said to me: "We are going to engage in the struggle, it lies between +us." I see now that in your mouth the word _honourable_ signifies _polite_, +for you have been polite, but the other alone would have been frank and +honourable. "Between us" is better, "between us" pleases me. It is plainer +and shorter. Again, I have the honour to salute you. + + + + +LIX. + + +ACTS AND WORDS. + + "Intrigues of heavy dreams! We go + to the right; darkness: we go to the + left; darkness: in front; darkness ... + the thread which you think you hold, + escapes out of your hand, and, triumphant + for a moment, you set yourself + again to grope your way to the catastrophe, + which is a denseness of shadows." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Croquis d'automne_). + +When the Captain had gone away, Marcel perceived the triumphant face of his +servant. Mad with shame and rage he shut himself up in his room, and asked +himself what was going to become of him. "What am I to do?" he said to +himself; "here is the punishment already." + +Nevertheless, on serious reflection, he saw a way all traced out before +him; it was the ancient, the good, the old way which he had followed until +then, and into which the Captain had just brutally driven him back: + +The way of his duty. + +To forget Suzanne! He had that very morning, without wishing it, almost +unknowingly, commenced the rapture; the father's visit had just completed +the work. + +To forget Suzanne! Yes, he would forget her, he must; not only his honour, +his reputation, but his very existence were involved in it. Material +impossibilities rose up before him in every direction where he tried to +deviate from the straight path. His servant! The father! He was compelled +to be an honourable man anyhow, not lost sight of, watched and spied upon +by these two enemies. + +To forget Suzanne! How, after what had passed the previous day, would he +dream for a moment of remembering her? He was almost thankful to his +servant for having stopped him in time on a descent, at the end of which +was scandal and dishonour. + +In any other circumstances his pride would have revolted at the menaces of +the foolish father, he would have been stung in his self-esteem, and he +would have disputed with him for his treasure. But where was his pride? +Where was his dignity? He had left all that on the lap of a cook. + +Reputation was safe; that was henceforth the only good which he must keep +at any price. + +"Come," said he, "keep it, have courage. Stand up, son of saints and +martyrs. Yield not, hesitate not, march forward, without being anxious for +what is on the right or left. Do thy duty in one direction, since in the +other thou hast failed. Is a man then lost because he has for one moment +deviated from his way? Is he dead for one false step? Peter denied his +master three times, thou hast done so but once!"[1] + +The postman's ring drew him from his reverie. He ran to receive the letter, +recognized the writing, hastily put it into his pocket, took up his hat and +his breviary, and went out without saying a word. + +When he was in the little hollow road which is at the bottom of the hill, +he turned round, and, certain that he was not being followed, only then did +he open the letter which follows: + + +"MONSIEUR LE CURÉ, + +"Why are you vexed with me? If you have not seen me any more at Mass, it is +that I have had to contend with my father, and that I have been obliged to +yield. Nevertheless, I am unhappy, and more than ever have I need of your +counsel. You have said: 'We cannot serve two masters,' and 'it is very +difficult to render to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which +is God's.' One word, if you please, through the medium of Marianne to + +"Your very devoted + +"S.D." + +He tore up the letter into the smallest fragments and returned home in all +haste. + +A few hours after, Marianne received the following notice: + +_"To-morrow evening at 7 o'clock, in honour of the Holy Virgin, there will +be Salutation and Benediction at the Chapel of St. Anne. The faithful are +besought to attend."_ + +[Footnote 1: Thou art man and not God, says the holy book of Consolation, +thou art flesh and not an angel. How canst thou always continue in very +virtue?] + + + + +LX. + + +TALKS. + + "When from the hills fell balmy night, + 'Neith the dark foliage of the lofty trees, + Starred by the moon-beams' placid light, + Often we wandered by the water's side." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poésie inédite_). + +As he expected, she did not fail to be at the meeting-place. She was +unaware of her father's proceedings; it was Marcel who informed her of +them. She was quite terrified; but he reassured her, and knew how to soothe +her young conscience; and meeting followed meeting. Dear and innocent +meetings. The most prudish old woman would have found nothing to find fault +with. The mystery, and their being forbidden, formed all their charm. + +The Chapel of St. Anne, half-a-league distant from the village, was a +charming object for a walk. You cross the meadow as far as the little +river, bordered with willows, then the chapel is reached by a hollow lane +hedged with quicksets. The sweet month of May had begun. Three evenings a +week the little nave was in festal dress, and filled with light, and +perfumes and flowers. + +Suzanne went no more to Mass, but she had said to her father: + +--Will you not let me go instead and take a walk sometimes beside Saint +Anne's, to hear the music and the singing of the congregation? + +--Marianne shall accompany you, replied Durand. + +They were always the last to leave the chapel, and Marcel soon rejoined +them. It was at some winding of the path that he used to meet them _by +chance_, and every time he showed great surprise. They walked slowly along, +talking of one thing and another. The Spring, the latest books, the _good_ +Captain's rheumatism, were themes of inexhaustible variety. The future +sometimes attracted their thoughts, her own future; and the priest tried to +cause a few fresh rays to shine into the young unquiet soul. + +They talked also of the school and of friends who had gone out into the +world. One of them, a fair child with blue eyes, was her best-beloved and +the fairest of the fair, and Marcel sometimes felt jealous of these warm, +young-girl friendships. + +He did not disdain to talk of fashions; it is one way of pleasing, and he +admired aloud the elegant cut of the waist, the twig of lilac fastened to +the body of her dress, and the graceful art which had twined her long jetty +plaits. She smiled and said: "What, you too; you too; you pay attention to +these woman's trifles!" + +But what matters the topic of their conversations, all they could say was +not worth the joyous note which sang at the bottom of their hearts. + +When they drew near the village he bowed to her respectfully, and each one +returned by a different way. + +Marianne was then profuse in her praises: + +-What a fine Curé! she said, so kind and civil. If your father only knew +him better! + +And Suzanne, who returned very thoughtful, said once: "The Curé! can it be? +It is the Curé then." + + + + +LXI. + + +LE PÈRE HYACINTHE. + + "She still preserved for herself that + little scene; thus, little by little, we + accumulate within ourselves all the + elements of the inner life." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +She had shown Marcel the portrait of her beloved Rose. "Yes, she is very +pretty," he had replied, "but I prefer dark girls ..." Suzanne blushed. He +opened his breviary and drew out a card. + +--Are you going to show me a dark girl? she said. + +He handed it to her without answering. + +It was the photograph of a man of about forty, with strongly-marked and +characteristic features. The eyes, prominent and slightly veiled, were +surrounded with a dark ring, a token of struggle, fatigue and deception. A +profile out of a picture of Holbein in every-day dress. + +--It is a priest, she cried. + +--It is a priest, indeed, answered Marcel. We are recognized in any +costume. We cannot conceal our identity. Do you know who that is? + +--Is it not that monk who has made such a noise? That Dominican who has +married, and broken with the Church? + +--Yes, Mademoiselle. + +The young girl regarded it with curiosity. + +--It must have been a violent passion to come to that, she said. + +--No, it was an idea well resolved upon and matured. No transport of youth +carried him away. See, he is no longer young, and the companion he has +chosen is very nearly his own age, and he had for her only a tender and +holy feeling. + +--Why then this uproar and scandal? + +--In order to protest aloud against a rule which he did not approve. In our +days there are so many cowardly and degenerate characters, that we cannot +too greatly admire those who have the courage to proclaim their opinion in +the presence of the mob, especially when those opinions shock the +brutalized mob; for my part I admire this man; but what I admire still more +is the woman who has dared to put her hand in his, and brave the derision +of the vulgar, and the calumnies of hypocrites. + +--But his vows? + +--What is a vow when it is a question of the duty which your conscience +dictates? I heard him say one day: "If, after reaching middle age, I have +decided after long reflection to choose a companion, it is not in response +to the cry of the senses, but in order to sanctify my life." He has taken +back the word which he had given, as we all do, at an age when we are +ignorant of the import, and the consequence of that word. Be assured that +his conscience does not reproach him, for you can see on this fine +countenance that his conscience is at rest. Besides, is it the case that +God enjoins celibacy? The celibacy of priests dates only from the year +1010: Christ never speaks about it. + +--And so he has broken with all his past, his relations, his world; he has +ruined what you men call his future. He must begin his life again. + +--And he begins it again in accordance with his inclinations, his needs and +his heart: It is never too late to change the road when we discover that we +have taken the wrong way. It takes longer time, there is more hardship, but +what matters it, provided we attain happiness, the end which we all have in +view. Ah, Mademoiselle, how many, like he, would wish to begin their life +again, if they found a courageous soul who was willing to accompany them? +The future, do you say? But the future, the present, the past, the whole +life lies in the sweet union of hearts. To devote oneself, to renounce +everything, to give up everything, even one's illusions, one's beliefs, +one's dreams for the loved object, is not a sacrifice: it is the sweetest +of joys and the noblest of duties. + +He stopped, fearing that he had gone too far, and did not dare to look at +Suzanne. + +She answered coldly. "Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you approve of that! I did not +think you would have approved of Père Hyacinth; truly, I am astonished." + +_Monsieur le Curé_! It was the first time Suzanne had called him _Monsieur +le Curé_. That name wounded him like an affront. He remembered what he was, +and what he must not cease to be in the eyes of the young girl: the Curé! +nothing but the Curé. + +And he was sick at heart for several days. + +But one fine morning, on coming out from Mass, his countenance lit up, he +uttered a cry of joy and fell into the arms of Abbé Ridoux. + + + + +LXII. + + +THE HAPPY CURÉ + + "Such was Socrates said to have + been, because the outside beholders, + and those estimating him by his external + appearance, would not have given the + slice of an onion, so plain was he in + his person, and ridiculous in his bearing ... + simple in habits, poor in fortune, + unfortunate with women, unfit + for all the offices of the republic, + always laughing, always drinking with + one or another, always sporting, always + concealing his divine wisdom." + + RABELAIS (_Gargantua_). + +Monsieur Ridoux was a very good fellow, but he was not handsome. A big +nose, a big belly, blinking eyes, an enormous mouth, hair on end, the arm +of a chimpanzee, and the legs of a Greenlander. At first sight, he gave me +the impression of a monkey with young. + +But what is a man's outward form? The vessel, more or less regular, filled +with a baneful or beneficent liquid, and you all know that the shape of the +flagon has no influence on the quality of the wine. + +The outward form is the wrapper of the goods: very often that wrapper is +brilliant and gilded, of satin or watered silk, and the goods are +adulterated and spoiled. At other times the wrapper is rough and coarse, +but it enfolds precious commodities. + +The stamp of genius is usually found only on countenances with fantastic +features. Have you ever seen on the fair insipid faces of our _young +swells_ the imprint of a powerful and fertile intelligence? + +The body nearly always is adorned at the expense of the mind. + +Of all the deformities of nature, the hunchbacks are intellectual in +proportion as the handsome men are not. + +Enquire of the army its opinion on its pre-eminently _fine man_, the +drum-major. + +Vincent Voiture, who had, as he confessed himself, the silly face of a +dreaming sheep, used to say that nature usually likes to place the most +precious souls in ill-favoured, puny bodies, as jewellers set the richest +diamonds in a small quantity of gold. + +Accordingly, the pitiful wrapper of the Abbé Ridoux covered an excellent +soul. With his ugly face and his old stained cassock, he reminded me of +those dirty bottles, coated with spider-webs and dust, which we place +daintily on the table on days of rejoicing, and which lord it majestically +among the glittering decanters, soon to be despised, when their dusty sides +appear. + +Thus Monsieur Ridoux lorded it amongst his curates, younger, handsomer, +fresher, more tasty than himself, and eclipsed them by all the brilliancy +of his good-sense, his tact, and his experience. + +He had certainly his little failings!... Who can say that he is exempt from +them? But his mind was sound. A good companion, besides, and of a cheerful +disposition. "We have reached a period," he used to say, "when the priest +must lay aside the stern front and the anathema. There is already much to +obtain pardon for in the colour of his robe. Let us be cheerful, let us be +insinuating, let us be compassionate to human weaknesses. Let us sin, if +need be, with discretion and propriety; but, in heaven's name, let us not +terrify. Let us promise paradise to all. There are always plenty enough +whose life is a hell." + +In that he was not of Veuillot's opinion, that rigid saint, who wished to +see all the world damned for the love of God. + +Therefore, on seeing this cheerful countenance, this openness of manner, +this freedom of speech, this unrestrained good-nature, even those who had +been warned, could not help saying: "Well indeed! this Curé has a pleasant +phiz!" + +Slanderous tongues, Voltairians--who is sheltered from the stings of that +race of vipers?--slanderous tongues affirmed that beneath this Rabelaisian +exterior, he was profoundly vicious, artful, and hypocritical. Marcel, who +had been brought up by him, and was acquainted with the most secret details +of his inmost life, has always assured me that he was nothing of the kind, +and that his uncle Ridoux, endowed with the ugliness of Socrates, had also +his wisdom. + +Nevertheless, I would not dare to assert that he did not like to pinch the +young girls' chins, especially of those who had made their first communion +and were near to the marriageable age; a familiarity which, thanks to his +gray hairs, and the development of his abdomen, he thought was permitted +him, but which, however, is not always without danger. + +Cazotte, a wise man, used to say to his daughters: "When you are alone with +young people, distrust yourselves; but if you find yourselves with old men, +distrust them, and avoid allowing them to take hold of your chin." + +Cazotte was right, for old men begin with that. I would not dare either to +assert that the charms of his cook were safe from his indiscreet curiosity, +for it is there too that old men finish; and we must swear not at all. +Everybody knows the wise man's precept: "When in doubt, abstain." + +At the period of which I am speaking to you, he reigned in a good parish, +well frequented by devout ladies, both young and middle-aged, where from +the height of his pulpit he laid down his laws to his kneeling people, +without hindrance or control. + +He was happy, as all wise men ought to be. Happy to be in the world, +satisfied to be a Curé. "It is the first of professions," he often used to +say, and there is not one of them which can be compared to it. + + "I am a village Curé, + Where I live most modestly; + I'm no important person, + But I'm happy and content + No, I do not envy aught, + For my wants they are but small. + How I love to pass my days + Within the house of God!" + +But if he had complained, it would have been very hard, and everybody in +the diocese, from Monseigneur the Bishop to his sexton, would have risen +with indignation and called him, "Ungrateful wretch." For Ridoux was +favoured above all his colleagues; above all his colleagues Divine +Providence bad overwhelmed him with its favours. He possessed in his +parish, in his very church, at his door, beneath his eyes, beneath his +hand, a real blessing from Heaven, a grace of God, a Pactolus always +rolling down a mine of Peru, a secret of an alchemist, the veritable +philosopher's stone caught sight of by Nicolas Flamel, and vainly sought +for till the time of Cagliostro, a marvel which made him at once honoured +and envied, which made his name celebrated, which gave him a preponderant +voice in the Chapter and a place in the episcopal Council, which swelled +his heart with pride and his money-bag with crowns; he had in the choir of +his church behind the mother altar, in a splendid glass-case, laid on a bed +of blue velvet ... an old yellow skeleton! The relics of a saint. + +But there are saints and saints; those which do miracles, and those which +do them not, those which work and those which rest. + +Monsieur Ridoux's saint worked. + + + + +LXIII. + + +THE MIRACLES. + + "Miracles have served for the foundation, + and will serve for the continuation + of the Church until Antichrist, + until the end." + + (_Pensées de PASCAL_). + +The miserable herd of free-thinkers, people who have no faith, those who +are still plunged in the rut of unbelief, are ignorant perhaps that all the +saints have done miracles, that they have all begun in that way, that that +is the condition _sine qua non_, for entrance into the blessed +confraternity. + +No money, no Swiss; no miracles, no saint. It is in vain that during all +your life you shall have been a model of candour and virtue; it is in vain +that you shall edify the universe by your piety and your good works, that +you shall have resisted like St. Antony the temptations of the flesh, that +you shall have covered yourself with hair-cloth like St. Theresa, with +venom like St. Veuillot, with filth like St. Alacoque or with lice like St. +Labre: it is in vain that you shall have been beaten with rods like St. +Roche, been scourged by your Confessor like St. Elizabeth, that finally you +shall have sinned only six instead of seven times a day; if at your death +you should not succeed in performing some fine miracle, you will never be +admitted into the Calendar. + +The Pope causes your shade to appear before his sacred tribunal, and +according as the number of the dead whom you have raised to life is judged +sufficient or not, as the touch of your tibia or coccyx has cured the itch +or scrofula or not, you are admitted or excluded. + +It is a difficult profession to be a saint, and is not for anyone who +wishes it. + +Therefore, the candidates who die in the odour of sanctity hasten to +accomplish their regular total of prodigies, in order that our father the +Pope may be pleased to assign them a place in the highest heaven. + +They have hardly closed their eyes before they begin to _operate_. Allured +by the hope of being crowned with a glorious halo, they display infinite +zeal, and we have seen them, from their tooth-stumps to their prepuce, +effecting the most marvellous miracles. + +That of Jesus Christ--I speak of the prepuce--is preserved thus in several +churches; all of which contend for the honour of possessing the veritable +one. It is not yet exactly known which is the best; but all without +distinction work wonders, and at certain seasons of the year, are kissed by +pious young women.[1] + +But this noble zeal of the saints lasts but for a time, and this is a proof +of the imperfection of human kind, that our faults and whims follow us even +beyond the tomb. + +The saints, themselves, fall into all the little meannesses so common with +the most ordinary sinners. Like candidates who solicit the votes of the mob +in order to gain power, and make the most brilliant promises which they +hasten to forget as soon as they have climbed the stairs, so the candidates +for canonization perform marvels at first, but once admitted into the +seventh heaven, they appear to trouble themselves no more concerning lowly +mortals. + +Or perhaps miraculous properties are like all other faculties, as they grow +old they become worn-out, and an _elect_ who has stoutly brought the dead +to life when he was only an aspirant for honours, is now only capable of +curing the ringworm. + +But, as I have said, it was a zealous candidate that the Abbé Ridoux had in +his church. His bones had been there for fifty years, and as the longed-for +time for his canonization had not yet arrived, and he had as yet only the +rank of _blessed_, his zeal had not grown cold. + +Each saint, we all know, has his medical speciality, like Ricord, for +instance, or Dr. Ollivier. + +Suppose you are suffering from ophthalmia, and instead of consulting a +physician, you pray to God, in hopes that God will cure you. + +You are wrong, that does not concern God. It is the business of St. Claire, +who has the principal management of the sight of the faithful. + +You are paralyzed, and you commend yourself to your patron saint. "You must +not address yourself to me, that one answers. Go to the other office. See +St. Marcel (or _Marchel_), to make the impotent walk is entrusted to him." + +And so one after another: + +St. Cloud cures the boils; St. Cornet, the deaf; St. Denis, anemia; St. +Marcou, diseases in the neck; St. Eutropus, the dropsy; St. Aignan, the +ringworm, and it is generally admitted that we ought to pray on All Saints +Day to be preserved from a cough.[2] + +And observe how the good people of France are always the most enlightened +and intelligent people in the universe! + +The speciality of Monsieur Ridoux's candidate was broken legs, girls in +complaints of childhood, and fluxes of the womb. That was what he healed, +but he must not be asked for anything else; besides fluxes of the womb, +sprains, and girls in complaints of childhood, he did not attend to +anything. + +That is conceivable; one cannot do everything. + +It is quite unnecessary to state that he did not give all his consultations +free, and that he did not work for fame alone. No one was constrained to +pay, it is true; but it would have been a very unhandsome thing not to make +a preliminary contribution to Monsieur le Curé's poor-box. + +Little presents have always maintained friendship, and there is nothing +like sterling silver to predispose the benevolence of the saints and the +love of heaven in our favour. + +While on the contrary: + + A poorly furnished niche affronts the saint: + The God deserts, and when we enter, shows + His anger from the door of his poor shrine. + +He no longer worked every-day, but on fête-days. + +All the cripples came from twenty leagues round, and there were miracles +then for crutches. + +As in the time of Paris the deacon, when Cardinal de Noailles kept a +register of the wonders of St. Médard's Cemetery, a churchwarden of the +place, assisted by two secretaries and the corporal of Gendarmes, +religiously inscribed the miraculous cures of the saint on a magnificent +volume. + +_Credible_ witnesses attested these prodigies and, if necessary, gave +details to the incredulous. + +If all were not cured, they had the hope of being so, which was a +consolation. + +"And then," whispered Monsieur Ridoux in the ear of sceptics, "if the +touching of these blessed bones produces no benefit, you are sure it will +do no harm, and you cannot say the same of your doctor's drugs." + +[Footnote 1: The Holy Prepuce is at Rome in the Church of St. John Lateran; +it is also at St. James of Compostelia in Spain; at Anvers; in the Abbey of +St. Corneille at Compiègne; at Our Lady of the Dove, in the diocese of +Chartres, in the Cathedral of Puy-en-Velay; and in several other places +(Voltaire, Dictionnaire philosophique). + +The Able X...., author of _Maudit_ also places the holy fragment in the +church of Chanoux (Vienné) and asserts that a Bishop of Châlone in the 18th +century threw a pattern of it into the river.] + +[Footnote 2: Ainsi parchait à Sinay un caphar, qui Sainct Antoine mettoit +le feu ès jambes; Sainct Eutrope faisait les hydropiques; Sainct Gildas les +fols; Sainct Genou les gouttes. Mais je le punis en tel exemple, quoi qu'il +m'appelast hérétique, que dépuis ce temps caphar quiconque n'est ausé +entrer en mes terres. + +Et m'esbahi si vostre roi les laisse perscher par son royaulme tels +scandales. Car plus sont à punir que ceulx qui par art magique ou sultre +engin auraient mis la peste par le pays. La peste ne tue que le corps, mais +tels imposteurs empoisennent les âmes. (Rabelais).] + + + + +LXIV. + + +THE TWO AUGURS. + + "I am surprised that two augurs + can look at one another without laughing." + + CATO. + +--Ave Marcellus! said the old Curé, giving his nephew a paternal embrace; +how are you, my poor boy? + +--I am very well, replied Marcel. + +--No! your servant has told me that you have been unwell for some time. + +--She is really too kind. You have been talking to her then? + +--Yes, while waiting for you. She seems to me a worthy and intelligent +person, but a little irritated with you. Do you live badly together? + +Marcel coloured. + +--Come, the blush of holy modesty is covering your face. Don't do so, +child, don't we all know what it is, my dear fellow? + +--Indeed, much you ought to know what these women are. They are +cross-grained and stubborn, and claim to be the mistresses of the house, +especially with priests younger than themselves. + +--That is the inconvenience of our condition, Monsieur le Curé. What will +you? We must pass it over. But, tell me, she is not so _old_ as that. Ah, +come, the maiden's blush again! I do not want to offend your virtuous +feelings any longer, and I am going to talk to you about something else. +You know I have centred all my ambition on you, that I occupy myself about +you only, and that together with my saint and my salvation, you are the +sole object of my care. Therefore, you can explain my indignation and wrath +at seeing my pupil buried in this frightful village, at seeing you +extinguishing your brilliant qualities, having no other stimulant for your +intellect than your Sunday sermons and your stupid peasants, no other +emotion than your disputes with your cook. I have therefore asked of the +Lord one thing only, only one. _Unam petii a Domino, hanc requiram_. You +know what it is--your promotion. Well, Monsieur le Curé. I come to tell you +that everything is going as it were on wheels. + +--Really? said Marcel indifferently. + +--Just think. The day before yesterday a letter reached me from the Palace. +It was Monseigneur's secretary, little Gaudinet, who wrote to me. You know +Gaudinet? + +--No, uncle. + +He is not a bad fellow, but a devil to intrigue. Well, as he knows the +interest I take in you, and as he wants to creep up my sleeve, because he +hopes soon to take the place of one of my curates, he wrote to me that +Monseigneur had spoken of you with interest, and that he proposed to put an +end to your exile. I recognize there the Comtesse de Montluisant's good +offices. You see that she has lost no time, and so we will do the same; we +most strike the iron while it is hot; you are going to get your bag and +baggage, and take yourself off to Nancy. + +--Already? + +--Why already? Have you any business here which detains you then? + +--Nothing ... absolutely nothing; but what shall I do at Nancy? + +--That is just why I have come, you impatient young man, to point out to +you what line of conduct to follow, and, as I know, you are rather more +scrupulous than there is any need for in our profession, to assist you in +removing certain scruples which might stand in the way of your promotion. + +--Heavens! What scruples? + +--We will talk about them at table. Meanwhile, this is the question. I have +told you that I will move heaven and earth for you; you, however, must help +me a little on your side, for whatever I may do, I can effect nothing +without you. In his letter, Gaudinet informs me that the parish of St. +Mary, Nancy, is deprived of its pastor. It came into my head directly that +you must take the place of the defunct. It is an excellent parish, very +prominent, splendid surplice fees, devout ladies, sisters, elderly +spinsters to plunge into saintly jubilation, a host of Capuchins, +everything indeed which constitutes a _blessing from heaven_ for a poor +priest. You are young, you are handsome, you are intelligent, you are +energetic; while you are waiting for something better, I promise you an +existence there, of which the most ambitions of village Curés has never +dared to dream. But we most hasten, time presses; Gaudinet tells me that +there are already at least a dozen candidates in earnest; and although old +Collard's intentions (and he intends to atone for his former injustice) +regarding you are favourable, you are well aware that he allows himself to +be led by the nose, and generally the last one who talks to him is right. +You must be then both the first and the last, and you must not let him +slip; not you, but your second, your aide-de-camp, your _fideicommissum_, +or rather your protectress, the Comtesse de Montluisant. + +--But I do not know this lady. + +--It is precisely for that reason that it is indispensable for you to +hasten to go and see her, in order to make her acquaintance. You have only +to present yourself, and I assure you even if you were not sent by me, she +would receive you with the greatest pleasure. For, between ourselves be it +said, she is an elderly coquette, but she is good-natured and knows how to +remember her old friends. You will have therefore to be amiable, +insinuating, respectful, assiduous. You might even tell her that she is +charming, and that one sees she has been very pretty; which is true. Old +ladies dote on young people, and devout old ladies on young priests, +especially on those with a figure and face like yours. "The face is +everywhere the first letter of introduction," said Bernardin de +Saint-Pierre, and I assure that with Madame de Montluisant, you will not +require another. Ah, the Comtesse de Montluisant, my friend, there is a +precious soul! What a misfortune that she is a little over-ripe! It is all +the same to you, and if you are wise, you will pass over that defect, which +she amply atones for by her amiable qualities. She has the complete mastery +of Monseigneur. She is the Maintenon of that old Louis XIV. Be to her what +she is to him, and have the mastery of her in your turn. I was talking to +you a little while ago about scruples; for once you must leave them at home +or put them in the bottom of your cassock. _Dixi_! You have understood me I +hope. + +--No, uncle, I don't understand you. + +--Are you talking seriously? + +--I declare, uncle, that I don't understand you. + +--_O rara avis in terris_, oh phoenix! oh pearl! you don't understand me!!! +Well, I am come expressly, however, to make myself understood. Must I put +the dots on the i's for you? You don't understand me, you say? Surely, you +are making fun of me. Come, look me straight in the face; in the white of +my eyes ... yes, like that, and dare to tell me that you have not +understood me, and keep serious. Ah, ah, you are laughing, you are +laughing. You see you cannot look at me without laughing. + + + + +LXV. + + +TABLE TALK. + + "I allow that it is necessary to be + virtuous in order to be happy, but I + assert that it is necessary to be happy + in order to be virtuous." + + CH. LEMESLES (_Tablettes d'un sceptique_). + +They sat down to table. It was an excellent meal, and the worthy Ridoux +tried to make it cheerful, but a vague feeling of sorrow oppressed Marcel. + +That departure, which he had so eagerly desired before, and the hope of +which he had clung to as one lays hold of a means of safety, he could not +think of without grief, when he saw it near and practicable. Undoubtedly he +would leave without regret this village, where his youth was buried, where +his abilities were rendered unfruitful, where his sanguine aspirations were +slowly killing themselves.... But Suzanne? + +That sweet name which he murmured low with love. That sweet young girl the +sight of whom was as pleasant as a sun-beam, he was going to leave her for +ever. + +It was for his good, his honour, his quiet, his future; he knew it, he felt +it, but he was full of sorrow. + +Meanwhile, he overwhelmed his uncle with marks of attention and friendship; +he made every effort to cope with his guest's cheerful discourse, who, +after relating the flight of the Grand-Vicar, surprised in criminal +conversation with the wife of the Captain of Gendarmerie, acquainted him +all the little ecclesiastical scandals. But he gave only a partial +attention; his thoughts were absorbed in his inmost preoccupations. Now and +again only did he let fall a few observations in reply: "How horrible," or +"How shocking," or again: "How abominable!" + +Ridoux did not appear at first to pay attention to his nephew's gloomy +thoughts. He laughed and joked all alone, but he did not miss a mouthful. +Old priests are generally greedy. Good cheer is one of the joys which is +left to them. + +With no serious preoccupation, with no anxiety for the future, exempt from +family cares, they transfer all their solicitude to themselves, and make a +divinity of their belly. + +But when his appetite, sharpened by his journey, was appeased, he examined +Marcel with curiosity, and what he observed, combined with a few indiscreet +words of Veronica, confirmed him in his suspicions, that a drama was being +enacted in the young man's soul. + +--Do you know, he said to him, that you are a pitiable companion. You +scarcely eat, you scarcely speak, you do not drink, and you laugh still +less. Why, what's the matter with you? Are you not gratified at my visit? + +--Forgive me, uncle, but I am rather poorly, said Marcel; that is my +excuse. + +--That is what the maid-servant told me, but you declared to me that you +were quite well. + +--How can you suppose that I am not happy to see you? You know my feelings +well. + +--I know that you have excellent feelings. But I find you quite changed. It +is scarcely a year since I saw you, and you bear marks of weariness. You +stoop like an old man. Look at me, always the same, firm as a rock. "God +smites the wicked with many plagues, but he encompasseth with his help +those that hope in him." Second penitential psalm. You are not wicked: what +plague consumes you? Ambition? Patience, everything will be changed, since +your enemy is vanquished. Is it your conscience which is ill at ease? But +conscience should be cheerful; that is its true sign. Is it anything else? +Come, tell me. + +--Well yes, uncle, there is something. The same complaint as before, you +know, when I hesitated to enter the seminary, when I had doubts about my +vocation. You ended my hesitation and silenced my doubts; you have made a +priest of me; well, now more than ever, I have moments of lassitude which +make me disgusted with my calling. + +--Really? + +--Yes, there are hours when this priest's robe devours me, like the robe of +Nessus; I wish that I could tear it off, but I feel that I should tear off +pieces of my flesh at the same time, for it is too late, and it has become +a portion of myself. I am ashamed to make this confession to you, but you +wished it, and I have opened my heart to you. + +--May it not be that the heart is sick? Come. I see that I am come to take +you away from here at a seasonable time. + +--Do not believe that, uncle. + +--So much the better, if I am mistaken. I should be delighted to be +mistaken. To be in love, my son, is the greatest act of stupidity which a +priest can commit. Make use of women, if you will, for your health and your +satisfaction, and not for theirs. Otherwise you are a lost man. + +--In truth, uncle, you have singular theories, cried Marcel. Have you not +then taken your calling seriously? + +--My calling? I have taken it so seriously that you will never see me +handling it but in the practical way. Therefore, among those who surround +me I enjoy a fine reputation for wisdom. To be wise is to be happy, and I +have contrived so as to pass my existence in the most pleasant manner +possible. I counsel you to make as much of it, and I am going to tell what +I mean by being wise: Make use of the things of life with moderation, +discretion, and prudence. Now, what constitutes life? Spirit and matter. +Well, I wisely make the enjoyments of matter and spirit march abreast. I +obtain the equilibrium: health of body and health of soul. As soon as the +equilibrium is broken, the mental faculties are deranged, or the +constitution declines. You are in one of these two cases, my dear fellow. + +--I! + +--Yes, you. And, in spite of all your denials, I wager that you are in +love. Ah, ah, ah. It is a good story. He keeps his countenance like a +thrashed donkey. Come, drink, cheer up; honour the Lord in his benefits. +Your glass is always full. Enjoy yourself, you don't entertain your uncle +every day. + +Marcel emptied his glass. + +--Is she possessed of a husband? + +--But uncle, I don't know, what you want to talk about. + +--Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man's heart. I +congratulate you on it: it is good for strangers, for the profane.... But +I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger? + +"Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings." + +Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh. + +--Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my +only true friend. Yes, I want to ask your advice. I am afraid of soiling +one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame +and compassion. Ah, I am unhappy. + +--Here we are, cried Ridoux. Speak. The only point is to understand one +another. + + + + +LXVI. + + +GOOD COUNSEL. + + "Ah, my friend, have not all young + people ridiculous passions? My son is + enamoured of virtue!... The customs + of the word, the need of pleasure, + and the facilities of satisfying himself + will bring him insensibly to a moderate + state of feeling, and at thirty he will + be just like any other man; he will + enjoy life, and shut his eyes to many + things which shock him to-day." + + PIGAULT-LEBRUN (_Le Blanc et le Noir_). + +At that moment Veronica came in to serve coffee. + +In honour of her master's guest, she had put on her black dress of +Associate and her silver medal; and on her head she wore coquettishly an +embroidered cap, trimmed with tulle of dazzling whiteness. + +The old Curé threw himself into his arm-chair with his head back, in order +to contemplate her with admiration. She went and came, clearing the table, +and he followed her movements with the eye of a connoisseur, estimating the +value of an article. + +He smiled sanctimoniously, and the smile and attention, which the bashful +Veronica noticed, made her blush and cast her eyes modestly down. + +-Eh! Eh! he seemed to say, here is a girl who is still fit to adorn a bed. + +When the servant had left the room, he rose, drew the screen between the +table and the door, and then came and sat down again facing Marcel. + +--I don't understand, he said, why a man should go and search away from +home, amid perils and obstacles, for a pleasure which he can obtain +comfortably, quietly, with no fear or disquietude, at his own fire-side. + +--To what are you pleased to allude? + +--There is a girl, Ridoux continued, who certainly has merit, and I am +convinced that many younger ones are not worth as much as she. She is +there, in your hands, at your door, in your home; ready, I am sure, to +satisfy all your requirements. Avail yourself of her willingness? No? Make +use of this blessing which you possess? Again, no. You throw it aside to +run after phantoms. Alas, all the men of your age are the same: like the +dog in the fable, they let go their prey to seize the shadow. You are like +the fool, who spends his life in vainly following fortune to the four +quarters of the world, and who, when he returns to his hearth wearied, +worn-out and aged, finds it sitting at his door. But he is too late to be +able to enjoy it. + +That girl is really very well: handsome, fresh, very well-preserved, with a +decent and respectable appearance. Why then do you disdain her? Why? Tell +me. Because she is a few years older than you? But that is just what you +young priests require. You require women of that age: matrons with more +sense than yourselves. She is staid, she is ripe, she is experienced, a +mistress of love's science, and above all, she has a great quality, an +inestimable quality, she is cautious and will never compromise you. + +--Uncle, I implore you. + +--Let me finish. + +Another thing which is very valuable. She is full of little attentions for +her master. Ah, you are not aware with what tender solicitude, with what +kindness, with what jealous affection an old mistress surrounds you. She +fears more for your health than for her own, she is acquainted with your +tastes and knows how to anticipate them, she satisfies all your desires, +and lends herself to all your fancies. + +--What a conversation! If anyone heard us.... + +--Be easy. I have drawn the screen. + +The young mistress is fickle, egotistical, capricious; she exacts +adoration, and most frequently loves you for a whim and for want of +occupation. + +The old one devotes herself entirely to you and does not ask you (sublime +self-denial!), that you should love her, but only that you should let her +love you. Balzac extolled the women of thirty; that was because he had not +tasted those of forty. Ah! the women of forty! + +They are the only women who are of value to the priest, my friend. You have +had the good fortune to meet one here, and instead of profiting by it, of +thinking yourself fortunate, of thanking heaven and piously and devoutly +enjoying the good which God grants you, you cast it away, you disdain, you +despise it; and why? For some giddy little thing who will bring upon you +every kind of vexation and unpleasantness. _Dixi_. You can speak now. + +Marcel made no reply. With his elbows resting on the table and his head in +his hands, he stared at his uncle. + +He asked himself if he was really awake, if it was really his adopted +father, the mentor of his childhood, the wise and virtuous Curé of St. +Nicholas, who was talking to him so. + +He knew the worthy man's somewhat eccentric character, his coarse +witticisms in bad taste, but he never could have believed that he would +have stated such theories before him with a cynisism like that. He quite +understood that a man might commit faults, he even excused _in petto_ +certain crimes, and he excused them the more willingly because he himself +had been guilty of them; but he did not understand how a man could dare to +talk about them. + +He was rather of that class of persons who are modest in words, but not in +deeds, who are offended at the talk, while they delight in the acts. We +hear them utter cries of horror and indignation at the slightest equivocal +word, we see them stop their ears at the recital of a racy tale, chastely +cover their face before the figure of the Callipygean Venus, treating +Molière as obscene and Rabelais as debauched; yet, out of sight, sheltered +by the curtains of the alcove, they love to strip in silence some +lascivious Maritorne, and cautiously abandon themselves to disgusting +orgies with Phrynes whom they chance to encounter. + +Therefore the Curé of Althausen was offended and indignant at his uncle's +cynicism, who had so crudely broached the chapter about the love of +middle-aged women to him, who the evening before had abandoned himself to +all the furies of a long-repressed passion, in the arms of a debauched old +maid-servant. + +At the same he felt that his brain was confused and that he was gradually +losing the exact idea of things. The wine he had drunk was more than he was +accustomed to; it was rising to his head and he was becoming intoxicated. + +--Well, said Ridoux, you give me no answer and you stare at me like an +earthen-ware dog. + +--What answer do you wish me to give you? except that I believe I am +dreaming; in truth, I believe I am dreaming. + +--Be more sincere. I do not like hypocrisy. + +--You talk of a giddy little thing; I know no giddy thing. As to the rest, +I have not quite made out what it is you wanted to tell me. I think that +you have intended to make a joke about your old women. + +--Ah, you, you never understand anything. Where did you come from? + +--Why, from your school, from the seminary, and neither you nor my masters +taught me that there. + +--To me! to me! to me! you speak in such a manner to me? Oh clever fox! +_Alopex, alopex_. Well, you are sharper than I am, cried the old Curé, +striking the table and looking at Marcel with astonishment mingled with +admiration. Why should I concern myself about your future? You will +succeed, my dear fellow, you will succeed. Oh, oh, you are a master. A +gray-beard like I cannot teach you anything. Jesus, Mary, Joseph! That is +my nephew! My dear old Ridoux, Curé of St. Nicholas, allow me to +congratulate you. Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I swear you will become a +bishop. Monseigneur, I drink your health! + + + + +LXVII. + + +IN A GLASS. + + "The fumes of the wine were working + in my veins; it was one of those + moments of intoxication when everything + one sees, everything one hears, + speaks to us of the beloved." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +They conversed for a long time still, and they drank too, so much so that +Marcel went to his room with his brain charged with the fumes of the wine. +He opened his window and breathed with delight the fresh air of night. +While he gazed on the stars which were rising slowly in the sky, he tried +to analyze the new sensation which he experienced. "How a few mouthfuls of +liquor alter a man," he said to himself. + +He felt himself to be totally different, and he allowed his thoughts to +wander in an ocean of delights. His ardent and ecstatic imagination +launched itself into space. Bright unknown worlds rose before him with +their atmosphere saturated with warmth, with caresses, and with perfumes. +He saw the future, and it appeared to him radiant. There were sons without +number and feasts without end; the entire universe belonged to him. He flew +from planet to planet without effort or fatigue, borne by a mysterious wing +into the fields of the Infinite. + +He discovered an unknown audacity, and all obstacles subsided before his +powerful will. No more barriers, no more bolts, no more doors, no more +pretences, no more social chains, no more terrible father, no more +servant-mistress; Suzanne alone remained in all her youthful grace and her +chaste nudity. For, after having wandered in boundless space, it was +towards her that his hopes, his desires, his aspirations inclined. There +was the soul and the body; happiness and life, sacred symbolical wedlock, +the chosen vessel, the nubile maid ready for the husband. And he murmured +the Song of Songs: + + "Let her kiss me with kisses of her mouth, + For her teats are better than wine." + +And it was at the very moment when he was about perhaps to be able to taste +this exquisite cup, that he must go away. Go away! that is to say, leave +her, she who had just cast a ray into his life. Go away, to obey a culpable +ambition; to lose for ever this ravishing young girl! And the promises +which he had made to himself; and the unsatisfied desires, and the +boundless joys, the delicious troubles, the sweet evening talks, the hand +sometimes squeezed in a moment of audacity; of all that but the memory +would remain. Of all the intoxications of soul, of heart, of sense; of all +those joys which should repay him for his wasted youth, for his fair years +lost, he would preserve but remorse ... remorse for having so senselessly +let them go. + +And all at once in the whirlwind of his ideas, he seized one as it passed +by. He noticed during the day the Captain entering the _diligence_ for Vic. +It was, in fact, the time at which he drew his pay. He could not return +till the following day. Suzanne then was alone with the old maid-servant. +She went to bed late, he knew; perhaps she was still awake. He looked at +his watch, it was not yet eleven o'clock; he still had a chance of seeing +her. He cherished this idea; it pleased him and he was surprised that he +had not thought of it before. Yes, certainly, he must see her, in order +that she might keep the remembrance of him, as he was bearing away the +memory of her. + +What would be more delightful than to say to himself: "I hold the thoughts +of a beautiful young girl, I hold her simple confidences; I possess the +treasure of her sweet secrets." + +And although there would never be between her and him but the pure and +chaste sympathy of two souls, was not that enough, was not that a +compensation, sufficient for the step which he was venturing? + +And with the audacity of conception and the temerity of conduct of a man on +the border of intoxication, he determined to put his fine project into +execution immediately. His sense became inflamed the more he thought of it, +and what had at first presented itself to him as a vague desire, soon +became firmly fixed in his brain, and, in less than ten seconds, he had +conceived the plan and weighed all the chances. + +He decided that nothing was more simple, and that the only serious +difficulty was to get out of the house without being heard. He still felt a +few scruples; he poured himself out a glass of brandy. + +--Let me swallow some courage, he said. What a singular piece of machinery +is man, who imbibes in a few drops of liquid the dose of bravery which he +lacks, and spirit which he needs. + +And, in fact, he soon felt a generous warmth which ascended to his head; +and his heart became anew surrounded little by little with that triple +breast plate of brass, _robur triplex_, without which there is no hero. + +He listened inside and out. All sounds were hushed; in the parsonage as in +the village, everybody was asleep. He heard only the croaking of a legion +of frogs which were sporting in the neighbouring marsh, and, far away, the +bark of some farm-dog. + +The night was splendid. The moon was rising behind the woods. That was a +serious obstacle; but are there any serious obstacles for a man +over-excited by drink? He did not even think of it; his mind was cheerful +and content. If anyone encountered him in the night, wandering along the +roads, what could they say? Had he not a perfect right like anybody else to +take, the fresh air of evening? And, besides, might he not have been +summoned by a sick person? + +On the other hand, no more favourable moment would ever present itself for +talking with Suzanne. His uncle was snoring in the next room, and his +servant, supposing she was still awake, would she dare, while there was a +guest at the parsonage, to come and assure herself if he was in his bed? + +He took off his shoes, opened the door noiselessly and glided into the +street. + +He rapidly went round the parsonage, and he put on his shoes again only +when he was at some distance, under the discreet shade of the limes. + +Then he walked boldly on, keeping to the middle of the road, on the side, +however, where the houses cast their shadow, and advanced with the step of +a man who is going to accomplish a duty. + +He arrived without any hindrance at the Captain's house. It was fully +lighted up by the pale moon-light, and all the shutters were closed. +Consequently, the side looking upon the garden was in the shadow, and there +was Suzanne's room, the room hung with rose. + +So he pursued his way at a rapid pace, entered the little path, bordered +with hawthorn, and soon reached the clump of old chestnut-trees. + + + + +LXVIII. + + +THE ROSE CHAMBER. + + "They are women already, they were + so when they were born, but one + guesses them so still, one reads it + in their little thought, one comes + across an end of thread here and + there, which is like a revelation ... + They are ... But forgive me, young + ladies, I am afraid of going too far." + + G. DROZ (_Entre nous_). + +What man is there who has not experienced a delicious emotion on entering +for the first time a young girl's room? Who has not breathed with +voluptuous delight its sweet and chaste perfumes, and felt his heart soften +in its fresh and fragrant atmosphere? + +How pretty, neat, and harmonious is everything there. The most +insignificant objects, the most common articles of furniture, have a +mysterious and secret aspect there which makes one dream; one contemplates +with transport all those nothings, all those little trifles, all those +trinkets which young girls delight in, and because they have been touched +by a white hand, they appear clothed in enchanting colours. + +The fairy who lodges in this place has left a _something_ of herself on all +which surrounds her, and _that something_ transforms all into jewels, even +the least pin. + +But that which above all else arrests the gaze, that which drives the blood +to the head and causes the heart to beat, is the bed. + +The young girl's bed, the sanctuary, the delicious nest of love. + +There is the pillow on which her head reposes ... And then the question +comes: What passes in the young head when, softly leaning on the warm down, +she lets her thoughts travel into the land of dreams? + + When slumber soft on all + Around thee is outpoured; + Oh Pepita, charming maid, + My love, of what think'st thou? + +Here is the place of her body. Yes, it is there, beneath the discreet +eider-down, that she hides her naked charms. And we begin to dream as well, +and we say to ourselves that we would give much to be able to penetrate +into this sanctuary at the hour when the divinity is going to bed. + +Happy Gyges, lend me your ring that I may assist mutely and invisibly at +the sweet mysteries of the night toilette. + +She is here! She has given and received the evening kiss. "Sleep well," her +father and mother have said, and the child replies: "Oh, yes, I am very +sleepy." + +Then she quickly shuts the door and breathes a sigh of satisfaction. She is +in her own room, she is alone! + +Alone! do you believe it? If so, you would be greatly mistaken, for this is +the time when she receives her own visitors, and often there is a numerous +company. + +Oh, be reassured: these guests will not be able to compromise her; they are +secret, silent and invisible for all else but her; she alone sees them, +talks to them and listens to them. + +It is at the summons of her thought that they hasten there, passive and +obedient. Then she passes them in review one by one; she examines them from +head to foot, she clothes and unclothes them at her will; never has a +Captain of infantry, under orders for parade, made a more minute inspection +of his conscripts. + +Sometimes they come all in a crowd, giving themselves up with her, in the +mysterious comers of her imagination, to the wildest frolics. Young people +with a stiff collar, beardless sublieutenants, coxcombs with red hands, +swells with white cuffs, little heads of wax and little souls of cardboard, +run up, ran up, ye pretty puppets. + + Dance my loves + You are but dolls. + +And she makes them dance on every cord and every tune. + +But soon the figures are effaced and blend into one. The pomatumed band +disappear into space, whence there rises clearly the image of the chosen +one. + +He is young, he is dark or fair: she has seen him to-day; she looked at +him, he smiled at her, he thinks her pretty. + +Is she then always pretty? And quickly she goes to her mirror. Heavens! how +badly her hair is done. How badly that ribbon sets! If she had put it in +another place? And that little wandering lock; decidedly it must set off +that. "Perhaps he would like me better if, instead of plaits, I had curls, +and if instead of the brown dress, I put on the blue?" + +He. Who is he? He is the imaginary lover, the handsome young man whom she +has met in the street, he who turned round to look at her, or the one who +was so charming at the last ball, or again the one who has just passed the +window. + +Who is he? Does she know? It is the one she is waiting for. The first who +presents himself who is _handsome, young, intelligent and rich_. What does +the rest matter provided he possesses all these qualities, and all these +qualities he must possess. + +Often she has never even seen him, but he is charming, and she feels that +she loves him already. + +And there are the brilliant displays of the future appearing, the enchanted +palaces which are built out of the chapters of novels which never will be +finished. + +And thus every evening--wild adventures in the young brain, intrigues in +embryo, meetings full of mystery, delightful terrors with phantom lovers, +until at length a very palpable one presents himself, and comes and knocks +at the door of reality. + +Sometimes he is very far from the cherished dream. He is neither young, nor +handsome, nor rich, nor intelligent. She rather makes a face, but she ends +by taking him. It is a man. + +And meanwhile mamma has said as she kisses her daughter's forehead, "Sleep +well, my daughter," and she murmurs to papa, "What an angel of candour!" + + + + +LXIX. + + +THE GUST OF WIND. + + "I turned my eyes instinctively towards + the lighted window, and through + the curtains which were drawn, I + distinctly caught sight of a woman, + dressed in white, with her hair undone, + and moving like one who knows that + she is alone." + + G. DROZ (_Monsieur, Madame, et Bébe_). + +Suzanne's room ... but why should I describe the room?... let me describe +Suzanne to you at this secret hour: I am sure that you would prefer me to +do so. + +The young people who read this, will do well to skip this chapter, it +interests the men alone. Like the preacher who one day turned the women out +of church, as he wanted to keep the men only, I warn over-chaste young +ladies that these lines may shock.... + +Suzanne was preparing to go to bed. + +To go to bed! That is not done quickly. You have, Mesdames, so many little +things to do before going to bed. So Suzanne was going to and fro in her +small room, attending to all these little details. + +She was in a short petticoat, with her legs and arms bare and her little +feet in slippers. I warned you that I had borrowed the ring of Gyges and I +can tell you that I saw her calf and right above the knee, and all was like +a sculptor's model. Beneath the thin, partly-open cambric her budding bosom +rose and fell, marking a voluptuous valley on which, like the Shulamite's +lover, one would never be weary to let one's kisses wander. + +But on seeing the white plump shoulders, the graceful throat, and the neck +on which was twisted a mass of little brown curls, and the back of velvet +which had no other covering than the thick rolls of half-loosed hair, and +the delicate hips which the little half-revealing petticoat closely +pressed, one asked oneself where the kisses would run on for the longest +time. + +She was delicious like this and under every aspect, and undoubtedly she +knew it, for every time she passed before the large glass of her wardrobe, +she looked at herself in it and smiled. And she was quite right, for it was +indeed the sweetest of sights. + +A pretty woman is never insensible to the sight of her own charms. See +therefore, what a love they have for mirrors. Habit, which palls in so many +things, never palls in this; for her it is a sight always charming and +always fresh. Very different to the forgetful lover or the sated husband, +whose eyes and senses are so quickly habituated, she never grows weary of +finding out that she is pretty, and making herself so; in truth a constant +homage, earnest and conscientious. + +Suzanne then examined herself full face, in profile, in three-quarters +view, and behind, attentively and conscientiously, like an amateur judging +a work of art, who cries at length, "Yes, it is all good, it is all +perfect, there is nothing amiss." One could have believed that she saw +herself again for the first time after many years. + +At length, when the survey was completed, and the toilette finished, she +let her petticoat slip down, opened her bed, put one knee upon it, and, the +upper part of her body leaning forward on her hands, prepared to get in. + +The lamp on the night-table, close beside her, threw its light no longer on +her face. + +But at the same instant a little zephyr taking her astern, caused the white +tissue which English-women never mention, to gently undulate. + +She noticed then that she had forgotten to shut her window. + +"Heavens," cried Marcel to himself, for it was he, who perched on the rise +of the road and armed with his good opera-glass, had just been witness of +what I have narrated. + + + + +LXX. + + +THE AMBUSCADE. + + "Be not discouraged either before + obstacles, or before ill-will. Wait + patiently. The sacred hour will sound + for you and all the ways will be + made smooth." + + (_Charge of Mgr. de Nancy_). + +Drawing near to the window, Suzanne distinguished in front of her, behind +the open-work palisade, a dark motionless figure. + +She immediately recognized the Curé. + +Alarmed and trembling, she hastily drew back; but she heard a gentle cough, +as if someone was calling and was afraid of being surprised. + +"What is happening?" she said to herself, "what is he doing there?" + +She covered herself hurriedly with a dressing-gown and drew near the +casement again. Marcel, with his hat in his hand, bowed to her, and +appeared to invite her by a sign to come down. + +Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. She +hesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, she +was afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake and +catch the Curé of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour, +before her door, during her father's absence. God only knew what a scandal +there would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps might +hear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they were +beginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetings +on the road. + +She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating that +the Curé would withdraw. + +But the Curé of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition to +abandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by the +alcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that he +had just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place, +he was waiting with impatience. + +Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to see +if he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and calling +her by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy, +multiplied his salutes and his signs. + +She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for him +to have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require an +interview with her in the middle of the night "Good God! could some +misfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. She +hesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over her +shoulders, and went downstairs. + + + + +LXXI. + + +THE BREACH. + + "Who art thou, who knockest so + loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom + all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed + (more than life) their very heart ... + Ah, if thou art he, let the door be + opened wide." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +She saw at once that he was all in a fever. + +--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father? + +--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him this +morning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well. + +--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me. + +--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous has +happened. Be comforted. I was passing by in my walk, I saw the light, I +observed you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself: +Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away. + +--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? And +where? And when? + +--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Mass. + +--For ever? + +--Perhaps. + +--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to your +parishioners, to your friends! + +--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hear +me some ... friendship; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poor +solitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom of +my heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell. + +--But why this sudden and unexpected departure? + +--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, like +others, a little grain of ambition. + +--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change in +your fortune. Is it far? + +--Nancy, Mademoiselle. + +--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions there +which you have not here. I almost envy you. + +--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I am +sorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, I +have no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me to +depart. + +--Motives ... serious? + +--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, and +that I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day I +saw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy. +Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness which +I should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if God had given me one. +Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblem +of purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you, +for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why I +wished to see you again and bid you farewell. + +--I thank you, sir. + +--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I may +ask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if I +shall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with your +thought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. We +leave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end? +May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar on +the arduous road of life? + +It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heaven +is dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, in +a little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul, +which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmurs +across space: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and less +alone. + +--Yes, that is true, I understand you. + +--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all the +pleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of the +Covenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that we +should follow one another thus in life? You do not answer.... + +--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road. + +--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there are +footsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell, +Mademoiselle, farewell. + +--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for they +must have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions. + +--What shall I do? I cannot remain here. + +--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safe +from any gaze. + +--What! said Marcel, you wish...? + +--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It is +more prudent for both of us. + +She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-open +gate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour. + +Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him. + + + + +LXXII. + + +THE ASSAULT. + + "Be mine, be my sister, for I am all thine, + And well I deserve thee, for long have I loved." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Eloa_). + +They were standing up under the dark arbour. One close to the other, +excited, panting: they could scarce get their breath again. Does their +heart beat so hard because there is someone in the path? Silence! + +The cricket, just by their side, sends forth from under the grass his soft +monotonous cry, and down there in the neighbouring ditch the toad lifts his +harsh voice. Silence! + +A noise in the road, faint at first as the murmur of the wind, increases. +It comes near. It is the cautious hesitating step of someone listening. It +comes nearer and stops. Silence! The philosopher cricket continues his +song, the amorous toad his poem. + +Behind the branches of honeysuckle they watch attentively, and can see +without being seen. A shadow passes slowly by, with its head turned towards +the dark arbour. Suzanne made a movement of surprise;--Your servant, she +said. + +--Silence, murmured Marcel; and he seizes a hand which he keeps within his +own. + +Veronica slowly walked on. + +When she reached the gate, she pushed it as if to assure herself if it was +open. + +--Well, there is an impertinence, said Suzanne. Who can have made her +suspect that you were here? + +Marcel, for reply, pressed the hand which he was holding. + +Finding the gate closed, the servant continued her road, then all at once +returned, stopped for a few seconds facing the arbour, and at length +disappeared behind the chestnut-trees. + +They followed the sound of her footsteps, which was soon lost in the +silence, and found themselves alone, hearing nothing but the beatings of +their own heart. + +--Let us remain, said Suzanne in a low voice, we must not go out yet. +Really, that is the most impertinent creature I have ever seen. By what +right does she spy on you thus? + +--Dear child, do you not know that these old servants are on the track of +every scandal, jealous of all beauty and all virtue. She will have noticed +our frequent interviews, and has imagined a world of iniquities. +Nevertheless, I bless her, yes, I bless her, since I owe to her the joy of +finding myself in this tête-à -tête with you. See, dear child, how strange +is destiny, which is none other but the hand of God--for we must be blind +not to recognize in all these things the finger of divine Providence--it is +precisely the efforts made to put an obstacle between us, to prevent us, me +from fulfilling my duties of a pastor, you those of a Christian, which have +been the cause of our sweet intimacy. Your father forbids you to assist at +the Holy Sacrifice, and you come to me to ask for counsel. This servant +pursues us with her envious hate, and obliges us to take refuge like guilty +lovers beneath this dark arbour. Almighty God, thanks, thanks. But what a +strange situation! If anyone were to surprise us, the whole world would +accuse us, and yet what is surer than our conscience? You see plainly, dear +child, that we cannot separate thus, and that, whatever happens, we must +not remain strangers to one another. + +Suzanne did not answer, and he, emboldened by this silence, pressed between +his the hand which she abandoned to him. + +--I was so much accustomed to see you in our church that, when you ceased +to come there, it seemed to me that everything was in mourning. You were +the most charming and the chastest ornament of it. When I went up into the +pulpit, it was for you that I preached, and when I turned towards my flock +to bless them, it was you alone, sweet lamb, that I blessed in the name of +the Father. You understand now, why I shall go away enveloped in sorrow. + +--But, sir, I do not deserve the honour which you do me, and I am unworthy +to occupy your thoughts in this way. + +--Do not say that, for since I have seen you, you have become, without my +knowing how, the joy of my life, the source from which I draw my sweetest +and most holy pleasures. With the memory of you, I lull myself in the +Infinite. I see Heaven and the angels, I dream of Seraphims who resemble +you, who bear me on their diaphanous wings into the abode where all is joy +and love ... heavenly love, dear Suzanne, love like that of the angels for +the Virgin, the mother, eternally pure, of our sweet Saviour. You see, you +have no reasons to be offended with my dreams. You are not offended at +them, are you? + +--Why should I be offended at them, said Suzanne softly. Can one be +offended with dreams? + +--You remember that night, when, alone as we are now, I allowed myself in a +moment of pious transport, to bear to my lips your lovely hand. I have +often blushed at it.... I have blushed at it, because I thought that you +might have mistaken that respectful kiss. I kissed it as I should have +kissed the hem of a queen's robe, if that queen had been a saint, as I +should have kissed the feet of the Virgin, as Magdalena kissed those of +Christ, as I kiss it at this moment, dear, dear Suzanne. + +And his lips rested on that little warm, quivering, feverish hand, and they +could no more be separated from it. + +And, when at length he withdrew his mouth from it, he found that Suzanne +was so near to him that he heard the beatings of her heart. + +--Leave me, said the imprudent girl, I entreat you, leave me. Oh, why are +you doing that? + +And she tried with vain efforts to loosen herself from the embrace. + +But he murmured softly: + +--Leave you, oh, never; you shall be my companion in life as you are my +betrothed before the Eternal. Leave you, dear Suzanne, sweet mystic rose, +chosen vessel. See, there is something stronger than all the laws and all +the proprieties; it is a look from you. Why do you repulse me? I speak to +you as to the Virgin, and I kiss your knees. Chaste betrothed of the +Levite, let me espouse you before God. + +She struggled with all her might, excited and maddened. But what can the +dove do in the talons of the hawk! Pressed to his breast by his vigorous +arms, it was in vain that she asked for pity. Hell might have opened, ere +he would have dropped his prey. + +The struggle lasted several minutes, passionate, silent, ardent. Woman is +weak. Soon nothing was heard ... a sob ... and all died away in the dense +shade. + +The startled cricket was silent, and it alone might have counted the sighs, +while in the neighbouring ditch the toad unwearied continued its love-song. + + + + +LXXIII. + + +AUDACES FORTUNA JUVAT. + + "If you have done wrong, rebuke yourself sharply: + If you have done well, have satisfaction." + + SAINT FRANÇOIS DE SALLES (_Traité de l'Amour Divin_). + +Marcel reached the parsonage without hindrance. Veronica had not yet +returned. He congratulated himself on that, and went up the stair-case +which led to his room with the light step of a happy man, locked his door, +and began to laugh like a madman. + +Everything was safe; only there was down there in a corner of the village, +an honour lost. + +--Is it really you, Marcel, is it really you, he said, who have just played +so great a game, and won the trick? + +And he laughed, and he rubbed his hands, and he would willingly have danced +a wild saraband, if he had not been afraid of making a noise. + +He listened in the next room where his uncle was in bed, and heard his loud +breathing. + +--And the hag who is watching still beneath the limes! And the father who +is at Vic, and who, I doubt not, is snoring too. Come, all goes well! all +goes well! + +But he stopped, ashamed of himself. + +--Decidedly, he said to himself, I have become in a few days utterly bad. I +did not believe that it was possible to make such rapid progress in evil. +But nonsense. Is it evil? Has not God made wine to be drunk, flowers to be +plucked, and women to be loved? As to that weather-beaten old soldier, why +should I feel any pity on his account? He has been insolent, he has +detested me without my ever having done anything to him; I have loved his +daughter, his daughter has loved me, we are quits. I do not see why I +should distress myself about an adventure which would make so many people +happy, and for which all my brethren would have very quickly sold the +sacred Host and the holy Pyx besides. Ah, my dear uncle, good father +Ridoux, sleep, sleep in peace. How greatly am I your debtor for what you +have done for me, unwittingly and in spite of yourself; for, have you not, +by urging me to drink more than is my custom, in order to draw my secret +from me, given me the courage to undertake what I should never have dared +to dream of? _Audaces fortuna juvat_. Oh, Providence! Providence! She is +mine, the girl with the dark eyes is mine! + +He heard a slight noise in the corridor. + +--Good never comes alone, he continued, it always has evil for an escort. +Behind the sweet form of the angel, the grinning face of Satan. He is +coming upstairs and knocks at the door. + +He had not lighted his lamp again, and he carefully refrained from +answering. He heard Veronica, trying to open the door and calling him in a +low voice. But he pretended to be deaf, and quietly got into bed, all the +while cursing his accomplice, and thinking of the clumsy trap into which he +had fallen like a fool, and of that thick and filthy spider's web where, +like an unwary and silly fly, he had daubed his wings. + +What a difference between the chaste resistance of Suzanne, her tears and +her defeat, and the hideous advances of that old courtesan of the sacristy! + +In place of that unclean creature, accomplished in crime, oozing hypocrisy +from every pore, he had an adorable, loving, charming mistress, such as he +had never dared to dream of. And all this alteration in a few hours! +because he had faced it out, because, excited by intoxication, he had taken +his courage in both hands, and because he had dared. + +Oh, why had he not dared ere this? He would not be under the infamous yoke +of his servant. And how many priests, he said to himself, for want of a +little boldness, are devoted to a degrading concubinage with faded old +spinsters! + +He was not without uneasiness. How could he see Suzanne again, situated as +he was between the jealous watching of the servant and the vigilance of the +father? And above all, how could he discard his uncle's entreaties, and +refuse an unexpected promotion, without arousing suspicion in high +quarters? For, more than ever, he wished to remain at Althausen and keep +the treasure which had just caused him so much anxiety. Yes, he saw them +accumulating on his head, swooping from all parts and under all aspects: +Veronica, Durand, Ridoux, the Bishop, the gossips, scandal, dishonour. + +But, after all, what did it matter to him? The essential is that he was in +possession of Suzanne, that Suzanne was his, that he had the most charming +of mistresses, and he was indifferent to all the rest. + +To see her again readily and without danger, to contrive other interviews, +and above all to act prudently, was what he must think of. The chief step +was taken, the rest would come of its own accord. + +With Suzanne's consent all obstacles could be smoothed away, and clever is +he who succeeds in barring the way to two lovers who are determined to see +one another again. + +The old counsellor Lamblin, who in his capacity of magistrate was aware of +that, said long ago: + + "To safely guard a certain fleece, + In vain is all the watchman's care; + 'Tis labour lost, if Beauty chance + To feel a strange sensation there." + +It was on this indeed that Marcel calculated; and, smiling, he slept the +sleep of the just and dreamed the most rosy dreams. + + + + +LXXIV. + + +BEFORE MASS. + + "You think that we ought not to + break in two this puppet which is + called Public Opinion, and sit upon it." + + EUG. VERMEESCH (_L'Infamie humaine_). + +A loud and well-known voice roused him unpleasantly from his dreams. + +--Well, well, lazy-bones, still in bed when the sun is risen! You are not +thinking then of going away? You go to bed the first, and you get up the +last. I, a poor old invalid, am giving you an example of activity. Ah, +young people! young people! you are not equal to us. Come, come you can rub +your eyes to-morrow. Get up! Get up! + +--How early you are, my dear uncle; my Mass has not yet rang. + +--Have you no preparations to make for departure? + +--For departure. Is it for to-day then? + +--Do you wish to put it off to the Greek Kalends? + +--To-day! repeated Marcel. I did not think really that it was so soon. + +He dressed with the prudent delays of a man who says to himself: Let us +see, let us consider carefully what we must do. + +--You don't look satisfied, resumed Ridoux; I bring you honour, fortune and +success, and you look sulky. + +--Honour, fortune and success. Those are very fine words! + +--It is with fine words that we do fine things, and one of them is, it +appears, to unmoor you from this place. + +--The fact is, replied Marcel, that I have reflected to-night; and, after +well considering everything, I am perfectly well off, and have no desire to +go away to be worse off elsewhere. + +--Hey! what do you say? + +--My parish, humble as it is, is not so bad as you think. The people are +simple, kind and affable. I love peace and tranquillity, and I tell you, +between ourselves, that to be Curé in a large town has no attractions for +me. + +--What stuff are you telling me now? + +--Your town Curés are full of meanness and intrigues. The little I have +seen of them has disgusted me for ever. They spy one upon another. It is +who shall prejudice a fellow-priest in order to supplant him, or play the +zealot in Monseigneur's presence. When I was the Bishop's secretary, hardly +a day passed without my being witness to some shameful piece of tale +bearing. You must weigh all your words, cover your looks and have a care +even of your gestures. The slightest imprudence is immediately commented +on, exaggerated, embellished and retailed at head-quarters. The Vicar +General is the spy in general. + +Marcel uttered the truth. + +The position of the priest is a difficult one; he is surrounded with the +malevolence of enemies. But the priest's chief enemy, is the priest. As a +body, they march together, close, compact, disciplined, defending their +rights and the honour of the flag, resenting individually the insults +offered to all, and all rejoicing at the success of each. As individuals, +they spy on one another, are jealous of one another, fight, accuse and +judge one another; and they do all this hypocritically and by occult ways. +These hatreds and intrigues do not go outside the sanctuary domains. It is +a strange world which stirs within our world, a society within a society, a +state within the State. It is the behind-the-scenes of the temple, and it +stretches from the sacristy to the parsonage, from the parsonage to the +Palace. The profane world suspects nothing; it passes unconcernedly by +without dreaming that tempests are rumbling by its side. But, like the +revolutions raised by the eunuchs of the Seraglio, the intrigues of the +sacristy have been known to change the face of nations. + +The priest is the spy upon the priest. + +Misfortune to the cassock which unbuttons itself before another cassock. +The old priests are aware of this, and when they are among themselves, they +draw the folds of their black robe close, carefully hiding the least +tell-tale opening. But the young ones, simple and unreserved, often let +themselves be taken. They sound them and turn them up, and soon know what +they have underneath. In order to please Monseigneur and to deserve the +good graces of the Palace, there are few priests who resist the temptation +to sell their brother-priest, and are not ready to deny Jesus like Peter +the good apostle, the first and the model of the Roman pontiffs, three +times before cock-crow, that is to say before Monseigneur gets up. + +--No, that will not do for me, added Marcel; if I am poor here, at least I +am free. + +--Pshaw! You did not raise all those objections to me yesterday. + +--I have reflected, my dear uncle, as I have had the honour of telling you. + +--Your reflections are fine. Well, whether you have reflected or not, is +all the same to me. I have taken it into my head that you should go, and +you shall go. I will make you happy in spite of yourself, for I have +reflected also, and more than ever I said to myself that you most go. Do +you want me to enumerate the reasons? + +--The same as yesterday I have no doubt. + +--No, there is one more, and that is worth all the rest. + +--I know what you are going to say to me, but I have my answer all ready. +Speak. + +--What! at your age! in your position! Are you not ashamed to fall into +errors which would scarcely be pardonable in a seminarist? Ah! you want the +dots on the i's, well I am going to place them. + +--Place them, uncle, place them. + +--Had you not enough girls then in the village without going to lay a claim +on the one yonder? On a well-educated young lady, whose fall will cause a +scandal, the daughter of an enemy, of a Voltairian, almost a radical, a +gaol-bird in fine who will be happy to seize the occasion to raise a +terrible outcry, and to proclaim your conduct to the four quarters of the +horizon. You see I know all. + +--And who has informed you so correctly? + +--I know all, I tell you. You can therefore keep your temper. Will you act +like the Curé of Larriques? + +--What is there in common between the Curé of Larriques and me? + +--You ought to humble yourself before God. If you wanted a young girl, if +your immoderate appetites were not satisfied with what you had under your +nose, is there no cautious person in the village who would have been proud +and happy to be of service to you, and whom you could have married to some +clodhopper or to some Chrysostom ready for the opportunity; whilst that +one, whom will you give her to? There will be an uproar, I tell you, and +that will be abomination. + +--Really, uncle, said Marcel pale with anger, if anyone heard us, would +they believe that they were listening to the conversation of two +ecclesiastics? you talk of these shameful things as if you were talking of +the Gospel. In fact, I do not know which to be the more astonished at, the +freedom of your talk or the sad opinion which you have of me. But I see +whence all this emanates. Do you take me then for a bad priest? + +--What is that? Do you take me for a simpleton? for one of Molière's +uncles?... Enough of playing a farce. You do not take me in, my good +fellow. I told you yesterday that you were cleverer than I; you did not see +then that I was joking? Your mask is still too transparent. One sees the +tears behind the grinning face. No tragic aim. Come down from this stage on +which you strut in such a ridiculous manner, and let us talk seriously like +plain citizens. + +--Or bad priests! + +--Be silent. The bad priests, that is to say the clumsy priests, which is +all the same, are in your cassock; and the clumsy ones are those who allow +themselves to be caught. You have been caught, my son; and caught by whom? +by your cook. Ha! Ha! + +--Are you not ashamed to listen to the tale-bearing and calumny of that +horrible woman? + +--Horrible! Be quiet, you are blind. It is your conduct which is horrible. +To concoct such intrigues! + +--I concoct no intrigue. And when that does occur; when my feelings of +respect, of esteem, of friendship for a young person endowed with virtues +and graces, change into a sweeter feeling: at all events, if my position +compels me to conceal my inclinations from the world, I shall have no need +to blush for them when face to face with myself, that is to say: with my +dignity as a man. While your allusions, your instigation to certain +intimacies, which in order to be more closely hidden are only the more +abominable and degrading, inspire me only with disgust. + +--Oh, Holy Spirit, enlighten him. He is wandering, he is a triple fool. +When I suspected, when I discovered, when I saw that you were entering on a +perilous path, I gave you yesterday the advice which a priest of my age has +the right to give to one of yours, especially when he is, as I am, +regardful of his future. + +--I am as regardful of it as you. + +--Cease your idle words. Have you decided to go? + +--No, uncle, I am well off here, and I stay here. + +--Well off! Mouldy in your vices and obscurity. Wallowing, like Job, on +your dung-heap. Roll yourself in your filth: for my part I know what course +remains for me to take. + +--You will do what you think proper. + +--I am sure of it. But you, instead of having the excellent cure which was +destined for you, you shall have one lower still than this where you can +wallow at your ease in your idleness, your nothingness and your vices, for, +I swear to you by my blessed patron, that if I go away without you, you +shall not remain here for forty-eight hours. I will have you recalled by +the Bishop. You laugh. You know me all the same; you know when I say _yes_ +it is _yes_. A word is enough for Monseigneur, you know. _Magister dixit_. + +Marcel knew the character of the old Curé well enough to know that he was +capable of keeping his word. Fearing to irritate him more by his obstinacy, +he thought it better to appear to yield. + +--It is time for Mass, he said. We will talk about that again. + +--Go, my son, and pray to the Holy Spirit. + + + + +LXXV. + + +DURING MASS. + + "I have my rights of love and portion of the sun; + Let us together flee ..." + + A. DE VIGNY (_La Prison_). + +It will easily be credited that Marcel's thoughts had little in common with +the Holy Eucharist. He would have been a very ungrateful lover, if his +whole soul had not flown towards Suzanne. This was then his chief +preoccupation, while he murmured the long _Credo_, partook of Christ, and +recited his prayers. + +What should he decide? that was his second. Should he go away? That meant +fortune, reconciliation with the Bishop, putting his foot in the stirrup of +honours. Young, intelligent, learned, what was there to stop him? + +But that meant separation from Suzanne: saying farewell to all those divine +delights which he had just tasted. He had hardly time to moisten his +parched lips in the cup, before the cup was shattered. He was truly in +love, for he should have said to himself: "There are other cups." But for +him there was but one. Uncle Ridoux, the Bishop and greatness might go to +the devil. The promised cure and the episcopal mitre might go to the devil +too. Did he not possess the most precious of treasures, the most enviable +blessing, the supplement and complement of everything, the ambition of +every young man, the desire of every old man, of every man who has a heart: +a young, lovely, modest, loving, intelligent and adored mistress. But what +might not be the result of that love? What drama, what tragedy, and perhaps +what ludicrous comedy, in which he, the priest, would play the odious and +ridiculous character? + +This love, which plunged him into an ocean of delights, would it not plunge +him also into an abyss of misfortunes? + +Could it proceed for long without being known and remarked? + +Scandal, shame, and death perhaps, a terrible trinity, were they waiting +not at his door? + +For the viper which harboured at his hearth, had its piercing glassy eye +fixed unweariedly on him; and how could he crush the viper? + +What could he do? What could he venture? He remembered hearing of priests +who had fled away with young girls whom they had seduced, and he thought +for an instant that he would carry off Suzanne and fly. + +Willingly would he have left behind him his honour and his reputation, +willingly would he have torn his priestly robe on the sharp points of +infamy and scandal, willingly would he have quitted for ever that cursed +parsonage where shame and humiliation, vice and remorse were henceforth +installed; but Suzanne, would she follow him? + +Then, had he well weighed the mortifications which await the apostate +priest! + +To be nameless in society, with no future, repulsed, despised, scoffed at +by all! + +Should he, like the Père Hyacinth, go and found a free church in some +corner of the republic, and rove through Europe, like him, to confer about +morality, the rights of women and virtue? + +Would not poverty come and knock at his door? Poverty with a beloved wife! +It would appear a hideous and terrifying spectre, chilling in its livid +approach and in its kisses of love. + +To struggle against these obstacles he would need high energy and high +courage, and he felt that courage and energy were lacking in him, the +miserable coward, who had shamefully succumbed to the clumsy artifices of a +lascivious woman, who had allowed the first fruits of his virginity and his +youth to be lost in shameful debauch; while close by there was an adorable +maiden whose heart was beating in unison with his own. + +Thus did his reflection lead him till the end of the Gospel, and when he +said the _Deo gratias_ he had as yet decided nothing. + + + + +LXXVI. + + +AWAKENING. + + "We never permit with impunity + the mind to analyze the liberty to + indulge in certain loves; once begin + to reflect on those deep and troublesome + matters which are called _passion_ and + _duty_, the soul which naturally delights + in the investigation of every truth, is + unable to stop in its exploration." + + ERNEST FRYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut the +street-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and sat +down on the side of her bed. + +She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination, +if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had held +her in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself. + +Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, to +reflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even to +recover herself. + +A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a few +seconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she had +lost her honour, and that was love! + +She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelled +hair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than all +that, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming. + +He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and light +of heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in her +soul. + +And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, still +burning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Where +is my virginity?" + +Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing, +it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not a +virginity which flies away. + +And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse. + +The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice of +illusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regarding +the opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, be +it understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, without +which she is not a woman, but an unclean female. + +When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself: + +--What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me? + +And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have said +so already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her. + +And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed +_illegitimately_ the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, does +not say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when the +bandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love _suppliant_, is unbound +from the eyes of love _satisfied_, when the _unknown_ which has so many +charms, has become the _known_ that we despise, when of the rosy, inflated +illusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to me +trustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equal +facility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... what +devil...?" + +A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the +heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the +time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by +Pleasure. + +And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own +fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love. + +For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have given +one's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country, +family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the +ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend +half-a-sovereign. + +Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh +morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a +loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the +shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome, +young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or +blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards +another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought +to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip. + + "One of those noble loves which have no end." + +Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is +insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The +universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in +order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple +in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony, +the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love. + +You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes +by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because +like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them +as the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon +with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear +the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting +ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles. + +Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become +of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an +endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves? + +As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which the +evening breeze carried away last year. + + "But where are the snows of yester-year?" + +What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always. +Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two first +forfeited the oath? + +There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those who +had sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers. + +The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on the +arm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, a +little faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian. + +That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head of +her lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dull +tallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, and +who said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to and +separated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished by +fastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish but +substantial. + +And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea of +oblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses, +can he precisely remember her name? + +Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpools +of life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipated +into an abyss. + +She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she had +received a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, her +heart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn which +somehow or another had made its way into the field of tares. + +She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility with +which she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuse +to try and palliate her fault in her own eyes. + +But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl is +pardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness and +excitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault. + +But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Curé? + +Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husband +who is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroad +whom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Her +father, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The white +hairs of that worthy, brave old man. + +She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled to +confess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected her +most was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremely +surprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt to +find an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But in +proportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what a +corner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom she +had fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater. + + + + +LXXVII. + + +CONSOLATIONS. + + "Every fault finds its excuse in + itself. This is the sophistry in which + we are richest. The struggle of good + and evil is serious, and really painful, + only in the case of a man who has + been brought up in a position where + actions, deeds and thoughts have had + the power of self-examination." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the odd +caprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings are +exhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourished +by the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existed +nowhere but in the brain of novelists. + +Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the first +rascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness and +good looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if he +knows how to brazen it out. + +"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope. + +And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament, +remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on that +account. + +It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. The +opportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women's +virtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, although +it is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it by +which they seize and do not let it go again. + +Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying _Ab una disce +omnes_. + +You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not in +that category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark. + +Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom she +had yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequently +yield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him by +the purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towards +the male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on our +dwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and the +quintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there always +comes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion of +seraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man. + + ........who goes by night + In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark. + +Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions. + +Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet and +unctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on his +countenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of her +father, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she was +going. + +She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerably +surprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise than +as a sister is loved. + +But that is not what we men understand by love. + +The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we ought +to touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen. +Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires become +more inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress. + +If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubt +that she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessary +to resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recovered +from her terror and confusion. + +I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far more +worthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than the +haughty virtue of certain others. + +And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried to +deceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who had +ruined her. + +--He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not love +the man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. It +is natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since I +cannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes, +I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power to +resist him? + +Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed the +looks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It would +have been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he has +seen me only. + +He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man as +handsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought to +be loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and being +loved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because I +admire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, so +audacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, must +find itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my look +met his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inward +feelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments. + +And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in their +love. + +In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the reality +kills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, it +nearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination of +being loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble, +the shame, the sacrifice. + +For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her whole +life. + + + + +LXXVIII. + + +FALSE ALARM. + + "She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid + Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now, + When I beheld her in her home; alas, + And can the flower so quickly fade?"... + + DELPHINE GAY. + +Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning, +when her father burst into her room like a hurricane. + +She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless to +assume the most innocent and the calmest air. + +--What is the matter, papa? + +But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye, +apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were asking +them if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event. + +But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannot +relate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter in +such a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going to +faint. + +--Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night? + +--I! she said with the most profound astonishment. + +--Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hear +anything in the night? + +She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite of +herself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she replied +with the most natural air in the world: + +--What do you mean that I have heard, father? + +--Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, said +Durand, scanning his words, something extraordinary. + +This time Suzanne was terrified. + +Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to the +last extremity. + +--Well? + +--Well, father? you puzzle me. + +And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her father +with perfect assurance. + +She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered her +round, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed on +Durand's. + +The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, and +reproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he said +gently: + +--Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know very +well that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you have +nothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry. +But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts of +thoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yet +have a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered the +garden. + +--The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and +scrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father, +no, I have heard nothing. + +--I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take +more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed. + +--Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt... + +--Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible. + +Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her, +and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her father +knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her +terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying: + +--Ah, papa! Ah, papa! + +The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears. + +--Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this, +little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if you +had heard anything. + +--No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes. + +--You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Another +time we will keep our eyes open, that is all. + +But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she +decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her +father in a reproachful tone: + +--And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your +asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell +me that. + +--True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talk +about it any more, hang it. + +But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the +end. + +--I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by +coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your +asparagus, as if it were my fault. + +--It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived this +morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very +quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped. +What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in the +middle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makes +himself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the +house and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. There +was still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself then +what it meant, and I came to you to learn. + +--To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do you +suppose that I know more about it than you? + +Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy and +frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and +frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty. + +Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by their +children with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands are +deceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered their +eyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the +_cherub_ which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whose +long roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recount +before strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice and +hide-bound in overweening vanity. + +He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for some +time gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes: + +--No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is not +this calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul? + +And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said to +her gently: + +--It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes, +without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which are +nothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimes +carelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church, +at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough for +him to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least as +an encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake some +enterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men are +for the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, can +make that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed the +age of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals who +want to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Men +are very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that all +the ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passes +by, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, they +say directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they try +the knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphant +air, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address her +impertinently. + +--Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some young +fellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches well +waxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they have +amused us. + +--At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman, +passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyes +meet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rather +nice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that it +would not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look she +gave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and down +under the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl. + +And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the most +deplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had all +been very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough. + +Together they passed in minute review all the young village _beaux_, but +Durand's suspicion did not rest on any. + + + + +LXXIX + + +IN THE _DILIGENCE_ + + "Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts + on the mitre, and Bobêche the crown, + Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin + parades as Solon. Scapin is heard + calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My + Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are + titles for honours. The more they + are branded on the shoulder, the more + they are bedisened on the back. + Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace + resplendent." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Paris-Berlin_). + +During this time, the _diligence_ for Nancy was carrying away Marcel and +Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's +exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to +anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;" +and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy. + +They were alone in the _coupé_, and could converse at their ease. + +--Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away +there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret +at leaving this part? + +--And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there? + +--Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you. + +--Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and +trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you. + +--Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray. + +--Let us rather talk about your promotion. + +--My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious. + +--What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are going +perhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouse +yourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longer +ambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do you +hear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man, +like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen your +nephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however, +who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will give +me your patronage, will you not? + +--Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Curé's hands, you +still have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become a +Bishop? + +--What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you not +of the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as well +as another? + +--A bishopric is not for the first-comer. + +--Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you really +must get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession, +evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there are +two things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stir +yourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that is +an accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely an +accessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than is +necessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are not +sufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myself +up for you. Success wholly lies in that. + +You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh. +Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does he +possess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues very +doubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleased +the world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dear +friend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales of +our destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something about +it, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should not +be now Curé of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many I +know who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say in +the pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receive +the confessions of influential sheep. + +--You confess, uncle, that it is abominable. + +--I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it not +logical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than those +whose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been the +case since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on the +subject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by our +advantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to the +foolish and envious. + +--Birth also counts for much in our fortune. + +--Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of a +journeyman baker. + +--He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII. + +--Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, nor +his genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then something +else. + +--In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men, +starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity: +Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VI +was the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar. + +--And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourage +you who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller. + +--Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could have +married according to my taste and have become the worthy father of a +family, an honest artisan rather than a bad Curé. + +--Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you. + +--Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are not +acquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see her +through the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on her +account, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well as +I, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from those +dangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no more +than others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature.... + +-Alas, alas, human infirmity! + + Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori. + +--Then.... + +--Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there. + +And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, where +they changed horses. + + + + +LXXX. + + +AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. + + "Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek + Doth blend the tints of cream and rose. + And lends the pearls which deck her hat + And rubies too from off her gown, + To be your own fit ornament." + + E. DARIO (_Strophes_). + +Before the _Hôtel des Messageries_, a young girl, modestly dressed, was +waiting for the _diligence_, with an old band-box in her hand. + +Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with +surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had +seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and +those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their +freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her +prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the +mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the +market-place of Althausen. + +By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow? + +Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded +horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the +red face, and the thin and hungry little children? + +He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair +girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow. + +--Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor. + +--It is I, she said. + +--This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a +good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. +And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupé. + +The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said: + +--What, in the coupé? + +--Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupé, and in good hands too. Do you +complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will +undertake your conversion. + +--Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing +herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me? + +He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get +up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she +sat down beside Marcel. + +--You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle. + +--I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the +hospital. + +--Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you? + +--'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening +performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or +leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been +very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, +there are good people everywhere. + +--And you are going to Nancy? + +--To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be at +Epinal. + +Ridoux was listening in his corner. + +--You know this young person then? he said. + +--I know her through having seen her once at Althausen. + +--Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away. +You remember, we were both of us at our window? + +Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic +sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical +low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion +of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect +that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered. + +--I don't remember. + +Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the _diligence_; allured by the +sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time _litanies_, +_paters_ and _aves_ in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. +Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few _sous_ among the +most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert +beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they +threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears. + +--I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you +set of idlers. + +--Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are +some who cannot work. + +--There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be +lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now +these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart +bleed to see such misery. + +And he took a pinch of snuff. + +A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind +the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a +pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half. + +--You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel. + +--Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it +yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a +good action, she added laughing. + +--I see that the Sisters were very kind to you. + +--Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take the +Communion, which I had not done for a long time. + +--That is well, said Ridoux. + +The _diligence_ had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and +with bare feet was running, cap in hand. + +He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he +cried: + +--Charity, kind Monsieur le Curé; charity, if you please. + +--Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal. + +-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home. + +--Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the _gendarmes_. + +The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again. + +--Poor little fellow, said the dancer. + +And she threw him the other half of the pie. + +Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous +action, for he cried angrily: + +--Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion? +No doubt it was with that piece of meat. + +--Why, sir? + +--In what religion have you been brought up? + +--In the Catholic religion. + +--Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your +meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of +the deepest indignation: has not your Curé then taught that it is forbidden +to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from +your sins? + +--I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to +attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish. + +--What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling? + +--I am a travelling artiste, sir. + +--A travelling artiste. What is that? + +--I dance character dances, and I appear in _tableaux vivants_ and _poses +plastiques_. + +--_Poses plastiques_! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that +calling? + +--That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the +young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that +when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves +with. + +--Honourably! that's a fine word! + +--I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour. + +--And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when +you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, +which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage +others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given +that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church.... + +--I did not think of that. + +--And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child +to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly +life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday.... +You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our +Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to +offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine +Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth +in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by? + +--I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke. + +--A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the Holy +Virgin. + +--Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat? + +--Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It +appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give +me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and +work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must +not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your +soul also requires to eat. + +Marcel interrupted. + +--Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the +duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide. + +--I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to +guide her. + +Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page +of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep. + + + + +LXXXI. + + +A LITTLE CONFESSION + + "Let us not ask of the tree what + fruit it bears." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Mes Medailles_). + +--Monsieur le Curé is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellent +heart. + +--Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the old +gentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of a +man! + +--The Chaplain, no doubt. + +--No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge, +that makes one think of the _gendarmes_. I was quite in order, fortunately. +Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere, +and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened me +very much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be. + +--You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Society +of St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic. + +--Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only to +people who are religious and honest and right-minded--as he says. As I am +an artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself about +me, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl. + +--What do you mean by honest girl? + +She looked at him attentively: + +--You know very well, she said. + +--But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be +honest. + +--Was I not obliged to go to confession before? + +--Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. That +is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again. + +--Fall where? + +--Into your sins. + +--That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of +them. + +--Many! so young! How old are you? + +--Sixteen. + +--Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you can +commit at sixteen? + +--Many. The Curé of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that I +was a cup of iniquity. + +--Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins do +you commit then? + +--I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass. + +--What then? + +--Others besides. + +--What are they? + +--I do not know; there are so many. + +--Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you have +just related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others ... +you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing? + +--They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, +is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin. + +--But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others. + +--Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins? + +--All those which are not innocent, yes. + +--How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so? + +--Your conscience is the best judge. + +--And when my conscience says nothing? + +--That is not a sin. + +--Well, Monsieur le Curé of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins +for which my conscience does not reproach me at all. + +--My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to +have a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is +kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance. +What are then those great faults? + +--Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl? + +--Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good +advice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, +exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are. + +--Pretty! you think me pretty? + +--Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't you +know it? + +--Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when I +am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the pretty +girl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to +hear it. Is that a sin too? + +--A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greater +ones than that, you are really an honest girl. + +He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed. + +--Where are you going to stay at Nancy? + +--The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house where +I can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company: +the _Hôtel du Cygne de la Croix_. + +--I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house, +the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt but +that you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommended +by the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is a +conscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. She +is not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes a +great interest in you then? + +--Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a more +suitable position for me; but what position could he give me? + +--He might find you some ... he is an influential man. I invite you to +follow his advice. He is a member of the _Society for the protection of +poor young girls_. + +--But, no doubt, I shall not see him again. + +--Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; but +unfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here for +long. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need of +anyone ... you understand ... a young girl might find herself at a loss in +a huge town ... you will enquire for the Abbé Marcel at this address. + +-Many thanks, sir. + +They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her small +amount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the inn +which the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquainted +her with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance, +where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant. + + + + +LXXXII. + + +THE CHURCH-WOMAN. + + "Devotion is the sole resource of + coquettes: when they are become old, + God becomes the last resource of all + women who know not aught else to do." + + MME. DE REUX. + +As _his uncle_ had foreseen, the young Curé pleased the old lady greatly. +She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make his +way. + +--You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such as +we require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, who +bring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back to +their village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbé? It is a shame, an +absolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproach +Monseigneur severely for it. + +--It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken a +dislike to my nephew. + +--I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Too +frozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. He +is the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That is +what comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, Monsieur +Marcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion and +agreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory and +amiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I may +confess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shall +have the women, the world is ours. + +While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady could +exercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that in +order to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of this +estimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried to +be amiable and witty. + +But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuous +drawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he had +only to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of the +earth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to be +the instrument of a rapid fortune. + +The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who make +of religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs of +gallantry. When they are old, and can scarcely _venture_ any longer on +their own account, they generously place their experience and their small +talents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others. +That is called _lending the hand_, and more than once the old lady had +countenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews of +sweet sheep with their tender pastor. + +The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesans +when they are young and procuresses in their ripened age. + +Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usually +comes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches of +the temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls at +length upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for the +most part they begin with conviction and good faith. + +They attend church frequently, not only because it is _good form_, not only +through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination. + +The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir, +the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the +pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass +windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of +Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small +chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and +intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the +beadle and the sacristan. + +It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to +the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship. + +They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have +knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there +is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are +invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again. +They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed +on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book +of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to +reality. + +A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them +like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same +place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to +read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious +look, which inspires fear. + +What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively +behaviour of this red-faced Abbé? + +How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can +find no better employment for the day than to mutter _Paternosters_, devoid +of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague +sanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_. + +Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission +in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and +joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by +a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting +mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence, +into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of being +the fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become the +passive instruments, the unfruitful _things_ of the priest, that is to say +the agents of reaction. + +It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman is +called to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is the +desolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, that +she is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society: + +"_Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady, +she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morally +certainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of the +old race: The Stick_!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet, _Love_. + +No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says. +She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured and +reformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful and +intelligent, she knew _what talking meant_, and how to read in wise men's +eyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in good +time, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be so +opposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple: _Religion +and pleasure_. + +"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasure +hurt God." + + + + +LXXXIII. + + +CONVENTICLE. + + "Je, dist Panurge, me trouve bien + du conseil des femmes, et mesmement + de vieilles." + + RABELAIS (_Panurge_). + +They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair to +the Palace that very day. + +--There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Curé of St. Marie is +much coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the Abbé +Matou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he is +young, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choose +myself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little story +formerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, after +all, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur would +he desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in public +esteem. He is dangerous. + +Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is the +son of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. There +is yet the _Sweet Jesus_. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbé Ridoux? + +--Yes, it is the Abbé Simonet. + +--The Abbé Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at the +Seminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow. + +--Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly in +love with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers, +and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbé Gobin. Now he +has gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town? +Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough to +make one shudder. Dear _Sweet Jesus_! When I see him wandering in the +Cathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand the +infatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat. +Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young and +handsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holy +flock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strive +very hard against the _Sweet Jesus_. + +--We will strive, said Ridoux. + +--And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbé, hasten to Monseigneur's, +he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is well +to reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St. +Marie. + +Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Curé of St. +Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one or +another mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhaps +indispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputation +and the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longer +Suzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there are +reconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant, +and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne from +time to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and less +perilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in that +village where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see.... + + + + +LXXXIV. + + +AT THE PALACE. + + "This world is a great ball where fools, disguised + Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness + Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness + In vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us; + Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different." + + VOLTAIRE (_Discourse sur l'Homme_). + +Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first +time after five years, within the episcopal Palace. + +It was there formerly--five years ago, quite an abyss--he had dreamed of a +future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had +seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away. + +Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same +faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at +once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, +browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost +bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young +and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into +the illimitable future. + +The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good +looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain +and insolence this obscure country Curé, of whose disgrace they were aware. + +--Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind of _valet de chambre_ with a +sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again +to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed. + +--Then I will wait. + +--Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting +a long time. + +If it had not been for the valet's insolence, Marcel would no doubt have +gone away, and perhaps, would have abandoned the affair; but, humiliated at +hearing himself addressed in that tone, he became obstinate. + +--Can you not then inform Monseigneur that the Curé of Althausen desires to +speak with him? + +--Althausen! Ah, well! I believe that the Curé of Mattaincourt and Monsieur +le Curé of the Cathedral have called and not been received, replied the +valet; consequently, he added _in petto_, we shall not disturb ourselves +for a junior like you. + +--Can I speak with _Monseigneur_ the Secretary? + +--Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet does not like to be disturbed, and I believe +besides that he is in conference with his Lordship. + +Marcel was aware that in the episcopal Palace the village Curés are treated +with less regard than the dogs in the back-yard; therefore he took his own +part, and he had just sat down on a bench without saying a word, +deliberating with himself whether be ought to wait or to go away, when a +little priest with a busy and important air, with spectacles on his nose +and a pen behind his ear, quickly crossed the anteroom. + +--Is it not Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet? said Marcel rising. + +--Ah, cried the former, Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I think? + +It was the Secretary, and he aspired, as may be remembered, to the envied +post of curate at St. Nicholas. He thought to obtain the good graces of +Ridoux by rendering a service to Marcel. + +--Monseigneur is really too much engaged, said he, but I will obtain +admittance for you anyhow. + +And he made him go into a small apartment next to the Bishop's private +cabinet. + +--I will call you when it is time, he said to him and went out. + +Marcel, left alone, heard the sound of a voice in Monseigneur's cabinet, +and he recognized perfectly old Collard's. + +He would have been failing in good clerical traditions, if he had not +gently drawn near the door and listened with all his ears; struck with +amazement, he heard the singular conversation which follows. + + + + +LXXXV. + + +LITTLE PASTIMES. + + "One thing which it is necessary + to take into account, is that they are + very precocious. A French girl of + fifteen is as much developed as regards + the sex and love, as an English girl + of eighteen. This is accounted for + essentially by Catholic education and + by the Confessional, which brings + forward young girls to so great an + extent." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +--Let us see, little one; look me right in the face. Madame de Montinisant +has assured me that you were very nice, very sweet, very submissive, very +modest, in fact ail the good qualities in the superlative, and that you +were worthy of entering into the sisterhood of the Holy Virgin, in spite of +your youth; is that quite true? + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! It is true, do you say? I am going to know exactly, I am going to +know if you are truthful or not. God has bestowed on Bishops the gift of +divining everything. Did you know that? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! You are smiling; you believe perhaps that it is not true; wait, +wait, you shall see indeed. Is it long since she made her first communion? + +--Nearly two years, Monseigneur. + +--Two years, ah, ah! Then the little girl is fourteen. + +--Only thirteen, Monseigneur. + +--Thirteen! thirteen! that is very nice. At thirteen one is already a +grown-up girl. Are you already a grown-up girl, little rogue? + +--I don't know. + +--You don't know, ah, ah. We are going to see first, if you are modest. +Come close to me; see, little girl, give me your chin, and this pretty +little dimple.... Oh, oh! you are laughing, stay, stay ... she has some +pretty little dimples on her cheeks too, the little naughty thing. We are +going to make a little confession.... Ah, you are blushing. Why are you +blushing? You have then some great sins on your conscience? Come, you are +going to tell me all that ... quite low ... in my ear. + +--But, Monseigneur.... + +--There is no _but, Monseigneur_. It is the condition _sine qua non_ of +entering the sisterhood. You understand that in order to admit a sheep into +his flock, the shepherd must be completely edified regarding that fresh +sheep.... The sheep then must relate all her wicked sins to her Bishop. It +is God who wills it, it is not I, little girl. What enters by one ear, goes +out directly by the other. I should be much puzzled, after the confession +to repeat a single word of what you have told me. You know what a +speaking-tube is. + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, the Confessor's ear is the speaking-tube of the ear of God. Has not +your Confessor taught you that? + +--Oh, yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, then, we have nothing to be afraid of, and she must not hesitate to +confide to us her little faults. Even were there very great sins, I shall +hear them without making any remonstrance, for that will prove to me that +you have confidence in your Bishop. Come, place yourself there, near me, on +your knees. You have no need to recite your _Confiteor_; it is only an +examination of conscience that we are both going to make. There! very well, +put this little cushion under your knees, you will be less tired. See, +where are we going to begin? + + --One God only thou shalt adore... + +No, no, that is unnecessary; I am fully persuaded that you love God and +your parents with all your heart. + + --The goods of others thou shalt not take... + +Ta, ta, ta, I am quite aware that you are not a thief--a thief has not a +pretty little face like that; let us go on at once to the sixth +commandment: + + The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire + But in marriage only. + +There, that is what moat concerns little girls. Do you know what are the +works of the flesh? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it +to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this +commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already +spoken to you about it? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in +confession. Who is your Confessor? + +--He is Monsieur Matou. + +--Ah, Matou! the Abbé Matou. Yes, yes, he has spoken to you about it, I +know him; he must have spoken to you about it. Come, tell me all about +that. + +--Well, once he asked me.... + +--Ah, ah! well, well! do not stop. What is it he asked you? + +--He asked me ... ah! it is a long time ago, before my first communion. + +--Well? + +--He asked me, if I did not go and play with the little boys. + +--And then? + +--If I had not culpable relations with them. + +--Culpable relations with little boys, well! And what did you answer him? + +--I answered him that I had not. + +--That you had not! Was that quite true? Do not blush, and do not tell a +falsehood. I shall see if you are going to tell a falsehood. + +--Yes, Monseigneur, it was quite true; I did not even know what Monsieur +Matou meant. + +--And you know it now? + +--Yes, he explained it to me. + +--Oh, oh! he explained it to you. And how did he explain that to you? + +--He told me.... + +--Let us see what he told you. Come, come, you most not hang down your +head: see, lift up this pretty face and show me this little dimple; what +did the Abbé Matou say to you?... Eh, eh! who is there! who is knocking at +the door? Is it you, Gaudinet? Rise up, my little daughter, and go and sit +down there, in the corner. Come in, Gaudinet, come in then. + +Gaudinet put his head discreetly inside. + +--Monseigneur, I came to inform you that the Curé of Althausen has been +there for some time. + +--There? where is that? + +--In the cabinet. + +--What! in the cabinet? Ah, are you mad, Gaudinet, to send people in this +way into my cabinet? I do not approve of that, I do not approve of that at +all. What does that Curé of Althausen want with me? + + + + +LXXXVI. + + +SERIOUS TALK. + + "Such were the words of the man + of the Rock; his authority was too + great, his wisdom too deep, not to + obey him." + + CHATEAUBRIAND (_Atala_). + +Marcel had not heard these last words. At Gaudinet's first word, he had +quickly vanished, foreseeing that a terrible tempest would burst upon his +head, if the Bishop should suspect that he had been a witness of his way of +hearing little girls' confessions, the usual way however of nearly all +priests; I appeal to the memories of the Lord's sheep. + +--Monsieur le Curé!... cried Gaudinet, opening the door. Ah, he is no +longer there. He has gone away, Monseigneur. I had told him, in fact, that +your Lordship was very busy, and, no doubt, he wished not to trouble you. + +--I was, in fact, expecting him. He will return to-morrow. But, for God's +sake, Gaudinet, never let anybody enter that room without warning me +beforehand. + +Marcel was already at the bottom of the stairs. A valet called him back, +and Gaudinet, after bringing out the little girl, introduced him to +Monseigneur's presence. + +--Ah, there you are, said the latter in a harsh tone, looking him straight +in the face. Why did you go away? + +--I was told that Monseigneur was engaged, and I feared to disturb your +Lordship. + +--Who told you that? + +--The Abbé Gaudinet. + +--You are much changed. I should not have recognized you. I have received a +letter from Monsieur le Curé of St. Nicholas, he added, searching on his +desk. Here it is. He says that you have returned to better sentiments ... +that you are amended, humbled before God ... that you wish henceforth to +follow the good way ... Is that so? + +--That is my desire, Monseigneur. + +--It is not enough to desire, sir, you must intend, firmly intend. + +--I intend also. + +--I intend to believe it. I ask nothing better than to oblige my old friend +Ridoux by doing something for you. Sit down. We are in want of priests, +that is to say, intelligent, hard-working, active priests, on whom we can +absolutely rely. Times are becoming difficult. Evil doctrines are +spreading. Faith is passing away. Infamous writers, wretched pamphleteers +are spreading everywhere, at so much a line, the seeds of doubt and +perversity. And to crown the evil, imprudent and maladroit priests are +indulging their vices and creating scandal. But we are not discouraged. Is +the holy arch in danger because a few nails are rusty, because a few cords +are rotten? Other nails and cords are supplied in their place, and the +rottenness is cast away. But we must not hide from ourselves that we are +passing through a melancholy period. This is what priests for the greater +part do not clearly see. They slumber in their priesthood, take their +emoluments, grow fat, go their small way, and believe they have discharged +their duty. That is not the case. When a man has the honour to be a priest, +he must be active. It is necessary, as in the time of the persecutions, to +make proselytes and win souls; to confront the irreligious propaganda with +our propaganda; lampoons, with lampoons; speeches, with sermons; acts, with +acts. In short, we must struggle. Can we remain still and idle, when our +Holy Father is imprisoned in a den of thieves? + +The time has come. We are fighting for our very existence, we must close +the ranks, take count of ourselves, and above all see on what and on whom +we can count. Let us see what we can expect from you? What do you ask? You +wish to come to the town? I warn you that it will be hard, if you intend to +do what I expect of you. + +--The trouble does not frighten me, Monseigneur. + +--You will have a difficult parish. You will have to run foul of a thousand +different interests, and not give the slightest pretext for slander. You +understand me? There are five or six influential Liberals whose wives or +daughters you must win over adroitly, and at any cost--at any cost, you +understand. Do you feel yourself qualified for this work? Are you the man +we need? + +--I will try, Monseigneur. + +--You will try. That is not on answer. It is not enough to try; you most +succeed. We are surrounded with men who commit nothing but follies, while +intending to do well. Hell, you know, is paved with good intentions. + +He looked at Marcel attentively, and the latter asked himself if this were +really the man he had heard, only a few moments before, talking lightly +with a little girl. + +--You have good manners, continued the Bishop; you are intelligent, I know. +You will succeed therefore, if you intend it seriously. Our misfortune is, +that we are encumbered with dull and stupid peasants, whom the Seminary has +been able only partly to refine, and who render us ridiculous. You must +certainly have gone to sleep in your village? + +--No, Monseigneur, I have worked. + +--We shall see that. And what sort of people are they? Do they perform +their religious duties? + +--A good and hard-working population. + +--Do they perform their religious duties? + +--Yes. Monseigneur, I was satisfied with them. + +--What society? + +--Very little. The lawyer, the doctor.... + +--Right-thinking? + +--Tolerably so. + +--And the women? + +--Much the same as all country-folk, ignorant and narrow-minded. + +--No, you were not the man needed there. You would lose your time and your +powers. I will send one of those brutes of whom I have just been speaking. +Well, go; you can tell the Abbé Ridoux that you will have the cure. Come +again to-morrow. I even think it will be useless for you to return to +Althausen. + + + + +LXXXVII. + + +THE SEMINARY. + + "I turned my head and I saw a + number of the dead in living bodies. + These are the worst spectres, because + they must be subdued: you touch them, + they touch you, and, in order to drag + you away to their tomb, they seize + you with an arm of flesh which is no + better than the marble hand of the + Commendatore." + + EUGENE PELLETAN (ÉLISÉE, _Voyage d'un homme + à la recherche de lui-même_). + +Marcel went away disconsolate. So it was done. He was changed, another put +in his place at Althausen. He had hoped for opposition, he had counted on +objections from the Bishop, he thought, in short, that he would remain in +suspense for some weeks, perhaps for some months, during which he would +have the time to look before him and reflect; but no, all at once: "Go and +tell the Abbé Ridoux that you have the cure." Well, and Suzanne? Could he +leave Suzanne in this way? He had, it is true, informed her of his +departure the day before; but had not everything changed since the day +before? Could be abandon thus his heart which he had left behind there? +More than his heart, his whole soul, his life, the maiden who had yielded +herself. + +Strange contradictions. When he had believed his change far distant and +still but slightly probable, he had thought he could leave Suzanne easily, +arrange far away from her for secret interviews, and await events; now that +this change was certain and had just become an accomplished fact, he looked +upon it as a catastrophe. Instead of hastening to announce _the good news_ +to Ridoux, he proceeded to roam through the streets, assailed by his +thoughts. + +"And I shall be obliged to live in this world which I have just caught a +glimpse of, to elbow these men at every hour, to mingle in their intrigues, +to blend myself in their life. That unscrupulous old Comtesse, that +insolent prelate, Gaudinet, Matou, Simonet and the rest, all oozing forth +hypocrisy, intrigue and vice; dreaming of one thing alone, to satisfy their +ambition, their passions, and their appetites. And these are the ministers +of God! Veronica was quite right: + +"'All the same, we are all the same, all.' And I am one of the least bad. I +was blind and idiotic not to have cast my gaze earlier into this filthy +sewer.--Blind, idiotic and deaf." + +He passed near a lofty, gloomy building. It was the Seminary. The desire +came upon him to go in. Some of his old fellow-pupils had remained there, +as masters or professors. But he altered his mind. What was the good? What +would he do? What would he say to them? There was henceforth an abyss +between him and these men who remained encrusted in the vessel of +clericalism, the most uncrossable of all abysses, that which divides the +thoughts. They were perhaps happy. He recalled to mind the long hours he +had passed beneath the Sacred Heart in the little chapel of an evening, +amidst the wax-lights, the incense and the flowers, mingling his voice in +exaltation with the voices of the young Levites, and singing senseless +hymns, with his heart melting with love of God. + +And he began to envy those young fanatics whose blind and unintelligent +faith killed every rising thought, and who were ready to suffer martyrdom +to support the ridiculous beliefs which they had been taught and which they +were called upon to teach. Blind, idiotic and deaf. + +"Why am I not so still!" he said; "I should believe myself the only guilty +one, the only wicked and perverse one among all those apostles; I should +curse my weaknesses and myself; but at least I should have faith, I should +walk onward with a star upon my brow, the star of sublime follies which +gives light and life, whereas I see nought around me but desolation and +death. I should humble myself before the Almighty, and I should cry to him +like the poet: + + "'Oh Lord, oh Lord my God, thou art our Father: + Pity, for thou art kind! pity for thou art great!' + +"And instead of that, I am obliged to humble myself before that Bishop whom +I despise, to endure the scorn of his lacqueys, and the offensive patronage +of his secretary, to have the opportunity of saying: + +"'A little place in your good graces, Monseigneur!' No, a thousand times +no. My village, my poor belfry, my humble parsonage, my liberty, and my +Suzanne!" + +By his dejected look, his uncle and the Comtesse believed he had not +succeeded. + +--Too late! they cried. The cure is given away. + +--Yes, he answered. + +--To whom? To the _Sweet Jesus_, I wager. Ah, the Tartuffe. + +--To me. + +--And that is why you have a funereal expression? + +--Yes, uncle, for I am burying for ever my tranquillity and my happiness. + +--Is it only that? Madame la Comtesse, I present to you the oddest and the +most extraordinary man you have ever met. Judge him yourself. He has just +carried off at the first onset what he was eagerly desiring, and there he +is as cheerful as a flogged donkey. Ah, my dear Madame, how difficult it is +to benefit people in spite of themselves. + +--That is my opinion also, said the Comtesse, looking tenderly with her +little eyes, still brilliant in spite of their long service, at the young +priest, for whom she felt that vague unfruitful passion which old +courtesans have for every young and handsome man; and she made him relate +minutely all the details of the interview. + +--Bravo! bravo, she cried. It is more than I hoped. But do not alarm +yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you. +I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One +of them the other day took it into his head to die _civilly_ and, in spite +of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the +early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary +schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third. + +--How? + +--By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their +children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Curé, which is incumbent upon +you. + +--And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from +the fathers. + +--I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in +question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this +young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with +certain prejudices. + +--Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task +for us women. + + + + +LXXXVIII. + + +THE FAIR ONE. + + "Pretty to paint! as graceful as an + ear of corn, slender and yet robust, + never was seen a morsel of flesh so + delicate, or better rounded. Her hair, + a wonderful fleece, smelt as sweet and + fresh as the grass, and shone red like + the sun." + + LÉON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Boeufs_). + +It was with a great feeling of relief that, in the evening, after supper, +Marcel retired to the room which, in spite of his protests, the Countess +had caused to be made ready for him. + +He had need to be alone. Events had hurried on in such an astounding and +rapid manner, and he had had no time to think about them. + +His resolution was fully taken. He would refuse the new core. The odious +part which he was called upon to play there, decided him. He was about to +shatter his future. It meant a disagreement with his uncle, the hatred of +this influential woman, the formidable persecution of the Bishop; but what +was all that? He saw Suzanne again, amiable, gracious, smiling, looking at +him with her soft, dark eyes; Suzanne approving of his conduct and saying +to him: "You are a man of courage. Let us go away together; cast your frock +into the ditch." + +And he wrote three letters: one to his uncle, the other to the Comtesse, +and the third to the Bishop, entreating them to excuse him, and telling +them that he did not feel qualified to perform his ministry in a large +town. He implored Monseigneur to leave him at Althausen and to think no +more about him. + +But the night brings counsel. And when he woke up the next morning and saw +his three letters on the table, he thought that he could not do a more +awkward thing. + +He threw them in the fire, dressed and went out. The idea came to him of +going to see the parish which was destined for him. He followed the +streets, drawn in a straight line, of that too regular city, and when he +arrived at the corner of the _Rue des Carmes_, he heard his name +pronounced. Be turned round and saw the landlord of the inn where he was +accustomed to stay, when he came to Nancy. + +--What, you are passing before my door without coming in, Monsieur le Curé; +I was expecting you, however. I had prepared your room. + +--You were expecting me, Monsieur Patin? And who told you that I was here? + +--Who told me that? It was a young person who is very pretty, upon my word. +She came to ask for you yesterday evening, and we expected you up to ten +o'clock. + +--Dark? said Marcel much disturbed. + +--No, fair, the prettiest fair complexion which I have ever seen. + +Marcel remembered immediately the little mountebank, whom he had altogether +forgotten, and to whom he had given the address of Monsieur Patin's hotel, +where he had expected to stay. + +--It is a young girl who is recommended to me, he said; I regret that I did +not see her. + +--You are not coming in? + +--No, for perhaps I am going to set out again for Althausen. + +--For Althausen. That is impossible to-day. I have just seen the +_diligence_ go by. Come, you will sleep once more at my house, Monsieur +Marcel; your room is quite ready, and my wife, who has a fancy for you, +will not let you go away. Stay, here she comes; she has recognized your +voice. + +The little Madame Patin, plump, brown, active and pretty, hastened up, +indeed, and compelled Marcel to come in, almost in spite of himself. + +--You shall remain, you shall remain! she said to him, relieving him of his +hat. + +--No, he answered smiling, I shall not remain, and I will tell you the +reason. I came with my uncle, and I have my room at Madame de +Montluisant's. + +Before that declaration Monsieur and Madame Patin bowed. + +--Ah, that is not right, said Madame Patin; Madame de Montluisant is +opposing us, she is drawing our clients to her house.... My dear, have you +told Monsieur Marcel that a young person has come?... + +--Your husband has told me, Madame, and that proves to you that I certainly +had the intention of staying with you, since I showed her your address. It +had escaped my memory, otherwise I should have called to ask you to send +the young person to Madame de Montluisant's. + +--She will certainly come back again, for she seemed very desirous of +seeing you. Must I send her to you at that lady's? + +--No, but tell her to come again this evening late. I have a thousand +things to do, and I can scarcely see any moment but that when I shall be +free. + +That evening at eight o'clock, he was at Monsieur Patin's, where he found a +good fire in a small sitting-room well closed, with the newspapers and a +cup of coffee. The young girl had called again during the day, and would +return. Marcel installed himself comfortably in an arm-chair and waited for +her. + +He had seen the Bishop again, who had flashed before his eyes a future, +full of golden rays. The visit of Ridoux and the Comtesse had preceded his +own, and in the sudden change of manner of the prelate towards him, he +recognized the good offices of his new friend. + +A good dinner had completed the happy day, and life appeared to him, after +all, to have some sweetness. + + + + +LXXXIX. + + +LOVE AGAIN. + + "Oh Folly, which we call love, what + dost thou make of us? Out of free-men + thou dost make us slaves; thou + dost breathe into us all the vices. It + is thou who dost supply the altars of + disloyalty and fear! It is thou who + dost extract from thought the rhetorician's + art, and from enthusiasm a vile + profession. How many young people + have you blighted! all the fairest. Ah, + siren, thy voice is sweet. Thou speakest + to us the language of the gods, but + thou are only an impure beast." + + JEAN LAROQUE (_Niobe_). + +A kind of emotion seized him. He was almost ashamed of it, and tried to +give an account of it to himself. It seemed to him that he was affected as +if at the approach of sin. He restrained his feelings and enquired of +himself what this young girl could want with him. + +Perhaps she was but a common courtesan who, attracted by the handsome +appearance and tender look of the priest, counted on speculating profitably +in a clandestine intrigue. + +Nevertheless, he was not terrified at the prospect, and he recalled +complacently the scene in the open air in the market-place at Althausen. +With his eyes closed, he saw her again playing the castanets, rounding her +hips and shooting forward her little foot, in order to make the enraptured +rustics admire the sculptural beauty of her leg. He saw again that bosom, +free from all covering, which had plunged him into such confusion. + +Ah, if instead of his love for Suzanne, so full of fever and danger, he had +picked up on his way some pretty girl like this Bohemian, who, while +calming his feelings, would have left his heart in peace. + +With a common peasant girl, vigorous and sensual, like this dancer at the +fair, he would have gratified the only low permissible to a priest; for it +was the most unpardonable folly, he recognized now, to surrender his heart. + +The Curé of St. Nicholas was a thousand times right! Let the priest make +use of woman, nothing is more proper, as an instrument, as a pastime, +hygienic and aperient; but let him stop there. + +At certain periods, when the brain is heavy, the digestion is inactive, and +the bowels are confined, when dizziness occurs, when the blood becoming too +plentiful, grows thick and congested in the veins and rises to the head, +then it is that nature needs to accomplish her work. Then one seeks for a +woman, one throws oneself on her who happens to be there, and is willing to +lend herself to this hygienic and benevolent part. Servant or mistress, +girl or wife, lady or work-girl, young or old, courtesan from a +drawing-room or the pavement, one takes her, has one's pleasure of her, and +goes away. + +But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of +our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together, +to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery! + +To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is +permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white +surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet +young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened +eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future +illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your +ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to +yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will +love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing! + +But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards? + +After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these +follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all +these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all +these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom +you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of +eternal love. + +Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy. + +How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and +the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha. + +Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room +when some filthy scene has been enacted. + +The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a +drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the +terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he +was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of +retaliation, shame, trouble and fear. + +Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book: + +"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not +different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the +evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought +for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after, +we shall not know how to endure the idea of it." + +Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door. + + + + +XC. + + +LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX. + + "As soon as she comes + The Hostess looks hard: + --My beauty no ceremony, + The supper is ready; + Come in, come in, my beauty + Come in, and no more noise + With three gallant captains + You shall spend the night." + + (_Popular Songs of France_). + +Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly +and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young +girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an +old band-box. + +But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at +Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the +Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into +a gracious smile. + +She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing +her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not +much choice. + +--Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good +appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best +which you have, but the cheapest. + +--The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A +young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will +want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't +disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows +us to give you meat to eat. + +She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a +dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed +down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe +produce. + +The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without +needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in +the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said: + +--I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has +the little one behaved well? + +--Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty. + +--Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched +from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of +her. + +--Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls +from hell. We, poor women, have not that power. + +--But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything +has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose. + +--Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you. + +And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided +like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice: + +--Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again, +to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh. + +Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously +closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to +herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end." + + + + +XCI. + + +THE CALVES. + + "Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes." + + OVID. + +Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made +her sit down close beside him on the sofa. + +--Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you +satisfied? Have you had a good dinner? + +--Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money. + +--A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to +pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the +expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall +be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that? + +--You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you? + +--She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing +... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one +wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the +little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We +are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like +yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my +little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you. + +--I am very grateful to you.... + +--That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas, +we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and +velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could +eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of? +I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa. + +Zulma let him kiss her again. + + +[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again." + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees.] + +[Illustration] + +--Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued +the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist: +have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a +little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock, +heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of +me who might be your papa. + +--And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma. + +--Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think +then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty +word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head. +Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see. + +Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand. + +--What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves? + +--What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic? + +--I want to see them again, again, again. + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place. + +--No, sir. + +--Ah, you must not say _no_ to me.... I do not like _no_. Let me help you, +my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and +sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it. + +--But I don't want to, I tell you. + +--Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves. + +--You have seen them enough. + +--What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you +refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the +market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me +when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is +very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act. + +--In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume. + +--She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very +easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if +you like, we will both of us put it on. + +--What is it? + +--That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that +which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the +gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well +as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the +costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer +be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough +of these affectations. + +--My name is not Sophie. + +--Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve. +For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little +rogue? + +--Let me alone, I ask you. + +--Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be +quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see +what a fine apple we will eat. + +--Sir, a man of your age! + +--Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you +will see. + +--I don't want to see anything, let me go. + +--Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like +you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes, +yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own +way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied. +My wife does not expect me till to-morrow. + +--Your wife? What, you are married?... + +--Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for +nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick; +into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a +fig-leaf on to you. + +But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and +the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous +slap on the face. + +He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek. + +--She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little +hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay +me for it. + + + + +XCII. + + +THE SCAPULAR + + "And the old bearded fellow rubbed + away, pushed with his hips, embracing + her in front: clasped with his arms + embracing her behind; stuffing at the + chancellery, throwing her gently and + collecting his strength, labouring with + his chest, and even tripping her up: + he made use of all." + + LÉON CLADEL (_Ompdrailles_). + +--I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall +scream if you do not loose me. + +--Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: +here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me. + +--I just laugh at you. You old Punch! + +--Old Punch! Punch! + +--You ought to be ashamed. + +--You insult me; take care. + +--Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to. + +--Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to +whom, you little wretch? + +--To whom it may concern. + +--Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is _whom it may +concern_? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, _whom it may concern_ will +laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, +a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not +know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected +everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more +reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to +pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to +a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen +such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many +affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs? + +--You horrify me. Let me go away. + +He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her +blood: + +--Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, +and on your journey? + +--Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back +again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it. + +--And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You +will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you +of being a thief ... an adventuress. + +--I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money +for the coach-fare. + +--I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have +spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little +good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you +enjoy yourself for nothing? + +--And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the +logic of this objection. + +--Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been +answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received +a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at +the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill? + +Madame Connard appeared at once: + +--What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here? + +--No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere. + +Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle. + +--No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady. + +Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill +amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes. + +--And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear +here, and one does not know what to do for a living. + +The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, +for her eyes were full of tears. + +--Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little +hindrance to your settling that? + +--Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe +I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and +in an hour or two.... + +--Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine +tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing. + +--Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a +knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off +directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice. + +--Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide? + +--I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although +it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest. + +-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a +thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I +will hand you over to the police. + +--Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will +relate what has occurred. + +She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried: + +--Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere +else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was +going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have +been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a +respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was +answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with +him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so +much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want +is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you +little prostitute. + +--Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said +Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better +of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her. + +Madame Connard withdrew complacently. + +--You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the +excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl +with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in +some shameful act. + +--Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel. + +--Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away +to pay the bill. + +--A fig for you and your money. + +--What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never +despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And +then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, +yes, wish you well. + +--I tell you to leave me alone. + +--Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter. + +--I don't want you. Don't touch me.... + +--And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not +let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you +happy. + +--I tell you not to come near me. + +--Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be +all. + +He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had +gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to +the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, +his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a +dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in +disgust. + +--My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you +are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish +miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular! + +When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, +buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity. + + + + +XCIII. + + +FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR. + + "Moderation should preside over + pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures + a refuge against the satiety of our + souls." + + KALVOS DE ZANTE (_Odes nouvelles_). + +Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly. + +--You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red +eyes. + +The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure. + +--Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an +obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern +myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the +Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust? + +And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony. +Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these +fine words, I owe her ten _francs_. + +Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness. + +--Then you have come to ask me for them. + +--Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my +band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten _francs_, but I +don't want to leave it with her. + +--And what will you give me in exchange? + +--Everything you want. + +--That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing. + +--It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and +will love you very much. One may kiss a Curé, may one not? + +Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly. + +--Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied. + +--From nobody? not even from a sister? + +--But you are not my sister. + +--Well, I will be your comrade. + +--No more do they have a comrade. + +--Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one +must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the +blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover. + +--Ha, ha! and who is your lover? + +--A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like +you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man. + +--And for how long has he been your lover? + +--Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fête at +Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus. + +--Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin? + +--Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope? + +--To have lovers. + +--But I have only had one, and that is he. + +--Well, how old were you when you had him? + +--I have never had him. + +--Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen. + +--Yes, sir. + +--Then you began at fourteen. + +--Began what? + +--With your lover. + +--We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted +to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along." + +--But he is not your lover. + +--But he is, because I love him. + +--And you have not had others. + +--No, because I love him. + +--Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are +worth your weight in gold. + +--My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and +I shall be rich. + +--But how shall I know if what you say is true? + +--Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove +it? + +--I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you. + +--It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing. + +Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten _francs_. + +--How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you. + +--You wish to please me? Well, remain good. + +--Only that! And till when? + +--Until I give you permission not to be so any longer. + +--I will certainly. + +She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back +suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the +crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a +gracious kiss to the priest. + +--There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I +not know it sooner? + +He ran to the door. + +--Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have +you a lodging? + +--Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it. + +--This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady, +without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided. +Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in +the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against +you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that +you know me. Now take these two _louis_, my dear child, and buy yourself a +few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come +back here. Monsieur Patin! + +The landlord appeared. + +--Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or +rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by +some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of +luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room +and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again +to-morrow. + +What were Marcel's intentions? + +Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening? + +He who had just poured forth his bitterness upon woman and upon love, had +be come to the conclusion in the presence of this stranger that he could +not do without woman or without love! + +But the other? + +The other was not there, and the absent are in the wrong. + +Could this one make him forget the other? Could a new fancy destroy the +strong love which bound him and was ruining him? Could a love facile and +without risk soothe the hidden mischief and diminish the fury of a +dangerous passion? She had all that was required for that, this little fair +girl with the tempting lips. + +Like Suzanne she was young and charming, like Suzanne she would be loving, +and unlike Suzanne, she would be submissive. + +Her eyes swimming in their azure, her aquiline nose with its mobile +nostrils, her scarlet fleshly lips, her golden hair like ripened corn, her +rosy cheeks in which coursed health and life, the slimness of her waist, +the delicacy and whiteness of her hand; it all said: Love me. + +And she was a fresh woman ... a fresh woman, eternal temptation. + +When he returned to the hotel, he found the Comtesse anxiously waiting for +him. + +With a smile she handed a large packet, sealed with the episcopal arms. + +It was his nomination to the Curé of St. Marie. He would have to take +possession of it immediately. + + + + +XCIV. + + +THE CHANGE. + + "Prayer on that day is said within the gothic church, + The old men mourn beneath the ancient oak. + Resisted are the games but just begun. + The village maidens will no longer dance." + + MME. DE GIRARDIN (_Elgire_). + +The worshippers at Althausen were much surprised the next day to see a +priest whom they did not know, officiating without ceremony in the place of +their Curé. He was stout and plain, with an inflamed face, bloated lips, a +cynical look, and a thundering voice: he said Mass in such a hasty and +indecorous manner that they went away scandalized. The handsome Marcel +certainly was no longer there, with his sweet and unctuous voice, his +evangelic piety, and his eyes which stirred their hearts. + +The report spread through the village that the handsome Curé had gone away, +and all the gossips at bay grouped in the market-place and watched for +Veronica to assail her with questions. But the old maid-servant to her +mortification knew no more about it than the gossips. She ventured to +interrogate her new master, but he slapped her on the back and sent her +away to her kitchen-stove. + +--He is disgusting, this old fellow, she said. For my part I am not going +to remain here. I prefer the Corporal. + +Durand had just sat down at table with his daughter, when Marianne with a +scared air, looked at Suzanne in a mysterious way, and said to the Captain: + +--Do you know? Monsieur le Curé has gone away. + +--Pleasant journey, said Durand. + +--There is a new Curé already in his place. He said Mass this morning. + +--A new Curé, cried Suzanne; then he has gone away not to return again? + +--Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is +discouraging! It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest +has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching +farewells to his flock. For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager +that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded. + +--Oh, father! + +--He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very +quietly with another Curé. + +--Let him go to the devil! + +Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress. She pretended +to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears. +Why this decisive departure? Why had she not received a single warning from +Marcel? No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was +incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a +cruel wound. + +Soon the news arrived. The new Curé announced Marcel's change in the +sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners. Everybody was in +consternation. He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt. + +For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for +Suzanne. The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said +it was necessary to wait. Wait for what? Suzanne waited. + +But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a +start in her entrails. She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel +answered: Wait. + +Wait for what? She waited again. + + + + +XCV. + + +THE CURÉ OF ST. MARIE. + + "The white ground and the gloomy sky + Blended their heads sepulchral; + The rough north winds of winter + Breathed to the heart despair." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poèmes parisiens_). + +Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young +woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped +at the Curé of St. Marie's door. + +She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of +the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, +slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go +in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept +falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, +slowly retraced her step and rang gently. + +The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of +leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she +asked.--"Do not announce me. I am expected." + +The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the +door of which she closed upon her. + +It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends. + +A _prie-Dieu_, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on +shelves painted black, composed all the furniture. + +A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to +the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to +the room. + +The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were +burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from +emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even +to warm her feet, soaked by the rain. + +A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered. + +He had greatly changed during these few months. + +His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous +threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that +anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow. + +At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor. + +--You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle? + +--I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again? + +--Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait. + +--And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know +finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count. +But ... sir.... I am tired: will you allow me to sit down? + +--Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has +filled me with such confusion.... + +He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her. + +--Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed. + +--They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful +of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the +moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the +consequences of your.... + +--Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults. Do not overwhelm me +alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad. But is it really +possible? Can it be true? what, you are.... + +--I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to +give any answer on that subject. I have read and read again your letters +many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a +light, but there was nothing. You have told me to wait; you have tried, +like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen +occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you +would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience. But +the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I +come to ask you: What do you intend to do with me? + +--In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ... Ah, you are more beautiful +than ever ... No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate. + +--You have not believed. No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by +hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number, +and supposed that I lied. + +--Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ... I believed that you wished +to terrify me ... Ah, how lovely you are like this ... Ah, it is a terrible +misfortune. We must guard against it. And your father, does he suspect? + +--Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be +able to hide the truth. + +--It is true then. What is to be done? What is to be done? + +--Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you. I am come to ask +you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you. + +--Count upon me? But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon +me? There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on. I am your +friend, your only friend. Always the same, dear Suzanne. I am ready for +anything, in order to get you out of this scrape. But judge yourself. I am +observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would +ruin me. I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my +enemies. In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar. You see how +careful I have to be of my position. I will do everything, be well assured +of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible. +What do you ask? + +--You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what +infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you--for you well know, and +God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence--but to listen to you +with a too trustful ear. No, I see you do not remember it: you have +forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your +memory. You do not answer? For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely +altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your +sake. But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am +come to tell you this: I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not +dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to +provide me with a husband. But what I want is a father for my child.... + +--Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved +Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of +my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it? I make you +the judge of it yourself. Do I belong to myself? I am the Church's, bound +from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but +the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in +spite of myself. How can I loosen myself from the gear? Can I do it? Can I +defy such a scandal? My honour, my dignity as a man.... + +--Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not +that your honour? And what is your duty? Stay, you are a wretch.... + +As she uttered these words, a young girl's head, fair, charming, rosy +looked inquisitively through the half-open door. Suzanne saw it and grew +pale. Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips. + +--I understand, she said, I understand your hesitation, your honour and +your scruples. Farewell, sir.... + +And she went out, without turning her head, stifling her sobs. + +Marcel followed her with his eyes, and ran to the door: + +--Suzanne, Mademoiselle, to-morrow you shall have an answer. Another +word... + +She made no reply and he heard the street-door close. + +A tear rolled to the edge of his eyelid. + +He rushed to the window to call her back, but a hand laid hold of his and +the fair girl stood before him. + +--Well, Monsieur my uncle, well! And who is that handsome dark girl? + +--Ah, my poor Zulma, do not be jealous of her. + +--I am jealous of everything, and I want to know. + + + + +XCVI. + + +FINIS CORONAT OPUS. + + "No mortal can foresee his fate + Let none despair. Comrades, good night." + + BYRON (_Mazeppa_). + +The following evening, the canal toll-collector on the Malzeville road +discerned a black shadow which, despite the icy rain, remained for a long +time leaning on the parapet of the turn-bridge, then all at once +disappeared. He called for help and, a few minutes afterwards, they drew +out of the water the body of a young girl of remarkable beauty. + +A portion of a letter was found upon her which at first aroused a thousand +comments. + +This is what was written: + +"I have just celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and during the +Elevation, I prayed God to inspire me with a good idea. I likewise asked of +the Queen of Angels what I could do for this unfortunate one. The +All-pitying God and the Mother chaste and pure hearkened to me. Let my +sister in Jesus Christ whose image will never be effaced from the heart of +her spiritual friend, go and knock at the gate of the Convent of Our Lady +of the Seven Sorrows, in the parish of St. Marie; there, the cares which +her interesting condition demand, will be afforded her. It will be easy to +explain her temporary absence, and, in case of need, to obtain the +permission of a parent who wished to place an obstacle in the way of this +pious necessity. Divine Providence will assist in this as it assists all +those who have recourse to it. The ladies of the Seven Sorrows are +informed, and they await the new sheep with mothers' and sisters' hearts. + +"Let it be thus done in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the +Holy Ghost: + +"Jesus, Mary, Joseph." + + +On applying at the Convent of the Seven Sorrows, the good sisters said that +in fact they had received a letter, sealed with the episcopal arms, +announcing the arrival of a young lady. They were unable to say more. + +Monseigneur, when questioned, summoned the Abbé Marcel who gave the +examining magistrate the most satisfactory explanations, acknowledging that +he was the author of the letter, and that she was a young girl whose honour +he desired to save. + +This event did the greatest good to the reputation of the former Curé of +Althausen. His discretion, his wisdom and his virtue were lauded more than +ever. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +Afterword. + + +OTHER WORKS IN ENGLISH +BY HECTOR FRANCE + +MANSOUR'S CHASTISEMENT; +THE ATTACK ON THE BROTHELS; +MUSK, HASHISH AND BLOOD; +THE DAUGHTER OF THE CHRIST; +UNDER THE BURNOUS. + + + + +THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORKS. + + +Hector France alighted upon this planet some fifty years ago and chose his +home in the midst of a family renowned for generations as fighters. From +this preliminary statement we may deduce two facts: firstly, that baby +Hector was not destined by his stern-visaged, paternal sire for any other +than the martial profession, and secondly, that the squealing youngster of +those days is now a man in the prime of life. + +Strongly-built, upright and vigorous, Hector France looks every inch just +what he really is--a Soldier and a Gentleman, as ready to handle the Sword +as to smite smooth-faced Lie and Hypocrisy with the Pen. + +The qualities of his mind are faithfully delineated in his features. He has +the same leonine look that distinguished the famous English iconoclast, +Charles Bradlaugh. The massive brow, the firm, determined jaw, the large, +luminous eyes, the wavy hair and big shoulders would anywhere mark him out +at once, though unknown, as a Philosopher, Fighter, Orator and Leader of +men. The career of the two men also offers points in common. + +If Charles Bradlaugh was a soldier so was Hector France, with the +difference that the latter really did face sabre-flash and cannon-smoke +whereas his English prototype early bought himself out of the Service. Both +men, too, mixed in the game of Politics, only Bradlaugh's luck landed him +at last in Parliament while France led a forlorn hope that ended, after +many a narrow escape for life, in twenty years of weary exile from his +beloved country. Finally both men hold nearly identical opinions with +regard to Religious Questions, only Bradlaugh imagined he had a special +mission to assail the world's historic faiths, and Hector France, like +Ernest Renan, smiles in a curious Oriental way, when these things are +broached, quite content for you to believe anything you please so that you +do not bother him overmuch with your reasons. + +Hector France must not be confounded, as is often done by ignorant persons, +with the gentleman who has elected to call himself "Anatole France", and +who writes under that name. The real patronym of M. "Anatole France" is, I +am informed, Monsieur Chaussepied, which interpreted into English means +"Mr. Shoe-horn". It is unnecessary to state that Hector France is content +with his own name, and would not have changed it even had it been less +noble than it really is, believing with us that a man's work are sufficient +title to nobility, however odd may be the cognomen bequeathed him from +bygone sires. + +The appearance of this book in English will prove a godsend to Protestants +who may see in it only an attack on Catholicism. Let them hug no such +flattering unction to their souls. M. Hector France is no savage iconoclast +gone mad with sectarian hatred. He recognizes the good in all religions as +answering a temporary need in the evolution of Humanity, and for none has +he a more profound respect than the Catholic Church. Indeed the pomp and +magnificence, the architectural grandeur, the vast learning, wealth and +influence of this institution appeal to the imagination of both ignorant +and cultured alike. The aim of the distinguished writer of the "Grip of +Desire" is far removed from that of vulgar and gratuitous image-breaking. +He seeks to show the danger to human character that comes through meddling +with one of the most imperious of natural instincts. If in the +"Chastisement of Mansour" he bodies forth the consequences of unbridled +Libertinism, in the "Grip of Desire" he demonstrates the evils attendant on +a life of forced Celibacy. In the first we have the autocratic Reign of the +Flesh, in the second the Subjection of legitimate Carnal Desire. + +The union of the female to the male is a law of Nature, as solid as the +granite bases of the world. No normally constituted man can disregard that +law without doing violence to himself and to his kind. + +Kant says: "Man and woman constitute, when united, the whole and entire +being, one sex completes the other." + +Schopenhauer asserts: "The sexual impulse is the most complete expression +of the will to live, in other words, it is the concentration of all +volition." And in another passage: "The affirmation of the will to live +concentrates itself in the act of procreation, which is its most positive +expression." Mainländer gives utterance to the opinion when he says: "The +sexual impulse is the centre of gravity for human existence. It alone +secures to the individual the life which he above all desires ... man +devotes himself more seriously to the business of procreation than to any +other; in the achievement of nothing else does he condense and concentrate +the intensity of his will in so remarkable a manner as in the act of +generation." And before all those, Buddha wrote: "Sexual desire is sharper +than the hook with which wild elephants are tamed; hotter than flame; it is +like an arrow that is shot into the heart of man." + +The present work, if it teach anything at all, teaches that Celibacy is a +crime, and the Mother of crime, just as a venomous plant is a producer of +poison. The needs of his organization torment the single man until he robs +from others that which he lacks. Hence Seduction, Rape, Adultery, the +Invasion of trouble into families, and furious Jealousies with all their +prolific brood of Wrong-doing and Woe. + +This is not the place to praise or to blame the book before us. Each man +will judge it according to his individual tastes, temperament and +character. The embryonic, thin-lipped man may consider it bold, far too +outspoken. The full-blooded reader more conversant with the realities of +life, will be inclined to look upon it with larger charity, having regard +to what the Author has _refrained from saying_, rather than to what he has +said. + +"At the outset," says Camille Lemonnier, himself a well-known writer, +"these pages are conspicuously chaste; Temptation takes the form of +Mystical Sensuality, at first beaten back and then surging forwards +victorious; then, as the fire of passion grows more intense, the lamp of +the tabernacle dies gradually out; and Humanity, with the unchaining of +instinct, breaks forth, cries and howls like a mad gorilla from his cage." +Here again we witness the triumph of Eve; entangled in her long, flaxen +tresses she sweeps away the sinner's conscience, and while the Church +closes the door against them both, Nature opens out wide her own with a +kindly, + +"Come in, my Children." +CHARLES CARRINGTON. +PARIS, 1st JUNE, 1898. + + + +[Illustration] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 10963 *** diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5ea1943 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #10963 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10963) diff --git a/old/10963-8.txt b/old/10963-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8fb4c4e --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10963-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12271 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Grip of Desire, by Hector France, et al + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Grip of Desire + +Author: Hector France + +Release Date: February 6, 2004 [eBook #10963] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIP OF DESIRE*** + + +This file was produced by Carlo Traverso, Relka Bihari, Andrea Ball, and +the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team from images +generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France +(BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. + + + +THE GRIP OF DESIRE + +THE STORY OF A PARISH-PRIEST + +TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF HECTOR FRANCE + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Début d'une série de documents en couleur.] + + + + Love is a familiar; love is a devil; there is + no evil angel but love. Yet was Samson so + tempted, and he had an excellent strength; + yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a + very good wit. + + _Love's Labour Lost_. + + + +With an engraved portrait of the Author + + + + + +Other Works in English + +By +HECTOR FRANCE + +Mansour's Chastisement, the Loves and +Intrigues of an Arab Don Juan, done into English +by ALFRED ALLINSON, and embellished with Seven +fine Engravings by THEVENIN, after Drawings by +BAZEILHAC. + +Musk, Hashish and Blood, with Twenty-One +Engravings by PAUL AVRIL. (In the Press.) + +The Attack on the Brothels, A Realistic +Account of the Civilizing of "Barbarians". With +Illustrations. (In Hand.) + +The Daughter of the Christ; The most +original and philosophic work of the last twenty +years. This work will be sumptuously illustrated +by leading French Artists. (In Preparation.) + + + +[Illustration: Fin d'une série de documents en couleur.] + + + +[Illustration: the author.] + + + +[Illustration] + + + +TO THE READER + + The truth, the bitter truth. + + DANTON. + + Oh, sons and brothers, oh, poets + When the thing exists, speak the word. + + V. HUGO. + + + +I do not assert that all the personages in this story are models of virtue. +To some of them has been given a part which severe morality reproves. But I +am a realist and not an idealist, and for that I beg the reader a thousand +pardons. I have tried to paint what I saw and not that of which I dreamed. +If my figures are not chaste, the fault is not mine, but of those who +passed before me and whose features I sketched as my pen ran on. + +You are warned therefore, Madam, that when you open this book, you will not +find a "Treatise on Morality". Here are only the simple and pastoral loves +of a poor and obscure village priest. An idyll in the shade of the +parsonage limes and under the motionless eye of the weather-cock on the +belfry. + +If then you come across any word which offends your chaste ears, any +picture which distresses your modest eye, blame only your own curiosity. + +HECTOR FRANCE. + + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + + Unto the pure all things are pure: + but unto them that are Defiled and + Unbelieving is nothing pure: but even + their mind and conscience is Defiled. + They profess that they know God; + but in Works they Deny Him, being + Abominable and Disobedient, and unto + every good work Reprobate. + + ST. PAUL. + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + I. The Curé + II. The Confessional + III. The Parsonage + IV. Expectation + V. The Meeting + VI. The Look + VII. The Salute + VIII. The Fever + IX. During Vespers + X. In Parenthesis + XI. The Flesh + XII. The Temptation + XIII. The Resolution + XIV. The Captain + XV. Memories + XVI. The Epaulet + XVII. The Voltairian + XVIII. The Visit + XIX. Hard Words + XX. Kicks + XXI. The Past + XXII. The Servant + XXIII. The Letter + XXIV. The First Meeting + XXV. Love + XXVI. Of Young Girls in General + XXVII. Of Suzanne in Particular + XXVIII. The Shadow. + XXIX. Other Meetings + XXX. Seraphic Love + XXXI. The Virgin + XXXII. The Death's-Head + XXXIII. Frenzy + XXXIV. The Prohibition + XXXV. The Shelter + XXXVI. The Hot Wine + XXXVII. Tête-à-Tête + XXXVIII. The Kiss + XXXIX. The Devil in Petticoats + XL. Little Confessions + XLI. Moral Reflections + XLII. Memory Looking Back + XLIII. Espionage + XLIV. The Garret Window + XLV. Treacherous Manoeuvre + XLVI. The Letter + XLVII. Good News + XLVIII. Reconcilliation + XLIX. Confidences + L. Mammosa Virgo + LI. Chamber Morality + LII. The Posset + LIII. The Leg + LIV. Mater Saeva Cupidunum + LV. In the Foot-Path + LVI. Double Remorse + LVII. The Explosion + LVIII. Provocation + LIX. Acts and Words + LX. Talks + LXI. Le Père Hyacinthe + LXII. The Happy Curé + LXIII. The Miracles + LXIV. The Two Augurs + LXV. Table-Talk + LXVI. Good Counsel + LXVII. In A Glass + LXVIII. The Rose Chamber + LXIX. The Gust of Wind + LXX. The Ambuscade + LXXI. The Breach + LXXII. The Assault + LXXIII. Audaces Fortuna Juvat + LXXIV. Before Mass + LXXV. During Mass + LXXVI. Awakening + LXXVII. Consolations + LXXVIII. False Alarms + LXXIX. In the _Diligence_ + LXXX. An Old Acquaintance + LXXXI. A Little Confession + LXXXII. The Church-Woman + LXXXIII. Conventicle + LXXXIV. At the Palace + LXXXV. Little Pastimes + LXXXVI. Serious Talk + LXXXVII. The Seminary +LXXXVIII. The Fair One + LXXXIX. Love Again + XC. Le Cygne de la Croix + XCI. The Calves + XCII. The Scapular + XCIII. From the Dark to the Fair + XCIV. The Change + XCV. The Curé of St. Marie + XCVI. Finis Coronet Opus + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +I. + + +THE CURÉ. + + "I will sing thy praises on the harp, oh + Lord. But, my soul, whence cometh thy + sadness, and wherefore art thou troubled." + + (The _Introito_ of the Mass). + +The Curé of Althausen was reputed to be chaste. Was he so really? To tell +the truth, I never believed him so; at thirty men are not chaste; they may +try to be so; they rarely succeed. However that might be, he was a singular +man. + +He had a profound reverence for common sense, and it was said that he +taught a strange doctrine to his flock; for example, that a day of work was +more pleasing to God than a day of prayer; that the temples were for those +who labour not, and that a good action was well worth a mass. + +He maintained too that we purchase nothing with money in the other world, +and that the coins, so appreciated among ourselves, have no currency beyond +the grave, and a hundred other oddities of this kind, which in the good old +times would have brought him to the stake. The Bishop had severely +reprimanded him for all these heresies; but he seemed to pay no attention +to it. Every Sunday, from the height of his pulpit, he continued to brave +shamelessly the thunders of his Bishop and the thunders of heaven. + +I went one day to hear him. His voice was sweet, persuasive, with a clear +and harmonious tone. He said simply: "Love one another. That is the true +religion of Christ. Love one another! everything is there: religion, +philosophy and morality. Charity, properly understood, that which comes +from the heart, is more pleasing to God than all the prayers. There are +people who in order to pray neglect their home duties, their duties as wife +and as mother. To them, I say of a truth, God remains deaf. He wills, +before aught else, that you should fulfil your duties to your own. Every +prayer which causes another to suffer is an impiety." Such was pretty near +the essence of his sermons: they were short and simple. No great sonorous +words, no pompous digressions, no Latin quotations which no one would have +understood, no declamations on Our Lady of Lourdes or of La Salotte, on the +miracle of Roses or the Immaculate Conception. + +Thus he placed himself on a level with the simple souls who heard him, +addressed himself only to their good sense and to their heart, and did not +waste their time. He thought that after having worked hard throughout the +week, it was well to spend the Sunday in rest and not in fresh fatigue. + +But that which struck me most in him was his intelligent and expressive +countenance, and I was astonished that a man hall-marked with such +originality, should consent to vegetate, obscure and future-less, in the +care of a poor village. + +They said he was chaste. In truth that must be a task more arduous for him +than for any other, for he bore on his face the impress of ardent passions. +A disciple of Lavater would doubtless have sought for and found the secret +of hidden dramas in the fine pale face. From his looks, now full of +feverish ardour, now laden with sweet caresses, like the limpid eyes of a +bride, the desires of the flesh in rebellion against deadly duty, seemed to +burst forth with bold prolific thoughts. + +One saw at times that his thoughts escaped in moments of forgetfulness from +the clerical fetter. + +Wild, wandering and licentious, they plunged with delight into the ocean of +reverie. They left far behind them on the misty shore our conventions, our +prejudices and our follies, and all those toils of spider-web which beset +and catch and destroy so well the silly crowd, and which we call social +rules, opinion and propriety. + +Then the priest was gone; the man alone remained, the man of thirty, robust +and full of life and yearning for all the joys of life. And beneath his +gold-embroidered chasuble, near that altar laden with lustres and with +flowers, amidst the floods of light and the floods of perfume, in that +atmosphere saturated with the intoxicating waves of incense and the breath +of maidens; surrounded by all those women, by all these girls on their +knees before him or hanging on his lips; before all these modest or burning +looks fixed upon his gaze, a strange sensation rose to his brain; the +perspiration stood upon his forehead, he blushed and grew pale by turns; a +shiver ran through his frame, and trying to subdue the ardour of his gaze, +he turned towards the crowd of young girls, and said to them in a trembling +voice: + +--_Dominus vobiscum_. + +--_Et cum spiritu tuo_, answered the choir of maidens. Oh, how willingly +instead of the name of God would he have cast to them his heart. + + + + +II. + + +THE CONFESSIONAL. + + "In the course of the holy missions to + which I have consecrated a great portion + of my life, I have often come across + upright souls, disposed to make great + progress in perfection, if they had found + a skilful director." + + THE REV. FATHER J.B. SCAROMELLI + (_The Spiritual Guide_). + +However, almost in spite of myself, I was interested in this young priest, +and although disposed to believe that he was a knave like the rest, I was +sensible of something in him so upright and so loyal that I was, from the +very first, prejudiced in his favour. + +And besides, these flashes of fiery passion which at times betrayed him, +could they serve as an accusation against him? Could one take offence at +his not having completely stifled at thirty years the fierce passions of +youth and his violent desires? Was it not a proof on the contrary of his +victorious struggles and of his energy? + +And even though he should succumb before the imperious needs of potent +nature, which would be the more culpable, he or the women who surrounded +him, enveloped him with their gaze, encompassed him with their seductions; +he or the husbands and fathers who seemed tacitly to say to him: "You are +young, ardent, fall of passion and vigour, there is my daughter, there is +my wife, I hand them to you, receive their confessions, dive into their +looks, read in their soul, listen month to month to their most secret +confidences, but beware of touching their lips." + +Fools! And when the priest succumbs and their shame is noised abroad, they +make a great uproar and complain to all the echoes, instead of bowing their +head and humbly saying: _mea culpa_. + +What? silly fool, you cast the modesty of your young wife and the virginity +of your daughter as food for that envious celibate, you leave them alone in +the mysterious tête-à-tête of the confessional, with no obstacle between +his burning lust and the object of that lost, between those mouths which +speak so low![1] + +What will stop them? Duty? Virtue? His duty to himself? Laughable +obstacles. Fragile plank on which you place your honour. + +Her own virtue? Trust not to it overmuch, for he will know how to lead her +to the will of his appetite. He will form her in such a way that she will +pass by all the roads by which he will wish to guide her. It is a gate +which he will contrive sooner or later to force, however it may be bolted, +however it may be guarded by those sleepy gaolers which we call Principles. + +The Confessional! Marvellous invention of greedy curiosity, satanic work of +some hoary sinner! Hallowed goad of concupiscence, blessed antechamber +which leads to the alcove, mysterious retreat where the priest sits between +husband and wife, listens to their private talk and stands by, panting at +all their excesses. Refuge more secret than the best padded boudoir. +Formidable entrenchment sacred to all! What jealous lover would dare to +lift that curtain of serge behind which are murmured so many secret +confidences? + +It is there that the artless virgin utters her first confessions; there, +that the plighted maid reveals the beatings of her heart; there, that the +blushing bride unveils the secrets of the nuptial couch. + +He, the man of God, he listens ... he collects all their voluptuous +nothings and out of them creates worlds. Do you see him give ear? His face +has kept its sanctimonious expression, but the fire gleams forth beneath +his drooping eye-lid. He is leaning near, as near as possible to those +stammering lips.... The penitent is silent. What! already? everything said +already? Oh! that is not enough. She has passed too quickly over certain +faults the remembrance of which covers her forehead with a blush. He is not +satisfied. He wishes to know further. He reproves gently, "Why hesitate? +God is full of pity; but in order that the pardon may be complete, the +confession must be complete," and anew he questions, he presses ... his +temples throb, his blood boils, his hands burn, the demon of the flesh +completely embraces him. + +Come, incautious girl, speak, explain, give details, and by the confession +of your pleasant faults, plunge into ecstasy the ruttish confessor. + +[Footnote 1: In the confessionals of the Church of St. Gudule at Brussels +and in those of the majority of Belgian churches an opening may be seen +contrived in the screen, through which it is easy for mouths to meet.] + + + + +III. + + +THE PARSONAGE. + + "The pretty parsonage encircled with verdure, + With its white pigeons cooing on the roof, + Assumes to the sun a saucy air of sanctity + And permits a smell of cooking to go forth." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +The parsonage is seated on the summit of the hill and overlooks a part of +the village and of the plain. The traveller perceives from far its white +outline in the midst of a nest of verdure, and feels delighted at the view. +Nothing more simple than this peaceful house. A single story above the +ground-floor, with four windows from which the panes shine cheerfully in +the first rays of the sun, and upon the red-tiled roof two attics with +pointed gable. The door, which one reaches by a broad stone stair, is +framed by two vines, their vigorous branches stretching up to the side of +the windows, yielding to the hand, when September is come, their velvety, +ruby bunches. Behind the house, a little garden surrounded by a hedge of +green, at once an orchard, flower and kitchen garden. + +In front, two hundred paces away, the old church with its stained walls on +which the ivy clings, and its pointed belfry. The distance between is +partly filled by several rows of lime-trees, which, seen from a distance, +give to the parsonage the calm and cheerful look of those peaceful retreats +where we sometimes dream of burying our existence. "Is not this the +harbour!" says the tempest-beaten way-farer. "Oh! how happy must be the +dweller in this calm abode!" + +He might enter; he was welcome. The door was open to all, and this house, +like that of the wise man, seemed to be of glass. + +And all the women, young or old, knew hour by hour how their Curé spent his +time, and in spite of all the perseverance which, according to principle, +they had applied to discover some mystery in his life or the knot of a +secret intrigue, they acknowledged unanimously that no one could give less +hold for scandal than he. + +Every day, when he had said mass, pruned his trees, watered his flowers, +visited some poor or sick person, he shut himself up with his books and +lived with them till the evening, until his servant came and said to him, +"It is time for supper." Then he rose, ate his supper in silence, after +putting aside the portion for the poor, and then returned to his books. +That was all his life. + +On Sunday, if the weather was fine, he took his breviary, and walked with +slow steps along the high-road. + +The children would stop their games and run forward to meet him in order to +receive a caress from him, while the young girls whispered together and +seemed to avoid him. The bolder ones met his gaze with a blush: perhaps +they too would have liked, just as the little children, to receive a caress +from the handsome Curé of Althausen. But he passed on without ever +stopping, answering their timid salutations with an almost frigid gravity. + +He acted wisely. He was full of distrust of himself, and kept himself in +prudent reserve in face of the enemy. For he knew full well that the enemy +was there, in these sweet woman's eyes and those smiles which wished him +welcome. + +Then the pagan intoxications of the Catholic rites were no more surrounding +him to over-excite him and betray the trouble of his heart and the straying +of his thoughts, and if he felt affected before the smiles of these +marriageable girls, he armed himself with force sufficient to thrust back +carefully to his inmost being his boldness and his desires. + +It was no more the ardent passionate man who disclosed himself sometimes in +rapid moments of forgetfulness, it was the priest austere and calm, the +functionary salaried by the State to teach the religion of the State. + + + + +IV. + + +EXPECTATION. + + "And the days and the hours glided on, + and withdrawn within itself, affected + by sorrows and joys unknown, the soul + stretched its mysterious wing over a + new life soon to dawn." + + LAMENNAIS (_Une voix de prison_). + +One of his greatest pleasures was to plunge into the woods which surround +the village. He sought silence and solitude there, and when he heard the +steps of a keeper or of some pedestrian, or even the happy voices of young +couples calling one another, he concealed himself behind the masses of +foliage, and hid himself with a kind of shame like a criminal. He wished to +be alone, completely alone, so as to dream at his ease. Then he stretched +himself in the sun on the warm grass, opened his breviary, the discreet +confidant of all wandering thoughts, the screen for the priest's looks and +thoughts, and listened to the insects' hum. + +He followed the goings and comings of an ant or the capricious flight of a +bumble-bee; then with his eyes lost in space, immersed in the profundity +of nature, he dreamed.... + +One could have seen by his smile that he was wandering in spirit in the +laughing and limit-less garden of hope, pausing here and there on rosy +illusions and fair chimeras like a butterfly on flowers. + +They were delicious hours which he passed thus, full of forgetfulness and +indolence. He enjoyed the present moment, the present, poor, humble and +obscure, but which held neither disquietude nor care. + +Sometimes regrets for a past of which no one was aware came and knocked at +the door of his dreams, but he drove them for away, saying like Werther: + +"The past is past." + +The hand of time revolved without his giving heed, and often night +surprised him in his fantastic reveries. The good country-folk bad been +sorely puzzled by these solitary walks in the depths of the woods. + +They talked at first of some scandalous intrigue, and the Curé had no +difficulty in discovering that he was followed and watched by rigid +parishioners, anxious about his morality and his virtue. More than once +through the foliage he believed he saw vigilant sentinels who watched him +carefully. + +Lost labour! Never did those who tried with such unwearied perseverance to +detect his secret amours, have the pleasure of beholding _that mistress_ +whom they would have been so happy to cover with shame and scorn. + +They were obliged to renounce it, for his mistress then was that admirable +fairy, invisible and dumb to the common herd, who displays her beauties to +the gaze of a chosen race alone, as she murmurs her divine and chaste +sonnets in their ear. + +It was nature all radiant, which caressed his brow with the breeze, which +sang by his ear with the mysterious harmony of the woods, which gladdened +his sight with the flower of the fields, the verdant meadow, the golden +harvest. His loves were the hollow path which is lost in the mountain, the +old willow which leans over the edge of the pool, the sparrow which +chatters among the leaves, the splendours of the starry sky, the magic +mirages of the evening. + +They were all the melodies which poets have made to vibrate on the strings +of lyres, and in those moments of delicious ecstasy he forgot the +vexations, the littlenesses and the miseries of the world, and if anyone +had asked him what was the aim of his life, he would have replied like +Anaxagoras: + +"To love Nature, and to contemplate the sky." + +But among his uncouth surroundings, who would have been capable of +understanding these sweet pleasures and that over-excitement of soul and +brain, by means of which he sought to benumb his senses and to change the +current of his heart, that heart which like the body has its imperious +needs. + +He had reached that fatal epoch when man experiences an insatiable hunger +for love, and for want of a woman will nourish some monstrous fantasy, or +even, like the prisoner of Saintine, become enamoured of a flower. + + + + +V. + + +THE MEETING. + + "Skilled physicians have remarked + that an emanation of infinitely projectile + forces continually takes place from the + eyes of impassioned persons, of lovers + or of lascivious women, which communicates + insensibly to those who listen to or behold + them, the same agitation by which they are + affected." + + RESTIF DE LA BRETONNE (_Le Paysan perverte_). + +One afternoon, while returning to the village, the Curé chanced to meet a +young girl who was unknown to him. She was but poorly dressed, and her +shoes were white with dust; but youth and gaiety shone forth beneath the +glow of her cheeks, her blue eye sparkled under the dark arch of her +eyebrows, and the voluptuous opulence of her shape made one forget the +poverty of her dress. From her straw hat with its faded ribbons escaped +heavy tresses which shone like gold. + +Bending over his breviary, the Curé passed, casting a sidelong look, one of +those priestly looks which see without being seen; but the stranger +compelled him to raise his head. She had stood still and was fixing on him +smiling a bright and confident look. + +On seeing this, the Curé stood still also. + +Certainly, in the white flock of his congregation he counted just as lovely +creatures every Sunday, he encountered just as provoking smiles. +Nevertheless, he was troubled; he felt a secret flame course through his +veins; a kind of charm emanated front this girl. He remembered reading that +magnetic currents flow forth from certain women which inflame the senses, +and he took a step backwards; but the charm operated in spite of himself, +his eyes remained fixed on the seductive outlines of the figure of the +unknown. She enquired of him politely the way to the _Mairie_. In pointing +it out to her the Curé perhaps displayed more earnestness than was +necessary, he even took a few steps with her as far as the entrance to the +village, then he returned home, thinking of this pretty girl. + +During supper his servant told him that some mountebanks had arrived in the +village, and that they were going to give a performance the same evening in +the market-place. In fact a drum was heard beating the call, and the hoarse +voice of the clown announcing "a grand acrobatic spectacle, accompanied +with dances and followed by a pantomime." + +Involuntarily the Curé's thought turned to the stranger; he went upstairs +into his study and behind his half-closed shutters he could take part in +the spectacle. + +As he expected, the pretty girl was there, and seen from this distance in +the night, half-lighted by a few smoky lamps, with her little bodice of +velvet, her gauze skirt spangled with gold, her flesh-coloured tights, she +was really charming. At that moment she was dancing, with wonderful +lightness and grace, some lascivious fandango, while she accompanied +herself with the castanets. + +She was smiling at the crowd, delighting in the effect which she knew how +to produce with her sparkling eye and her white teeth and her rosy lips, +and the Curé was intoxicated by that smile. Then he cast his eyes over the +rough crowd, and ha was grieved at so much cost for such an audience: +_Margaritas ante porcos_, he murmured, _Margaritas ante porcos_. + +In order to admire her better, he had taken a field-glass and lost none of +her gestures. + +Her bosom was boldly bared, and he feasted his eyes upon the sweet furrow +of her breasts, he followed the delicious outline of her leg, and found his +heart melting before the undulating movements of her graceful bust and her +sturdy hips. + +He abruptly left the window, took up a book at random and tried to read. + +But this was in vain; his eyes only were reading, his thoughts were +elsewhere; they were in the market-place which was in frolic with the +dancer. + +He wished to stop this libertine thought; he read aloud: "The fall is great +after great efforts. The soul risen so high in heroism and holiness falls +very heavily to the earth.... Sick and embittered it plunges into evil with +a savage hunger, as though to avenge itself for having believed." + +At another time, he would have said: "It is a warning." But he saw not the +warning, he only saw the dancer, and he murmured: "How beautiful is she!" + +He took the hundred paces round his table; but his body only was there, his +thoughts always were hovering on the market-place round the spangled +petticoat. + +He returned to the window. All was over; the lamps were put out, the crowd +was slowly dispersing; five or six inquisitive ones were standing round the +heavy carriage of the company, from which some gleam of light escaped. + +He remained a long time leaning on his elbow at his window, looking at +the stars and listening mechanically to all the noises outside. The +market-place became empty. Only the stamping of the horses was to be heard +fastened near by, in the thick shade of the old lime-trees. A slender +thread of light again filtered up to hint. + + + + +VI. + + +THE LOOK. + + "His pupils glowed in the dim twilight, + like burning coals." + + LÉON CLAUDEL (_Les Va-nu-pieds_). + +It was like a lover attracting him, a magic thread which fastened yonder +was unwinding itself to his eye. He could not withdraw it thence, and armed +with his glass he tried to reach the bottom of the mysterious light. Two or +three times he saw a figure which he thought he recognized, pass and repass +in the lighted square. + +Then the devil tempted him, like Jesus on the mountain. He did not show him +the kingdoms of the earth, but he gave him a glimpse of the mountebank +undressed. "Go not there," his good angel cried to him. But the Curé turned +a deaf ear; he went down noiselessly from his room and ventured into the +market-place. + +In order to approach the carriage, he displayed all the strategy of a +skilful general; he first walked the length of the parsonage, then crossed +the market-place, then little by little, artfully, disappeared beneath the +lime-trees. + +[PLATE I: THE LOOK. No one could have detected him plunging his burning +gaze into the depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of +her tights, appeared to him half-naked.] + +[Illustration] + +The house on wheels was only a few paces away, silent, motionless, crammed +up. Within those ten feet of planks was perceptible an excess of lives, +passions, miseries, joys, of comedies and dramas; quite a world in +miniature. + +Breathings and rustlings issued now and then from this living coffin. It +wan the heavy slumber of fatigue, of fever, or of drink. + +One window was lighted still, and the half-drawn curtain allowed a room to +be seen the size of a sentry-box. + +He passed slowly by, and gave a look. + +A strange emotion seized him: he would have wished not to have seen, and he +felt full of a delicious trouble at having seen. + +He looked round him with alarm; he was quite alone. No one had detected +him, no one could have detected him, plunging his burning gaze into the +depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of her tights, +appeared to him half-naked and dazzling like a goddess of Rubens. + + + + +VII. + + +THE SALUTE. + + "She is fair, she is white, and her golden hair + Sweetly frames her rosy face: + The limpid look of her azure eyes + Beguiles near as much as her half-closed lip." + + N. CHANNARD (_Poésies inédites_). + +The next day, from break of dawn, the strolling players were already making +their preparations for departure. + +He saw the fair dancer again. + +No longer had she on her gauze dress with golden spangles, nor the tights +which displayed her shape, nor her glittering diadem, nor the imitation +pearls in her hair. She had resumed her poor dress of printed cotton, her +darned stockings and her coarse shoes; but there was still her blue eye +with its strange light, her pleasant face, her silky hair falling in thick +tresses on her sunburnt neck, and beneath her cotton bodice the figure of +an empress was outlined with the same opulence. + +A knot of women was there, laughing and talking scandal. What were these +stupid peasants laughing at? + +At length the heavy vehicle began to move, drawn by two broken-winded +horses. + +The fair girl is at the little window and watches, inquisitive and smiling, +the silly scoffing crowd. + +"Pass on, daughter of Bohemia, and despise these men who jest at your +poverty, these women who cast a look of scorn and hate. They scorn and hate +you, because they have not your splendid hair, nor the brightness of your +eyes, nor your white teeth, nor your fresh smile, nor your suppleness, +grace and vigour, nor your bewitching shape; despise them in your turn, but +envy them not, them who despise and envy you." + +Thus the Curé murmured to himself as the carriage was passing by. + +She is there still at her little window, like a youthfull picture by +Greuze. She lifts her eyes and recognizes the priest, and bows with that +smile which has already so affected him. What grace in that simple gesture! +What promises in those gentle eyes! In the midst of the hostile scornful +looks of that foolish crowd she has met a friendly face; she has read +sympathy and perhaps a secret admiration on the intelligent countenance of +the priest. + +The Curé replied to her salute, and for a long while his gaze pursued the +carriage. + +Meanwhile the good ladies whispered among themselves, and said to one +another with a scandalized air: "Did you see? He bowed to the mountebank!" + + + + +VIII. + + +THE FEVER. + + "Who has not had those troubled + nights, when the storm rages within, + when the soul, miserably oppressed + with shameful desires, floats in the + mud of a swamp?" + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +He was quite aware of his imprudence, but was unable to withdraw his eyes +from the road, and his thoughts still followed the carriage long after it +had disappeared behind the tall poplars. It seemed to him that it was a +portion of himself which was going away for ever. + +What! was the madman then beginning to cast his heart thus on the roads, +and could he feel smitten by this creature whom he had scarcely met? + +No, it was not she whom he loved, but she had just made the over-full cup +run over. She or another, it was indifferent to him. His altered feelings +of desire needed at length to drink freely. He was thirsty, what signified +to him the vessel? + +Hitherto he had only felt that ordinary confusion which the chaste man +experiences in presence of the woman, for hitherto his sight bad only +paused complacently upon pretty fresh faces, and if his thought wandered +beyond, he drove it back with care to his very inmost being; but now that +he had seen the naked breast of a pretty girl, that he had relished it with +his gaze, embraced it with his desire, that he had yielded to a fatal +forgetfulness, his flesh, so long subdued and humiliated, profited by that +moment of error, and subdued him in its turn. + +A kind of frenzy had taken possession of his being in a moment, and in the +sleepless night which he had just passed, he had given himself up to an +absolute orgy in his over-excited imagination. + +That wandering girl who had just disappeared, had carried away his modesty. + +He felt his heart beating for her; but he felt that his heart was beating +for all alike; girls or women, he wanted them all, he defiled them all with +his thoughts. + +And so, after ten years of struggles, the virtue of the Curé of Althausen +dissolved one evening before the naked breast of a rope-dancer, like snow +before the sun. + +That day was a Sunday, and, as he did not come downstairs, his servant came +to warn him that the time for Mass was drawing near. + +She stood struck with the strange look on his countenance, at the fatigue +displayed on his features, and anxiously enquired of him the cause. + +The Curé assured her that she was mistaken, that he bad never felt better; +but at the same time he gave a glance at his mirror. + +He was frightened at his face and he remained a long time thoughtful, +contemplating the gloomy fire of his own look. + +That sinister countenance seemed to him to presage some approaching +calamity. + +Thus, there are men whom fate has marked on the forehead with a fatal +stamp. The mysterious sign is not displayed at every time and before all; +but at certain epochs of life, when the unknown breath caresses the +predestinated or cursed head, the mark all at once appeals, like a tawny +light in the depth of night. + +A curse! Fatality has moulded that man's brain, it has left its potent +impress on his skull. + +--With what seal then am I marked? he cried. Is it that of reprobation +which God has stamped upon my face? + +No, simpleton that thou art, it is the phosphorus of thy brain, which +catches fire from time to time. + + + + +IX. + + +DURING VESPERS. + + "There is a beautiful girl of sixteen, + white as milk, rosy as a rose-bud, fresh + as a spring morning,--and chaste as + Vesta." + + A. DELVAU (_Le Fumier d'Ennius_). + +He went up into the pulpit, and preached a sermon on this text: "Blessed +are the pure in heart." He had prepared it the day before, previous to the +arrival of that enchanting player, and his thoughts had been since then too +occupied with very different subjects for him to search for another theme. + +Bitter mockery! What could he say to these good people about hearts pure +and chaste? He tried, all the same, and said some excellent things. He +spoke above all about temptation, which, following the expression of a +Father of the Church, "is only, to commence with, an ant which tickles, and +finishes by becoming a devouring lion." + +"Alas," he said, "how many, without meaning it, have been thus devoured, +beginning perhaps with this pious individual." + +His sermon took great effect. An old woman wept, and several members of the +congregation appeared to sigh and think that it was a long time since they +had been devoured thus. + +He had an inclination to laugh, as he came down from the pulpit, at the +words which he had just uttered on purity of heart, and he wondered that he +had been able to bring so much conviction and warmth to bear upon a subject +to which he was henceforth completely a stranger. + +His own scepticism terrified him, and he saw that he had taken a long step +into evil Nevertheless he did concern himself at that, and from his place +near the pulpit he turned his impassioned gaze with more assurance on the +group of young girls. + +Passion is a brutal level which equalizes us all. There remained in him +nothing more of the priest, there only remained the man full of desires, +and he flung his desires in riot upon that gyneceum which he thought +belonged to him. + +In certain village churches, all the young girls are placed apart, near the +choir, sometimes even in the choir itself, under the eyes of the priest, as +if they wished to leave the most convenient choice to that never satiated +Priapus. + +The handsome Curé of Althausen made his choice therefore at his ease and +without the least shame. + +This one was fair and pale, that other dark and high in colour; this one +was thin and delicate, that one fat and plump; this one was prettier, that +other more graceful. He knew not upon which to stop. He would have wished +for them all, for they all had that provoking beauty which pleases the +devil so much: exuberant youth. + +And he could not grow weary of contemplating all these fresh faces; his +look, more than once, encountered sweet looks, and then he experienced a +delicious shock which stirred his heart. + +It was not only the faces which excited his longings. In spite of himself, +the opulent breast of the fair player entered his imagination and his +thoughts seemed to search each one's neckerchief, seeking this powerful +nourishment for his appetite. He bad tried to drive away these abominable +desires, but it was in vain: the forbidden fruit was there and something +seemed to tell him that he had only to stretch out his hand to seize it. + +As he tried to escape from this diabolical hallucination, he remarked +all at once in the gallery set apart for the wives of the principal +inhabitants, a young girl, a stranger, whose beauty struck him. + +She was pale and dark, and her full lips, of a brilliant red, were lightly +pencilled with a black down. + +Her deep, burning eyes darted flames, and were fixed on the priest with a +persistency which made him blush. + +The erotic fever which had possessed him disappeared at once. He was +ashamed of himself and of his secret thoughts, for it seemed to him that +this stranger read to the bottom of his soul. + +This flaming look which he had caught sight of, weighed upon him like +remorse. + +In the evening, at the _Salut_ he saw again the same face and the same +burning eyes, fastened on his own; but be thought he discovered that there +was nothing terrible about them, and that what in his trouble he had taken +for inquisition and wrath, might in reality be nothing but tenderness and +sweetness. + +He made skilful enquiries regarding the stranger; she was Mademoiselle +Suzanne Durand, who had just completed her education at Saint-Denis, the +daughter of Captain Durand, "a bad parishioner," his servant told him, "who +paid little regard to the service and treated the priests as humbugs." + + + + +X. + + +IN PARENTHESIS. + + "Is it meet for you to be among such + vicious people? Envy, anger and + avarice reign among some; modesty + is banished among others; these + abandon themselves to intemperance + and sloth, and the pride of these + rises to insolence. It is all over; + I will dwell no longer among the + seven deadly sins." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +I must take my courage with both hands to continue to unfold before you the +events however simple of this simple tale. Already I hear the eternal flock +of hypocrites and fools protesting and crying out at outraged morality. I +know them, these indignant voices of the defenders of morality. They arise +every time that we unveil the vilenesses, that we expose the gangrenes of +our institutions; corrupt magistracy, vicious clergy, rotten army; +tottering tripod which holds up that worm-eaten scaffolding which is called +_social order_. + +But the sages of the present day and a great number of those of former +times have always made me laugh, particularly where beneath the mask of the +venerable philosopher or the hood of the austere monk, I discovered the +grin of the rogue. + +I shall stop my ears then to their clamours and I shall continue the task I +have undertaken. + +Nevertheless, some sincere persons may object: "What sort then is this +cynical priest which you display to us? Is there nothing then remaining to +him, and in default of modesty and morality, in default of his energy, +which has foundered thus all at once, could he not still lay hold of the +wrecks of faith?" + +Faith? It had fled away long ago, since the day when he had laid aside his +dress of catechumen, and, initiated in the secrets of the sanctuary, he had +laid hand on the priestly jugglings. + +Then he had been filled with an infinite sorrow. But he had prudently +repressed it deep within, and in this centre of devout hypocrisy and holy +intrigue, he had covered himself again, like all the rest, with a varnish +of sanctity. + +Faith! What priest is he who, amidst the religious pageants, the public +falsehoods and the private apostacies, the burlesque scenes behind the +stage preceding the solemn performance, what priest is he who has preserved +his faith? + +What priest is he, upright and wishing to remain upright--there are such +lost in obscure positions--who has not said quietly to himself, in his +inmost being, all alone with his conscience, what the Curé of Althausen +often repeated to himself: + +"Faith, bitter mockery! to believe by order, without examination and +without reply! + +"Annihilation of the individual, murder of the thought, criminal denial of +the intelligence, the most sublime of man's gifts! + +"Oh miseries of the soul! filth of the body! vileness of the spirit! +unfathomable depths of human folly! What am I and what are we, and whom do +we wish to deceive? + +"What are we, we who say to others, 'Be just, humble, chaste, pitiful? Have +faith.' Oh! priests, my brethren, and you, my masters, you have tried to +close my soul as we close a book, to extinguish my thought like a too +lively flame and to bend my rebellious reason; but my soul unfolds in spite +of you; the book swollen with doubts, bursts under the clasp, my thought +rekindles at the first spark, and my reason rises to its full height to +protest from the deeps of darkness where you would bury it. + +"For I have followed you step by step in the tortuous ways of your dark +lives. I have listened to your words and I have seen your deeds, and the +deeds gave the lie to your words. + +"Then I said to myself: Perhaps we are living in an evil period. The curse +is upon this age. And I have sought to relieve my thoughts in less gloomy +pictures. I have ransacked history to find there the golden age of +Catholicism. But the pages of Catholic history are stained with mire and +blood. The dealers of the temple, more powerful than Christ, have in their +turn driven him out of the sanctuary. Humanity, imprisoned in the round of +hypocritical conventions and nefarious laws, revolves unceasingly on +itself, the eternal Ixion fastened to the eternal wheel. + +"Whither are we going? Whither are we going in the ocean of social +tempests, of political knaveries, of religious falsehoods? Centuries pass, +empires fall, nations disappear, religions, at first blazing torches, then +smoky harmful lamps, die out one by one, generations succeed generations +with hands stretched out towards the future whence the new light must +spring, and the future, gloomy gulf, will swallow up all, men and things, +worlds and gods. + +"I have ransacked history and I have discovered that yesterday as to-day, +there were among those men who call themselves shepherds of souls, pride, +falsehood, injustice, thirst of riches, hatred and luxury, but neither +belief, nor truth, nor faith." + +Do not cry out, saintly souls, virtuous prelates, gentle apostles, frank +and rosy curates, but let him among you who is without any of his sins, +rise up and cast the first stone at the Curé of Althausen. + + + + +XI. + + +THE FLESH. + + "The man tries in vain, he must yield to his nature: + A woman excites him untying her girdle." + + VICTOR HUGO. + +Eight days had passed away. + +Eight days, during which he had tried with supreme efforts to silence his +senses, and to chain down his wild thoughts. + +He had become calmer and more master of himself. + +The species of vertigo which had seized him is an accident frequent enough +among young priests, who in spite of all the seductions which surround them +and the occasions of falling, wish to remain steadfast in duty. + +"For we do not deny ourselves the inclinations of nature with impunity, it +is an age at which the physical delights of love become necessary to every +well organized being, and it is never but at the expense of health, and of +the repose of the whole life, that we can he faithful to the vows of +perpetual chastity."[1] + +The crisis, according to the temperament of the _subject_, is more or less +violent, and occurs again several times, until he finally yields to the +temptation, or again until madness seizes him. + +Then everybody is terrified to learn one day in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ +the horrible details of some crime so abominable that one would believe it +sprung from the horrors of a nightmare. + +Let them not be astonished! the wretch who has committed it was in reality +overcome by hallucination. In the struggles of the will against the +appetites, the reason expires. + +Madness has clasped the brain, too feeble to strive against the flesh in +revolt, and the latter has avenged itself as the brute avenge itself by the +act of a brute. + +"The torch of reason completely extinguished, the victim of senseless vows +has brought the piece to an end by a catastrophe which alarms modesty, +astonishes nature and disconcerts religion."[2] + +Meanwhile, I repeat, the Curé seemed calmer: to the crisis had succeeded a +kind of depression and languor. + +He resumed his studies with more eagerness, and only went out in order to +go from the parsonage to the church, conscientiously occupying himself in +his profession. + +His senses were slumbering again. + +But the mischievous devil was at his heels and did not lose sight of him. + +The old serpent, says the apostle, finds the means of tempting by the very +virtues which we possess, even to making them the occasions of sin to us; +how would he not tempt us when it is sin itself which dwells in our heart? + +[Footnote 1: _Dictionnaire des Sciences Médicales_. Vol. VI.] + +[Footnote 2: The inconveniences of compulsory chastity are more or less +grave according to different cases: with youthful subjects, vigorous, and +fed on succulent foods, mental derangement under the most horrible forms, +such as Satyriasis, Priapism, Erotomania, Nymphomania and even death may +quickly result from it. Instances are numerous. (Sciences médicales).] + + + + +XII. + + +THE TEMPTATION. + + "Alas! to return alone to our deserted home + With no open window to herald our approach, + If, when from the horizon we behold our roof, + We cannot say, 'My return gladdens my home'." + + LAMARTINE (_Jocelin_). + +It was at Sunday's Mass, in the sanctuary itself, that he waited for his +prey. The priest had scarcely reached the steps of the altar, his hands +laden with the holy vessels, when, lifting his eyes to the gallery, he +encountered the look he dreaded. + +Suzanne Durand was there, fixing on him her eyes, filled with magnetic +force. + +He returned once again full of trouble. + +His servant, surprised at his agitation, overwhelmed him with inquisitive +questions; he escaped from her and hastened towards the woods. He cast +himself on the moss at the foot of an old oak and began to reflect. The +dark eyes followed him everywhere. + +"Whither am I going?" he said to himself. "Why does the sight of this young +girl agitate my heart in this way?" And he examined his heart and found it +saturated with bitterness, disgust, weariness and regret, and in the midst +of all that, something unknown was springing up. It was like a germ of hope +which all at once had risen out of nothingness, a fleeting light which +flickered in the dense gloom of his life. + +He heard the sound of a voice at some distance, a fresh, gay, melodious +voice, to which a deeper note was answering. Spring, youth and love were +mingling their accents together. Between the foliage he saw them slowly +passing. They did not see him. Absorbed in the contemplation of themselves, +arm in arm, with joined hands, their faces together, they passed along with +bright looks, and open hearts, rejoicing in the seventh heaven. + +Now and again they stopped, and he all in play, took hold of her thick knot +of hair, drew her head backwards and gave her a long kiss on the lips. He +did not tire of it, but she pushed him back with all her strength, putting +her hand on his mouth and saying to him, "That's enough, naughty boy, +that's enough." The Curé knew them well. She was the best and prettiest +girl in his congregation, and he, the happy rogue, sang in the choir. And +he began to envy the happiness of this rustic; he would have wished to be +for a moment this rude ignorant peasant, and who knows, for a moment? why +not always? Would he not be happier going each morning to till the fruitful +soil, to sow the furrow, and then to cut the sheaves of the golden harvest, +than to vegetate as he was, casting his sterile grain upon arid souls. + +After the hard toil of the day, when he returned in the evening to his roof +of thatch, he would meet with a smile of welcome, the smile of a loved +wife, which would compensate him for his fatigues. + +He followed them with his eyes, full of envy and bitterness at heart, and +when they had buried themselves behind the young underwood, when he no +longer heard the sound of steps, or fresh bursts of laughter, he rose and +sadly resumed his way to the village. + +Evening had come. The twilight was stretching its dark veil over all. The +peasants dressed in their Sunday clothes were chatting on their door-steps +while they waited for supper. Near the inns there rose the confused sound +of gamblers' voices and drunkards' songs; but here and there through the +windows he saw the bright fire of vine-twigs blazing merrily on the hearth, +while the mother or the eldest daughter poured the steaming soup into the +large blue-flowered plates ranged on the white wood table. + +He saw it all, and he walked with slow steps to his solitary abode. + +He thought of his life wasted, of the years of his prime which were passing +away, without leaving any more traces than the skimming of the swallow's +wing leaves upon the verdant brook. + +Oh! the fleeting time which carries all away, the hour which glides away +dull and empty, the barren youth which flies, and the white hairs which +come with disillusion, discouragement and despair. "Stay, stay, oh youth; +stay but another day!" + +But what matters his youth to him? What joys has it brought him; what +pleasures has he tasted? has he breathed the burning breath of life, of +that fair life at twenty which unfolds like a ripe pomegranate, and casts +to the warm sun its treasures and its perfumes? + + + + +XIII. + + +THE RESOLUTION. + + "My life was blighted, my universe + was changed; I had entangled myself + without knowing it in an inextricable + drama. I must get out of it at any + cost, and I had no way of unravelling + it. I resolved by all means to find one." + + J. JANIN (_L'Ans morte_). + +He sat by his desolate hearth and began to think with terror of the eternal +solitude of that hearth. Alone! always alone! Already he had said to +himself very often that he had chosen the wrong road, that this arid and +desolate path was not the one needful to his ardent soul, that the hopes +with which he had formerly been deluded, were falsehoods in reality, and +that the God whom they had made him believe that he loved with such ardour, +left his soul empty and barren. + +To love God! The love of God! High-sounding, hollow words which enable +hypocrites to take advantage of the common people; fantastic passion +kindled in the heart of fools for the amazement of the simple! + +Ah! how willingly would he have replaced the worn-out vision of this +chimerical phantom with the likeness of some young girl, with sweet look +and smile, full of promise. + +And the burning memory of the wanton player came and blended with the fresh +and radiant memory of the charming pupil of Saint-Denis. + +"But why, priest, dost thou permit thy fevered guilty imagination to wander +thus? Pursue thy course, pursue it without stopping, without looking back; +henceforth it is too late to retrace thy path; anyhow be chaste, be chaste +under pain of shame and infamy. + +"Thou must not be chaste in view of recompense like a slave, thou must be +chaste without expectance."[1] + +He took up a book, his sovereign remedy in hours of temptation. It was the +life of St. Antony, written by his companion, St. Athanasius. + +"The demons presented to his mind thoughts of impurity, but Antony repulsed +them by prayer. The devil excited his senses, but Antony blushed with +shame, as though the fault were his own, and strengthened his body by +faith, by prayer and by vigil. The devil, seeing himself vanquished thus, +took the shape of a young and lovely woman and imitated the most lascivious +actions in order to beguile him, but Antony raising his thoughts towards +heaven and considering the loftiness and excellence of the soul which is +given to us, extinguished these burning coals by which the devil hoped to +inflame his heart through this deception, and drove away the devilish +creature." + +Marcel shrugged his shoulders and closed the book. How many times already +he had tried all those means without success. + +He leant his burning forehead on his hands and, in self-contemplation, +tried to see to the bottom of his soul. + +Chaste! always chaste! What! Was the flower of his youth wasted away thus, +in incessant, barren struggles? If only peace of heart, and a quiet +conscience remained to him; if quietude sat by his hearth, as his masters +many a time had promised him! But no, alone with himself, he felt himself +to be with an enemy. + +For many years, it had been so, and a lying voice had cried to him without +ceasing: "Wait for happiness, for sweet pure joys, wait for it till +to-morrow: to-morrow all this fury will have passed away, these raging +blasts which rise to thy brain will have vanished; thy vanquished senses +will leave thee in peace, and calm and strong, thou shalt rejoice over an +untroubled conscience and over the satisfaction of duty fulfilled." + +And he had waited in vain. Now he had reached ripe age, and the future is +visible ever more gloomy; to-morrow has come, as sad, as empty, and as +desolate as yesterday. + +He was tired at last of waiting, patiently, humbly, resigned like the beast +of burden which awaits the slaughterhouse. Beasts of burden! Are we not +that, all we who with brow bent under humiliation, injustice, thankless +toil; with the heart embittered by tedious deception and tedious despair, +miseries of heart and miseries of body, wait, wait ever, wait vainly for a +more brilliant sun to shine at last, until at the end of the day there +rises before us the only guest we have never expected, on whom we counted +not,--the solution of the great problem, the radical cure for all our +ills--DEATH. + +Death, which with its brutal hand, seizes us at the moment when perhaps at +last we are going to rest ourselves and rejoice. + +No, that shall not be. He will not continue to vegetate without happiness +in these dull, common-place surroundings; to walk at random in this road +bristling with thorns; to pursue his disheartening career, enclosed by +miserable vices. + +Nothing around him but stupid, vulgar prosiness, foolish moral +annihilation. No poetry, no golden ray, no rainbow! Everything most low, +unsightly, pitiful. Such was his lot as priest. + +Complaints of the soul, wandering flashes of the imagination, criminal +aspirations of the heart, sinful desires ... these ... that was all. + +Was this then life? + +Was it for this that God had created him, that his mother had drawn him +painfully forth from her entrails, that nature had one day counted one +intelligent being the more? + +Ah! he felt full well it was not so. He felt full well it was not so by his +thirst for emotions and enjoyment, by his altered lips, by his aspirations +for an unknown world. He was in haste to strip off for once at least this +old man's shell which enveloped him, this black, hideous, hardened covering +of the bad priest, beneath which he felt his vitality, his youth, his +strength, his heart of thirty, bounding, boiling, roaring, like burning +lava. + +The next day be remembered that though it was nearly six months since he +had taken possession of his cure, his pastoral visits were not yet +completed. + +In fact, he had gone everywhere, even to Captain Durand's. Only, he had +found the door closed and, after the information he received, he had fully +resolved not to go there again. + +[Footnote 1: The Antigone of Soto.] + + + + +XIV. + + +THE CAPTAIN. + + "The disposition of a man of sixty + is nearly always the happy or sad + reflection of his life. Young people + are such as Nature has made them; + old men have been fashioned by the + often awkward hands of society." + + ED. ABOUT (_Trente et Quarante_). + +The old Captain was in fact a bad parishioner, as his servant had told him, +and had only one good quality in the eyes of that careful housekeeper, +"that he was always shining like a new halfpenny." + +Durand, in fact, was what is called in a regiment "a smart soldier," which +means to say "a clean soldier." And still, one of his most important +occupations was to brush his things. The son of peasants, without +patronage, fortune or backstairs influence, he had raised himself, a rare +and difficult thing nowadays; therefore he was proud of himself, and would +say to anyone who would listen to him: "I am the son of my own deeds." + +He had been one of those serious-minded officers of whom Jules Noriac +speaks, who instead of dividing their many spare hours between the goddess +of play and the goddess of the bar, employ themselves in regimental +reforms. + +The dimensions of a spur-rowel, the length and thickness of a +trouser-strap, the improvement of a whitening for belts which does not +fall off, were questions which had more importance and interest for him +than a question of State. + +The slave of his duties, he was excessively severe in the service, and this +stiffness and severity he had brought, it was said, into his household. + +With these military qualities; passive obedience, scrupulous cleanliness +and the vulgar courage necessary for a son of Mars, Durand, with a good +reputation and full of zeal, had had when very young, a rapid advance. At +one moment he had foreseen a brilliant future, but his ambitious hopes had +been quickly deceived. He saw the Baron de Chipotier, the Comte de +Boisflottant, and the son of Pillardin, the lucky millionaire, successively +come into the regiment, and these sprigs of lofty lineage, full of +brilliancy and loquacity, naturally eclipsed the modest qualities of the +obscure upstart soldier. Spending their life in cafés, overwhelmed with +debt, loved by the women, they laughed among themselves at all the +_minutiae_ of the service, which they treated as beneath their notice, +ridiculed their superiors, and especially the serious-minded officers. +Everything was forgiven them, they were rich. Durand was filled with +indignation; he saw everything he had respected become an object of sarcasm +to these young men, and his most cherished convictions turned into +ridicule. He was like those devout persons who, when they hear an unseemly +oath or an impious word, tremble and pray heaven not to cast its avenging +lightning; he asked himself if social order was not overthrown, if the army +was not marching to its ruin. He began to talk of his apprehensions, of +this pitiable state of things, and they laughed in his face. But when these +frivolous, turbulent, incapable officers became his chiefs, chiefs over +him, the studious, model officer, the upright man, the slave to the +regulations, he began to mistrust everything, society, France, the empire, +the justice of God, and himself. It was from this period that the crabbed +character dated, by which he was known. + +He passed a long season thus, full of anger and jealousy: then the time for +his retirement arrived, that time to which all the forgotten, the obscure, +the pariahs of the army look forward during long years, and which casts +them forth into the social world, ignorant and strangers. + +Then he had retired to his own village, dividing his time between the +tending of his garden, and the cares which were occasioned him by his +daughter Suzanne. + + + + +XV. + + +MEMORIES. + + "Often risen from humble origin, he + has gained the respect of all and the + public esteem; but this cannot prevent + his having a restless spirit; he misses + the duty which has called him for + so long at the appointed hour. Around + him are scattered the memorials of + his regiment, his eye catches them + and a mist comes over it." + + ERNEST BILLAUDEL (_Les Hommes d'épée_). + +He was up by dawn, and the villagers on their way to their fields sometimes +stopped to cast an inquisitive look over his garden palings. They saw +him dressed in a linen jacket, with the glorious ribbon adorning his +button-hole, weeding his flower-garden, turning up his walks, pruning his +trees, clearing his flowers of caterpillars, watering his borders, with +great drops of sweat pouring down, bending over his labour like a negro +under the lash. + +"What a pity!" they said, "for a rich man to give himself so much trouble! +If it only repaid him!" And they shouted to him: "Good-morning, Captain +Durand, how are you to-day?"--"Pretty well, thank you," replied Durand, in +a peevish tone.--"Still warm to-day, Captain; but you had it warmer in +Africa, didn't you?" At the word Africa, the old soldier's eyes brightened, +his forehead lost its wrinkles, and a smile came to his lips. All his past +rose before him. Africa, the Bedouins, the gunshots, the razzias, the bare +desert, the fresh oases, the life in camp, the glasses of absinthe, the +days of rain and sun, the ostrich chases, the watch for the jackal and the +races over the plain. All this, helter-skelter, in crowds, crossing, +following, multiplying, like the sheaves of sparks which burst forth from a +rocket. + +Ah! Ah! that was the happy time. And then he would stop and forget his +work, his flowers, his grafts, and his espaliers; he would forget the +peasants who were there, laughing quietly and nudging one another, and +saying: "The old man is gone in the head." + +For they understood nothing of the tear, which all at once trickled from +the corner of his eye-lid, a bitter drop which overflowed from the too full +cup of his heart. + +Ah! youth has but one time, and they do well, who when the sun gilds their +brow, cast their sap to its warm caresses. The winter, gloomy shadow, will +come but too soon to freeze their slowly opened buds, leaving only a trunk, +dry and bare. + +Then, when nothing more than a few warm cinders remain at the bottom of the +human engine, we try to warm ourselves again at this cold hearth, and to +search among those dying sparks which we call memories. + +And these memories of a time for ever fled, these lights which gladden or +stir again your old heart sad and cold, these are the simple and fruitful +beliefs, the transports of the soul, the insane devotions, the ardent +passions, and all those orgies of heart and sense, all those frenzies of +imagination, and all those follies of youth, which cause the wise to cry +out so loudly, and which are the only feast-days of life. + +Hasten then, young man, hasten; take the good which comes to thee, and be +not decoyed by idle fancies; wait not till to-morrow to be glad. To-morrow +is the age of ripeness, of the falling fruit, the wrinkled brow, the faded +flower; it is the vanished locks; it is the blood which grows cold, the +smile which comes not back; it is in fine the worm of deceptions, which is +ever growing larger and gnawing what may be left of thy heart. + + + + +XVI. + + +THE EPAULET. + + "Really, yes! I love my calling. This + active adventurous life is amusing, + do you see? there is something as + regards discipline itself which has its + charm; it is wholesome and relieves + the spirit to have one's life ordered in + advance with no possible dispute, and + consequently with no irresolution or + regret. Thence comes lightness of + heart and gaiety. We know what we + must do, we do it, and we are content." + + EMILE AUGIER et JULES SANDEAU (_Le Gendre de M. Poirier_). + +And Durand threw down his rake or his spade. + +--Well! here you are already, cried the old housekeeper; breakfast is not +ready. + +--My paper? he said shortly. + +Sometimes the paper had not yet arrived; then he sat down near the window +and watched impatiently for the carrier. There he is, coming out of the +next street. He goes down with all haste to open the door himself, and take +the precious _Moniteur_. + +For it is the _Moniteur de l'Armée_! and he unfolds it with the respect +which we owe to holy things, and he reads it all religiously from the first +article to the everlasting advertisement of _Rob Boyreau Laffecteur_. He +reads it all, not because he is studying tactics or has need of Rob, but +because he has set himself the task of reading it all. His servant brings +him his morning coffee and brandy, and he believes himself still at father +Etienne's or mother Gaspard's, at the garrison café; this makes him quite +sprightly. + + "Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + Another glass! + Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + To midnight it wants a quarter!" + +But it is not the long, tedious military articles which first attract his +eye, nor the ministerial decrees, nor the studies on the sabretache, nor +the biographies of celebrated skin breeches, nor the improvement of gaiter +buttons, nor the changes of police caps; PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES, that is +what he wants. + +PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES! divine rubrics which have caused so many hearts to +beat. + +You all recollect it, my old brothers in arms, who have waited long, like +me. Years and years have passed. At length the hour is come and the +newspaper which is going to transform your life. That folded paper gleams +with all the fires of hope, it glitters like a sun, for it contains the +magic word which out of nothing is going to make you everything, to draw +you out of the obscure ranks to place you in the brilliant phalanx, which, +from a passive despised instrument, is going to create you an active and +respected head. + +How you are dazzled as you open it; with what palpitations and haste you +look for the blessed page, skipping the regiments, glancing over the ranks, +flying over the names in order to arrive at your own. Ah! you know well +where it ought to be; it is among the last; but what does it matter, it is +here above all that the last can arrive first. + +Here it is! here it is at last! What intoxication! young and old, we all +were twenty once. + +And meanwhile.... + +And meanwhile, the best days of your youth are lost in barren, vulgar, +common-place, at times repulsive occupations. Your spirit is extinguished, +your responsibility as an intelligent man is destroyed at settled hours by +the sound of the bugle or of the trumpet, those flourishes of gilded +servitude; and beneath the heavy hammer of passive obedience your temples +are already growing grey; you have wrinkles on your forehead and on your +heart, for you have reached that part of the cup of life, at which one +drinks little else than bitterness ... But you forget all that; a new life +full of enchantment is beginning. You are an officer! an officer! Ah! those +who have never borne the harness, do not know what fairy-land that magic +word contains. But you--you know it, and you took at your name, you spell +each letter of it and you say: "At last! It is I, it is really I! +Sub-lieutenant! I am sub-lieutenant!" + +Thus, ten to fifteen years of struggles, tribulation, obstacles, +humiliations, devotion, dangers, in order to reach the salary of a grocer's +clerk! + +But the old Captain, what was he looking for in the columns of the Service +newspaper? + +He had nothing to expect. No new promotion could swell his aged breast. He +had completed his career. Like a rejected charger whose ear has been slit, +or whose right flank has been branded, he had been laid aside for ever. +Henceforth he had nothing else to do but to plant his cabbages, until his +legs were seized by anchylosis, absolutely forgotten. + +And so with all those who go away. + +Amidst the thousand incidents of military life, so filled in its leisure +and so empty in its employments, has anyone the time to give a thought to +the absent one who must return no more? His place is taken; a new face is +seated there where we used to see him, and his is no longer familiar to us. +A few years hence and his name will be known no more. The army is for the +young! + +But does he forget? Does a man forget his youth, his glory, his dearest +memories, his whole life? Retired into some country nook, completely buried +in an obscure market-town, or become the modest citizen of some provincial +city, the old officer follows afar off with solicitude and envy the +different fortunes of his brothers in arms, living ever in thought amidst +that forgetful and ungrateful family which he loves as much as his own--the +Regiment. + +And that is why you, brave veterans, understand it well, that is why +Captain Durand used to read the _Moniteur_. + + + + +XVII. + + +THE VOLTAIRIAN. + + "For them religion is the most skillful + of juggling, the most favourable veil, + the most respectable disguise under + which man can conceal himself to lie + and deceive." + + BARNUM (_Les Blagues de l'Univers_). + +But, as I have said, he was a bad parishioner, a bunch of tare in the field +of God, a scabby sheep in the flock of the Lord. + +Taking no heed of his religious duties, reading the _Siècle_, speaking evil +of priests and refusing the blessed bread, he was the scandal of the godly +and not one of them in the village augured any good of him. + +Never did a publican from Belleville or a novice of freemasonry proclaim +with so much boldness his contempt for the things which everybody +venerates. He did not uncover himself in presence of funerals, saying he +did not want to bow to the dead; he called the church the priests' bank, +the altar a parade of mountebanks, the confessional the antechamber to the +brothel. + +"That man will perish on the scaffold!" the former Curé of the village +cried out one day in righteous indignation. + +How had he come by this hatred, vigorous as that which Alcestis demands +from virtuous souls against hypocrites and evil-doers? What had the +_black-coats_ done to him? He did not say, and perhaps he would have been +embarrassed to say. There are certain natures which will love at any price, +there are others on the contrary which need to hate. He was doubtless one +of the latter, and he discharged all his excess of gall on the servants of +Jesus. + +"They are criminals," he cried, "all without exception, from the first to +the last. Hypocrisy engenders wickedness. It is a sore which spreads and +becomes leprosy. Everything which touches it catches it. Those who +associate with hypocrites become hypocrites, and then scoundrels, slowly +but surely by infection. That is the logic of the scab. It is not necessary +to dress up in a black gown and to swallow God in public to make a perfect +priestling, it is enough to rub against the priest's cap. Look at the +sacristans, the beadles, the lackeys of the Bishop's palace, the hirers of +chairs, the choir-men, the sellers of tapers, the tradesmen by appointment +to the religious houses, the beggar who stretches out his hand to you at +the door, and the man who hands you the holy-water sprinkler, have they not +all the same hypocritical face, the same cunning, devoutly sanctimonious +look? Well! scratch the skins of the godly and you will find the hide of +the scoundrel." + +An honourable man and brutally frank like many old soldiers he had kept in +private life the tone and ways of barracks and camps. As he said himself, +he did not mince the truth to anybody, and he repeated readily, without +understanding it, the saying of Gonsalvo of Cordova, the great captain, +"_The cloth of honour should be coarsely woven_." + +When one evening, on returning home, he found the card of the Curé, he +nearly fell backwards. + +--What, he has had the audacity to come to my house, this holy water +merchant. They have not told him then what I am! + +--Good heavens, I cried, my dear Captain, what has this poor man done to +you? + +--To me! nothing at all. I don't know him. He is part of the holy +priesthood; that is enough for me. He is a scoundrel like the rest. + +--But it is not enough to call a man scoundrel, you must prove that he is. + +--Don't trouble me about your proofs. Do you suppose I am going to rummage +into this gentleman's private life and see what passes in his alcove? No, +indeed, I have no desire to do so, and I leave that care to my cook. + +--Come, Captain, you admit that this is to vilify a man on rather slender +grounds. There are fagots and fagots, and so there are Curés and Curés. +This one, I assure you, is an excellent fellow. + +--It may be so, but as I have no desire to make his acquaintance, I laugh +at his good qualities. + +--Everybody is not of your opinion, and it appears that all the women are +distracted about him. + +--Another reason why I detest him; women usually place their affections +very badly. + +--And he turns the heads of all the girls. + +--That is good! Oh, the good Curé. He reminds me of the one at Djidjelly +when I was a non-commissioned officer, the greatest girl-hunter that I have +ever known. The Kabyles used to call him _Bou-Zeb_, which means capable of +the thirteenth labour of Hercules, and they held him in high esteem, but +when he went near their tents they used to make all the women go inside. +Ah! that was a famous Curé! I wish that ours resembled him, and that he +would get a child out of all the girls, and that he would make cuckolds of +all the husbands. + +--Why so? + +--To teach these idiots to let their wives and their daughters be idle and +dance attendance at the churches, and relate all the details of their +household and their little sins to these bullies, as to their grand-dad. + +--I grant there is some danger when the confidant is a handsome bachelor. + +--There is no need to be handsome, sir. With the women, the cassock gives +charms to the ugliest. I have known a sweet and lovely creature become mad +after one of these rogues who had a head like a pitchfork. He did with her +what he wished. He made her devout, shrewish, and the worst of whores. Yes, +yes, they say that the red breeches get over the women, but the black gown +bewitches them. Explain that if you can. They want to know what is +underneath that wicked cassock. Something strange, mysterious, monstrous +attracts them. Women love enormities, and besides it must be said, +especially and above all, forbidden fruit. + +The Captain had mounted his favourite hobby, I could only let him go on. + +--They are vice incarnate, and know how to employ every means to seduce. +Religion, the confessional, the bible, the Mass, Vespers, the New +Testament, all the holy business is an auxiliary for them. For instance, +conceive anything more disgusting than that pardon promised beforehand to +guilty women. Play the whore all your life, deceive your husband, have +fifty lovers, provided that at the end you lament your faults, God will +have only tenderness for you, and will receive you with open arms. I should +like to know if by chance their Jesus had taken a wife, what would have +been his opinion then of the woman taken in adultery; but he remained +single and consequently incompetent to decide upon that delicate matter. +All that, you see, is an encouragement to debauchery and a stimulant to +lewdness. A devout woman, when she is young and pretty, is on a slope which +leads quite straight to Monsieur le Curé's bed. + + + + +XVIII. + + +THE VISIT. + + "Stupefied, the pedant closed his + mouth, and opened his eyes." + + LÉON CLADEL (Titi Foyssac IV). + +If there are any beings as blind as the husbands, they are certainly the +fathers; with the latter, as with the former, blindness reaches its utmost +limits. Since Molière no one laughs at them any more, and I don't know why, +for they always deserve to be laughed at, while all the sarcasms have +fallen on the head of the unhappy husbands. + +Folly and injustice! Conjugal love is as respectable as paternal affection. +Love is as good as affection, and what the heart chooses is quite as good +as what the blood gives you. + +Why then do they complain if it is papa who is deceived, and laugh if it is +a husband. Exactly the contrary ought to occur. Paternal love is egotistic. +It is for the most part vanity and self-love. The father looks for his own +likeness in his offspring, and if he believes himself to be an eagle, his +son naturally must be an eaglet. Most frequently he is only a foolish +gosling, but the father insists on finding on him an eagle's plumes. If +then he is deceived in his hopes, which are only a deduction from his own +infatuation, it is certainly permissible to laugh at it. + +While the husband.... + +This is what I observed to Durand, which put him in a great passion. + +--Because my daughter has gone to Mass? And you say: "fathers are blind." +Here is a self-contradictory individual. One can see plainly that you are +not a father, or you would alter your theories. Hang it! You can't say I am +enchanted at it, but you must put yourself in a man's place. She is a +child, who leaves school, mark that well, where she was obliged, compelled +to perform her religious duties, and one does not break off in a couple of +days the habits of ten years like that. Give her time to reach it. I reason +with her; hang it, I can't do everything in a day. When she goes from time +to time to Mass, on Sunday, it does not follow that she is becoming +religious. I am a free-thinker, but I am a father also, and what would you +have a father do when two pretty arms take hold of your neck and a sweet +little coaxing voice whispers to you, "Let me go there, my darling papa." +Hang it, one is not made of wood, after all! + +--Neither is the Curé made of wood. + +--You make one shiver. Can my daughter have anything in common with your +peasants' Curé? I say again that it is purely for diversion that she goes +to Mass. And I understand it. Where can she show her new dress? And what +place is more favourable for this little display than going into and coming +out of church? + +--Then the Church is a spectacle like another. There are chants, music, +tapers, perfumes, flowers, the half-light which comes through the coloured +windows. + +--Without speaking of the fellows covered with gold-tinsel who repeat in +unknown language the pater-nosters to which no one listens. It is enough to +make one burst with laughing, and, if I had not my cabbages to plant, I +would go myself now and again and entertain myself at these masquerades +which are as good as the theatres at the fair, and to complete the +resemblance, it only costs a couple of sous. + +--But the principal person of the troop attracts the looks, and the danger +is there. + +--Your priestling is young then? + +--And vigorous. Strong appetites. When I see him rambling in the village, I +begin to say: "Good people, the cock is loose, take care of your hens." It +is like your Curé of Djidjelly. + +--I am easy on that ground. The black cock will not come and rub his wings +here. He knows now that he has mistaken the door; they have informed him +regarding me, and he will not be so rude as to come again. + +But just at that moment the servant came into the room quite scared, and +said: + +--Here is Monsieur le Curé. + +--Who? what? said Durand; and turning towards me, Shall I receive him? +Well, we shall have a laugh! + +He was still undecided, when Marcel glided into the room. + + + + +XIX. + + +HARD WORDS. + + "I will speak, Madame, with the liberty + of a soldier who knows but ill how to + varnish the truth." + + RACINE (_Britannicus_). + +The old soldier, upright, with his hand leaning on the back of his +arm-chair, let the priest come forward with all the agreeableness of a +mastiff which is making ready to bite. + +The latter bowed gravely, and, although he felt himself to be in hostile +quarters, took the seat offered him with an easy air. + +Meanwhile his bearing and pleasant look produced their usual effect. + +Imbued with the theories of the army, which of all surroundings is that in +which one judges most by the appearance, where a good carriage is the first +condition of success, where in fact they salute the stripes and not the +man, the Captain was, in presence of this handsome young fellow, recalled +to less aggressive sentiments. + +--Hang it! he said to himself, what a splendid cuirassier this fellow would +have made! What devil of an idea has shoved him into a cassock? + +War being the most sublime of arts, as Maurice de Saxe remarked, there are +few old officers who understand how a man can choose another profession by +inclination. + +--I come, Monsieur le Capitaine, said Marcel, to pay you my visit as +pastor, although perhaps a little late. But you are aware doubtless that I +have had the honour of knocking once already at your door. + +--You should not have troubled yourself, my dear sir, and you should adhere +to that; I belong so little to the holy flock. + +--I owe myself to all, said Marcel smiling, to the bad sheep--I mean to the +wandering sheep, just as to the good ones; to watch over the one, to bring +back and cure the others. + +--Oh! Oh! Well, sir shepherd, you are losing your time finely, for I am a +worn-out goat. + +--There will be more joys in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.... + +--That is the story of the 99 just persons that you are going to tell us; +we know it, and, let me tell you, it is not encouraging for the 99 just +persons. + +The Curé, seeing himself on dangerous ground, hastened to leap elsewhere. + +--This is a charming little house, Captain; it is a sweet retreat after +toilsome and glorious years, for you have had numerous campaigns, have you +not? + +--Fifteen years in Africa, thirty-two campaigns, thirty years' service, two +wounds, one of them received at Rome when we fought for that old bully Pius +IX. + +Marcel had gone astray again; he quickly seized hold of the wounds. + +--Ah! two wounds! And are they still painful? + +--Sometimes, when the weather is stormy. And yours? + +--Mine, Captain! but I have none. I have not had like you the honour of +shedding any blood for our Holy Father. + +--A pretty cuckoo. It doesn't matter, you may have got a wound somewhere +else. + +--Where? enquired Marcel simply. + +--How do I know? We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of +it. + +--Like all accidents. + +--Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a +famous accident. He was a right worthy apostle. He wanted to teach the +catechism to the daughter of our cantinière, a bud of sixteen, and the +little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her +hatch. Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief. +Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as +snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise. A pretty Italian +gave him his reckoning. _Quinte_, _quatorze_ and the _point_. Game +finished. He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face. That was the best +action of his life. Well, old boy, what do you say to that? + +--I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his +countenance. + +--You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I +will be clearer. I see what you want--the dots on the i's. + +Marcel rose up alarmed. + +--No, no, cried Durand. Don't get up. Don't go away. Since you are here, we +must talk a little. Stay, it will not be long. It is the story of a cousin +of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife. Another of your confraternity. He +was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don't know what rank in your +regiment. At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see. Under pretence of +relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits. You can think if that +suited me, who already adored the cassock! Besides, on principle, I +detested cousins. It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid +it like the plague. Monsieur le Curé, if you have a pretty servant, beware +of cousins. I only say that. My wife used to say to me: "What has this poor +boy done to you that you receive him so badly? Are you jealous of him? Ah! +I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot +endure my poor relations." So to have peace I tolerated my cousin. He, +convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little +presents. There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit +of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from +Jerusalem. Nothing wrong so far. My wife availed herself of the concert +tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into +the garden. But soon his gifts changed their character. He brought us some +hairs of St. Pancratius, a tooth of St. Alacoque, a rag which had wiped +something or other off St. Anastasius or St. Cunegunda. My wife clasped her +hands, was in ecstasy and transported with joy, and I went and brought up +my dinner. I foresaw the time when he would bring us extraordinary things; +a louse of St. Labre, a testicle of St. Origen, the coccyx of St. Antony, +the parts of St. Gudule or the prepuce of Jesus Christ. + +The Curé rose again. + +--I see that my presence is _de trop_ here, Captain; pardon my having +disturbed you. + +--Not at all. Good Lord. Not at all. Sit down. It gives me extraordinary +pleasure to talk to you. Besides, I have not finished the story of my +cousin. Sit down, I pray you; I resume. + +He had given a very pretty engraving, a reproduction of a picture by +somebody, _Jesus and the woman taken in adultery_. My wife had had it +framed very carefully, and had hung it up in our bedroom: a bad sign. That +seemed to say to me, "See, my friend, imitate Jesus." One day returning +home very quietly, I surprised both of them, squeezed one against the +other, holding each others hand, looking at the picture with emotion. I +took the little cousin by the shoulders, and I threw him out of doors. I +never saw him again. Do you understand the moral? + +--Yes, Captain, I understand, said Marcel rising again, and this time fully +decided to go away. But the door opened, and Suzanne showed herself on the +threshold. + + + + +XX. + + +KICKS. + + "I should have wished, mischievously, + to put him in the wrong, and that a + thoughtless or insulting word on his + part, should serve as a justification for + the insult which I meditated." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Servitude et Grandeur militaires_). + +She had on her school-girl dress of black, which made the whiteness of her +complexion more dazzling, and imparted something grave and serious to her +beauty. + +She was hardly eighteen, and already by the harmonious outlines of her +bust, by the undulating movements of her hips and above all by the flash of +her great dark eyes, one foresaw in this young girl, still a child to-day, +the woman of to-morrow: a daughter of Eve of our modern civilization; +forward, precocious, charming. + +She was one of those the sight alone of whom is the most radiant and the +most dangerous of spectacles, and who, like others, distilling holiness and +blessings from heaven, shed around them a perfume of love. + +The bright fire of their heart shines out in their look; it reveals itself +in the sound of their voice, in their gestures and in their walk. +Everything in them is soft, trembling, passionate. Sweet creatures who see +only one goal in life, love, and, when the goal is missed, death. + +There are women who are but half women. They are quickly recognized; vulgar +and awkward, they hide under their ungraceful petticoats the instincts of +man, and masculinity is displayed up to their corsage. They form the +fantastical cohort of learned women, of the disciples of Stuart Mill and +rivals of Miss Taylor, hybrid natures which may possess a heart of gold and +a manly soul, but are incapable of being the joy of the hearth. + +Others are women to the tips of their rosy nails, to the root of their +abundant hair; women above all by their faults, that is to say their +weaknesses, and this weakness is one of their attractions. Impressionable +and easily led, they become, according to the surroundings which hold them +and the destiny which urges them, heroines or saints, courtesans or nuns, +but invariably martyrs of that blind despot, their heart. + +They are Magdalene or St. Theresa, Madame de Guyon or Heloïse, the nun in +love with Jesus or the light girl in love with the passer-by. + +In a second the priest had understood this sweet nature, or rather he had +felt it, and his quivering nostrils inhaled the keen perfume of pleasure, +while his look was lost in ecstasy. It was but a flash, but if beneath the +watchful eye of the Captain it appeared impossible, the young girl could +read the dumb language which every woman understands. + +She came forward, blushing. + +--This is my daughter, said the Captain. + +--I believe, said the Curé, with a bow, that I have had the pleasure of +seeing Mademoiselle several times already in our modest church. + +--And you concluded therefore that my daughter was going to increase the +blessed flock. Don't be misled, comrade. + +Suzanne cast a look of reproach upon her father. + +--What! said Marcel, hurt, must not Mademoiselle follow her religion? work +out her salvation? + +--Her salvation? There is a word which always makes me laugh. It reminds me +of my Colonel's wife who, when her husband gave orders for a review and +parade for Sunday, said, "My dear, you want then to deprive the poor +soldiers of the holy Mass, ought they not to work out their salvation?" A +magnificent creature, sir, but too much inclined to the cassock. + +Her husband, however, had nothing to complain of, for one fine morning he +picked up the stars of his epaulets in some sacristy or other. What have +you come for, my child? + +--Nothing, papa. I knew Monsieur le Curé was there and I came in. + +--I was having a little edifying conversation with Monsieur, and you have +interrupted us, but we can talk of something else: You hold the first rank +now, gentlemen, continued the Captain, I must do you that justice; and as +times go, it is better to be the son of a bishop than of a general. I +myself, if I had only had some high influential canon for my father, should +have reached the highest offices. Come, you seem to me to be a good fellow, +and I want to give you a word of advice. If papa is a bishop, make use of +him, and don't stagnate in this village, you will get no good there: I tell +you so on my word of honour! I suppose that with you, promotion is as it is +with us? + +"The cup of humiliation is full," said Marcel to himself. Nevertheless, he +answered, I don't understand exactly what you mean by that. + +--I mean by that that promotion is a lottery from which they begin by +withdrawing all the big numbers to distribute them to Monsieur Cretinard +whose papa is a millionaire, to Monsieur Tartuffe whose papa is a Jesuit, +or to a Marquis de Carabas whose mamma has the good graces of my Lord the +Bishop, and they make the poor devils draw from the rest. It is so in the +army--and with you? + +--Among the clergy, sir, promotion is generally given to merit. + +--I don't believe it; for if it were so, you would be a bishop at least. +Don't blush, it is the general report. + +--Captain.... + +--No false modesty. I hear your virtues praised everywhere. There is a +chorus of praises from every quarter. My friend here was just declaring to +me that all the women are wild about you. + +--Sir ... cried the Curé, blushing up to his ears, and not daring to raise +his eyes to Suzanne, who sat in a corner, convulsively turning over the +leaves of an album. + +--Don't protest, we know that true merit is modest; besides, I was by way +of asking myself, if I should not beg you to complete my daughter's +education. + +--You are making pleasant jokes, Captain, and I ask your pardon for not +being able to rise to the level of these witticisms. I see that my visit +has been unseasonable. It only remains for me to make my excuses and to say +to Mademoiselle, how pained I am to have made her acquaintance under such +unfavourable auspices, but I hope.... + +--Stop that, Monsieur le Curé, interrupted Durand in a curt tone. + +Marcel made a low bow, but as he withdraw, he caught an appealing look from +Suzanne. + + + + +XXI. + + +THE PAST. + + "Look not upon the past with grief, it + will not come back; wisely improve + the present, it is thine; and go onwards + fearlessly and with a strong heart + towards the mysterious future." + + LONGFELLOW (_Hyperion_). + +Marcel returned home exceedingly indignant. Although he had not expected an +over-cordial reception from the old Captain, whose irascible character and +surly ways were known to all, he did not think that he would have carried +so far his disregard of the most elementary propriety. + +"It serves me right," he said to himself, "what business had I there? +Nevertheless, on reflection, I have lost nothing. My reception by this old +dotard has taken away for ever my wish to go back there: and who knows what +might have happened, if I had had free admission to that house, if I had +met a friendly face and a kindly welcome? Oh, fool! I have found all that +in the sweet look of his adorable daughter, that appealing look which +seemed to implore my indulgence and pardon for the malevolent words of that +ill-bred soldier. Come, think no more of it, drive back to the lowest +depths those foolish thoughts which excite the brain. All that he does, God +does well. I was on the brink of the abyss; one step more and I should have +rolled to the bottom. Let me stop then, there is still time. Let me forget, +forget. Forget! better still, I will write and ask to be changed. Could I +forget her if I were to meet again that burning look, which pursues me to +the steps of the altar, and troubles me to the bottom of my soul?" + +He wrote in fact and began his letter ten times afresh. What could he say? +What reason could he bring? He had filled this cure for scarcely six +months. What pretext could he raise before his superiors? And how would any +complaint from him be received at the Palace? + +Night came. He felt himself oppressed by a vague and indefinable grief. + +Then little by little the present vanished. His infancy rose up before him. +He saw it again as in a glass, smiling, simple, pure; and he forgot himself +in these sweet memories. + +In proportion as we advance in life, we are attached to the things of the +past. It clothes itself then with those brilliant colours with which we +love to invest what we have lost. Youthful years, bright with poetry and +sunlight, come and gild the gloomy and prosaic nooks of ripened age, the +twilight of the eternal night. + +The young man full of illusions and dreams pursues his road without casting +a look backwards. What matters, indeed, the past to him? He expects nothing +but from the future. Proud at having escaped from infancy, at arriving at +the age of man, at flying on his wings, he pities the years when he was +small and weak, ignorant and credulous. + +But when he has met with obstacles and ruts on that road which appeared to +him so wide and so fair, when he has torn his heart with the first briars +of life, when his thought has ripened beneath the sun of passions, and his +soul, stripped of its illusions, feels all chilly and bare amidst the ice +of reality, then he returns to the joys of infancy, he warms himself again +with the memory of his mother, and sits once again in the pleasant corner +of the family fire-side, on the little stool of his childhood. + +Marcel saw himself again at the little seminary of Pont-à-Mousson, on the +benches, all blackened with ink, of the school-room, studying with ardour +the _Epitome_ or the _De Viris_ beneath the paternal eye of Father Martin, +a father aged 24, a deacon with curly hair, as timid as a maid. Then he ran +in the long corridors, or in the great square court lined with galleries +shaded by the chapel. He remembered his joy when he had slipped on some +excuse into the Seniors' garden: "Ah! there is little Marcel, come here, +you brat!" And everyone wished to give him a caress. + +Then, the first time when he was called to the honour of serving the Mass. +He had thought of it a week beforehand, full of emotion and fear. At length +the day has come. He is dressed in the white surplice, wearing on his head +the red cap. He would have wished the whole world to see him; but the +pupils alone were present, and that diminished his happiness. + +Father Barbelin, the censor, a severe but just man, officiated. He trembled +in every limb, as he responded the sacramental verses to this formidable +functionary. That was a great business; his little comrades called him in a +whisper from behind: Marcel! Marcel! and laughed and nudged each other, +while the elder ones, their nose in their book, with sanctimonious face and +ecstatic look were wrapt in God. + +Then his success, his entrance to the great seminary at Nancy, his first +sermon in the chapel. His voice trembled at the commencement, but little by +little, growing stronger, taking courage, inspired by the sacred text, he +forgot everything, and the Superior, old Father Richard, who watched him +with his little bright cunning eyes, and the unmoved professors, and his +watchful fellow-students, jeering and scoffing at first, then at last +astonished and jealous. "There is the stuff of an orator in him," the +Professor of Sacred Eloquence had said, "we must push this lad forward." +"He is full of talent and virtue," the Superior had replied, "he will get +on. He is our chosen vessel." And the same day he had dined at the master's +table, and they had spoken of him to Monseigneur. He had in fact been +pushed forward ... and with his talents, his learning, his virtues and his +eloquence, he had come to teaching the catechism to the little peasants of +Althausen! + +Althausen! That was the blow of the hammer which recalled him to reality. +He found himself again the poor village Curé, and he began to laugh. + +"Poor fool!" he cried, "I shall never be but a common imbecile! Is not my +way all traced out? I must continue my career, and let myself go with the +current of life. Is it then so hard? Why delude myself with phantoms? I +will try to slay the muttering passions, to drive away the fits of ambition +which rise to my brain; and perhaps by dint of subduing all that is +rebellious in me, I shall come to follow piously the line marked out by my +superiors. I will watch patiently amidst my flock, by the corner of my +fire, among the Fathers and my weariness. + +"Weariness, that cold demon with the gloomy eye, but I will remain chaste +... and after a life filled with little nothingnesses and little works I +shall pass away in peace in the bosom of the Lord. And there is my life. +Nothing else to choose. No turning aside to the right or to the left. I +must remain a martyr, a martyr to my duty, or an apostate, and infamous +renegade. The triumph or the shame!" + +And, as he just uttered these words with bitterness, a soft voice answered +like an echo: + +--The shame? + +The Curé started and raised his head. His lamp was out, and the dying +embers on the hearth cast only a feeble light into the room. + +He distinguished, however, a few steps from him the outline of a woman's +form. + +--Who is there? he cried with a sort of terror. + +The shadowy outline stood forth more clearly. + +He recognized his servant. + +--Why the shame? she said. + + + + +XXII. + + +THE SERVANT. + + "I have already said that dame + Jacinthe although little superannuated, + had still kept her bloom. It is true that + she spared nothing to preserve it: + besides taking a clyster every day, she + swallowed some excellent jelly during + the day and on going to bed." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +She looked at him fixedly with burning, feverish eyes. + +She was a lusty lass, already arrived at the age of discretion, as Le Sage +says, that is to say, she had passed her fortieth year, the canonical +period for the servants of Curés, but was fair and fresh still, in spite of +some wrinkles and her hair growing gray. She possessed that modest and +appetizing plumpness, somewhat rare among mature virgins, the sign of a +quiet conscience, a good digestion and feelings satisfied. + +What pious souls call holiness exuded from every pore: cast-down eyes, +chaste deportment, gentle movements. She did not walk, she glided over the +ground as if she already felt the wings of seraphim hanging on her +shoulders; she did not speak, she murmured unctuous words with a soft, low, +mysterious voice like a prayer. When she said: "Would Monsieur le Curé he +pleased to come to breakfast? Perhaps Monsieur le Curé could eat a boiled +egg?" or "Ah! the sermon which Monsieur le Curé has been pleased to give +has gone to my heart!" it was in the same tone as she would say: "_Lamb of +God which takest away the sins of the world_...." and one was tempted to +answer: _Kyrie eleison_. + +And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long, +silent look. + +She said so well: "my duty," "I wish to do my duty," that one felt filled +with admiration for this holy maid. + +Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently +penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold. + +Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by +her austere deportment and her substantial charms. More than one buxom +village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the +gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon +this delicate subject with her. + +But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body +and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune +of her pastor. + +She approached the hearth with slow steps, blew on the embers, relighted +the lamp, and placing it so as to throw the light on her master's face, she +said to him anxiously: + +--You are in pain, are you not? + +--You were there then? said the Curé dissatisfied. + +--Yes, she answered him with the affectionate tone of a mother, I was +there, pardon me; I was going to bed, and I heard you talking aloud, there +was no light; I feared you were ill, and I ventured to come in. + +--And you have heard? + +--I have heard that you were not happy, that is all. + +--No one is happy in this world, Veronica. + +--Yes, we are so only in the other, I know that. And yet happiness is so +easy. + +The Curé put his head between his hands without replying. + +The servant went on: + +--Can it be that I, your servant, a poor ignorant village girl, should say +that to you, Monsieur le Curé? + +--What, Veronica? + +--But what matters our condition on earth? We are in a state of transition. +Holy Mary, she too, was a poor servant and now she is far above a queen. + +--Without doubt, said the Curé. + +--We must then despise nobody. Under the most humble appearance, God often +conceals his most faithful servants. + +--Most certainly. But what are you driving at? + +--At this, Monsieur le Curé; that we must be good and indulgent to +everybody: that the great sometimes have need of the little, and that when +we are able to render a service to our neighbour we must do it without +hesitation. + +--It is Jesus who commands it, Veronica. But explain yourself, I pray. + +--Well! yes, I will speak, she replied, for I am pained to see you thus, +and the more so as it is certainly allowed me to tell you so, me who am +destined, please God, to live with you. I have only known you since you +were our Curé, but you have been so good to me that I love you like ... a +sister. I was all alone here, like a poor forsaken creature, after the +death of my old master, the Abbé Fortin--may God keep his soul,--and you +consented to keep me when taking the parsonage. It is good of you, for you +might have brought with you your former servant, or again some niece, as +many do. + +--I have no niece, Veronica. + +--A niece, or a sister, or a relation. After all you have kept me, although +you could have found a better than myself. Oh, very easily, I know ... and +I thank you from the bottom of my heart, yes, from the bottom of my heart. +But could you have found one more devoted, more discreet? I believe not; as +much, perhaps; but more, I believe not. Ah! I tell you here, Monsieur le +Curé, you can do everything you want, nobody shall ever know anything of +it. + +The Curé looked at his servant with amazement. + +--What do you mean by that, Veronica? he asked in a stern voice. + +--Oh! nothing, I mean nothing. I mean that you can have entire confidence +in your poor servant. + +--I thank you, Veronica, but I don't know what you mean. + +--I explain myself badly doubtless, Monsieur le Curé. Ah! pardon me, I was +forgetting ... here, there is a letter which I have just found and which +has been slipped under the door at night. + +He looked at the address. It was an elegant and bold hand, the hand of a +woman. + + + + +XXIII. + + +THE LETTER + + "The beauty then, to end this war, + Offers but a single way which we can hardly guess." + + R. IMBERT (_Nouvelles_). + +A sweet perfume was exhaled from it. + +He opened it with a trembling hand. + +That strange intuition of the heart which is named presentiment, told him +that it came from Suzanne. + +Pale with emotion he read: + + +"MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ, + +"I do not wish the day to pass without coming to ask your pardon for my +father's conduct towards you, and assure you that he does not think a +single one of his wicked words. + +"Do not keep, I pray, an evil memory of me, and believe that I should he +grieved if a single doubt were to remain in your mind as to the sympathy +and respect which you inspire in + +"Suzanne Durand. + +"P.S. I have much need of your counsels." + + +Marcel, full of a delicious trouble, read and re-read this letter. He did +not take careful note of his sensations, but he felt an ineffable joy +overflow his heart, and at the same time a vague anxiety. + +His servant's voice recalled Him to himself. + +--Doubtless it is a sick person who asks for religious aid, she said. + +Was there a slight irony in that question? + +The priest thought he saw it. He called out sharply: + +--You are still there, Veronica? Who has called you? I don't want you any +longer. + +--Pardon me, Monsieuur le Curé, she answered humbly and softly, I was +waiting.... I thought that perhaps you were going out _to visit this sick +person_ and that then I could be useful to you in some way. + +--You cannot be useful to me in any way, Veronica, But truly you astonish +me. What have you then to say to me? Come, explain yourself at once. + +--No, Monsieur le Curé, there is midnight striking. It is time to repose, I +wish you good-night, sir. + +--Good-night, Veronica. + +"What a strange woman," said Marcel to himself, "what can she want with me. +One would say that she had a secret to confide to me and that she does not +dare.... Could she have any suspicion? No, it is impossible. How could she +know what I want to hide from myself. She has caught two or three words +perhaps; but what could she understand, and what have I let drop to +compromise me? She has evidently heard others, for she was here before me, +and these old walls have been witnesses, I am sure, of many groanings of +the soul.... Let us be cautious, nevertheless, and repress within ourselves +the thoughts which would come forth. A wise precept. It was a precept of my +master of rhetoric. Yes, let us be cautious; in spite of this woman's +appearance of devotion, who would trust to such marks of affection? The +servant's enemy is his master; and I clearly see that independently of my +dignity, I must not make the least false step; what torments I should +reserve to myself for the future. + +"And this letter of Suzanne, the adorable and lovely Suzanne! What an +emotion suddenly seized me at the sight of that unknown handwriting, which +I had a presentiment was here. Oh! what a strange mystery is man's heart. +I, a priest, with a nature said to be energetic and strong. I trembled and +was affected like a child, because it has pleased a little school-girl to +write me a couple of lines in order to excuse her father's rudeness. What +is more natural than such conduct? Is it not the act of a well-bred girl? +And yet already my foolish brain is beating the country and travelling into +the land of fancies ... of abominable fancies. + +"She asks me for counsel; doubtless I will give it her. Is it not my duty +and business as priest? but where, but when can I see her?..." + +And he went very thoughtfully to bed, with his head full of dreams. + + + + +XXIV. + + +THE FIRST MEETING. + + "Ah! let him, my child, + Ah! let him proceed. + When I was a Curate + I did much the same." + + ANONYMOUS (_Le chant du Curé_). + +The first person he saw the next day at morning Mass was Suzanne Durand. +She had not yet come to these low Masses, which are affected usually by the +devout, because the church is then more empty, and they feel themselves +more alone with God or with the priest; therefore the Curé was deeply +affected by this pious eagerness. + +It is doubtful whether, on that day, his prayers reached the throne of the +Eternal, for he brought but little fervour to the holy sacrifice. + +A good woman who had given twenty sous to buy a place in the firmament for +her defunct spouse, was quite scandalized to remark that the Curé was +eating in a heedless manner the wafer which, for nearly 2000 years, serves +as a lodging for Christ. + +His words rose with the incense to the arches of the old church, but his +soul remained below, fluttering round that fair young girl, as if to +envelop her with embraces. + +When he had dismissed the faithful with the sacramental words _Ite missa +est_, he felt a momentary confusion and he felt his knees tremble. He was +afraid of himself, for he saw the Captain's daughter rise from her seat and +slowly make her way to the confessional. + +What! It was perfectly true then, she had asked for his counsel, and while +he, the priest, was hesitating and seeking where he could converse with her +without exposing himself to the brutal invective of the father or the +senseless scandals of the village, this simple girl had found, without any +aid from him, the safest spot, the sanctuary of which he had inwardly +dreamed. + +He was then about to listen all alone to the divine accents of that +charming mouth; to see her kneeling before him, her face wreathed with a +modest blush,--before him who had wished to kiss her foot-prints. + +Oh, God supreme! who could depict his transports, his emotion, the thrill +which ran through all his frame. She, she so near to him, so near that her +sweet breath caresses his face like a breeze come from heaven. + +He felt wild with joy. But she also is affected, she also trembles, and +beneath her palpitating breast, he seems to hear the beatings of her heart. +What passed? What avowal did this maiden of ardent feeling make to this +hot-passioned man? There is one of those mysteries which remain for ever +buried between priest and woman, between penitent and confessor. What they +said to one another no one knows, but from that confessional into which he +entered pensive, wavering, it is true, but still contending, he went out +with his face radiant, and his heart intoxicated with love. + + + + +XXV. + + +LOVE. + + "All loves around us: all around is heard, + Hard by the warbler's quivering kiss, + That voiceless song of flowers, which the lark, + by love distracted, to his mate translates." + + EMILE DARIO (_Sonnets_). + +He returned to the parsonage with a light step, hearing the birds singing +in the lime-trees the same joyous song which his own heart was singing. He +breakfasted with a good appetite, smiled at his servant, and gave pleasant +answers to her questions. + +It seemed to him that a new world was opening. New ideas sprang up in him, +and he discovered sensations till then unknown. + +He felt better; life smiled upon him, and all the things of life. + +The past had altogether vanished; the present was radiant, the future was +laden with rosy dreams. + +That same morning he had risen as usual, with no settled wish, aimless and +hopeless. Till then, he had acted like a machine, hardly knowing whither he +went, following his road by chance, walking onwards in the line which had +been traced out for him, with no relish, full of weariness and sadness. + +What was he expecting then? Nothing. He was clinging to the fragments of +his beliefs, he remained hanging there, not daring to stir, to think, or to +turn, for fear of rolling to the bottom of some unknown abyss. But suddenly +everything is changed, everything is transformed, everything takes another +aspect. The whole world is illumined. Religion, dogma, mysteries, altar, +priest, what is all that? God even. He thinks no more of him. + +A woman's look has obliterated all. + +A woman's voice has murmured in his ear and he perceives that he is young, +that he is strong, that he has a heart, and that all cries to him at once: +Love! Love! + +Oh! what a wonderful thing love is! What frenzy, what delirium, what +madness! Sublime madness, ravishing delirium, delicious frenzy. + +First and last mystery of nature, first and last voice of the universe. + +It is thou, oh God, who givest life to all, who dost animate all, who art +the principle of all. Thou art Alpha and Omega; thou art the potent arm +which has caused the worlds to rise, which has re-united the scattered +forces of matter, which has made order out of chaos. + +And there are found men, creatures, works of love like everything which +moves, breathes, buds, shoots forth, there are found creatures who have +dared to say: Love is evil. + +They have sworn to renounce love. They have spat in thy face, fruitful, +creative Divinity, they have denied thee on their impure altars. + +But it is their God who is evil, as Proudhon said, that senseless and +ludicrous God who delights in grotesque saturnalia, in ridiculous prayers, +in shameful mummeries, in vows contrary to nature. + +Marcel felt himself transformed. + +A new feeling was born in him and plunged him into ineffable delight. + +Nevertheless, as I have said, he experienced a vague fear; he had had a +glimpse of the unknown, and he was one of those delicate and timid souls +with their thoughts in some way turned upon themselves, which are terrified +at the unknown. + +Seized with a restless apprehension and with a mysterious trouble, he felt +the hour coming which was about to change his life. + + + + +XXVI. + + +OF YOUNG GIRLS IN GENERAL. + + "You tell me, Madame, that this description + is neither in the taste of Ovid + nor that of Quinault. I agree, my + dear, but I am not in a humour to + say soft things." + + VOLTAIRE (_Dict. Phil._). + +The great fault, in my opinion, both of the writer and of the poet, is to +idealize woman too much, and especially the young girl. + +On the stage just as in the novel, the heroines are placed on a sort of +pedestal where they receive haughtily the incense and homage of poor +mankind. + +They are perfect beings, of superior essence, gifted with all the beauties +and all the virtues, whose white robes of innocence never receive, amidst +all the impurities, of our social state, the slightest splash. + +Why then raise thus upon a pedestal of Parian marble these statues of clay? +Why place reverentially beneath a tabernacle of gold these pasteboard +divinities? + +Good Heavens! women are women, that is to say: the females of man, nothing +more. They are above all what men make them, and as we are generally +vicious and spoilt, since from the most tender age we take care to defile +ourselves in the street, in the workshop or on the school-benches; as the +atmosphere we breathe is corrupt, we have no claim to believe that our +wives, our sisters and our daughters can remain unspotted by our touch, and +that this same atmosphere which they breathe, will purify itself in passing +through their chaste nostrils. + +If then the woman is not worse than we, as some assert, assuredly she is no +better. + +And how could they be better, who are our pupils, and when the share we +have given them in society is so slight and so strangely ordered that, if +they cannot by means of supreme efforts expand and grow in it morally and +intellectually, every latitude is allowed them on the other hand to corrupt +themselves in it beyond measure, and to fall lower than the man into the +lowest depths. + +"Fools!" said Machiavelli, "you sow hemlock and pretend you see ears of +corn growing ripe." + +Why then idealize and make a divinity of this creature, when we know that +the education she ordinarily receives, takes away from her, little by +little, all which remains attractive, divine and ideal! + +Certainly a chaste and simple young girl, fair and fresh as a spring +morning, sweet as the perfume of the violet, and whose mind and body alike +are as pure as the petals of a half-opened lily, is the most heavenly and +the most adorable thing in the world. + +But, outside the pages of your novel, how many of them have you met in the +world? + +I have often heard the modest virtues of the middle classes extolled, and +it is from such surroundings that the novelist of to-day most frequently +draws his feminine ideal. It is among the middle classes indeed that all +the qualifications seem to unite at first. It is the intermediate +condition, the most happy of all, as the excellent Monsieur Daru said in +1820, since it is only disinherited of the highest favours of fortune, and +the social and intellectual advantages of it are accessible to a reasonable +ambition. + +But they evidently benefit very little by their advantages, for I, and you +also, have always found them coquettish, ignorant, frivolous and vain, +bringing up their children very badly, but in revenge, generally deceiving +their husbands very well. + +"In middle-class households, bickering; among fashionable people, adultery. +In fashionable middle-class households, either one or the other and +sometimes both."[1] + +And how could it be otherwise? + +The daughters of devout and consequently narrow-minded and ignorant +mothers, of sceptical and libertine fathers, they spend five or six years +at school, where they consummate the loss of what may have escaped the +baneful example of their family. + +They have taken from their mother foolish vanity, ridiculous prejudices, +the art of lying; from their father scepticism and an elastic conscience; +perhaps they will preserve their virtue and modesty? The pernicious +contacts of the school soon carry them away. + +They still have a blush on their face, a down-cast eye, a timid bearing. +But their affected timidity is the token of their knowledge of _good and +evil_; like Eve, if they have not yet tasted of the forbidden fruit, they +burn to taste it, for their thought is sullied, their imagination is +vagrant and at the bottom of their soul there is a germ of corruption. + +They leave the boarding-school _virgins_, but chaste, never. + +Let us then represent the world as it la, women such as they are, and not +such as they ought to be; let us call things by their names, and when there +is moral deformity somewhere, let us show that deformity. + +When we make wonders of the heroines of a novel, possessing the charms of +the _three Graces_ and the virtues of the seven sages of Greece, who when +they fall, fall in spite of themselves, impelled by a fatal concurrence of +circumstances, but with so much candour and innocence, that we cannot do +otherwise than pardon their fall and even fail to comprehend that they have +fallen, we are completely amazed when we descend from this imaginary world +to enter the world of reality. + +The idealization of woman has therefore, besides other faults, that of +causing as to take a dislike to our ordinary companions. How, indeed, after +being present at the devotion of Sophonisba, at the suicide of the chaste +Lucretia, at the display of the virtues of Mademoiselle Agnes, and at that +of the form of Venus at the bath, can we contemplate with ravished eye the +wife no less plain than lawful, who is sitting with sullen air at our +fire-side, who has no other care than that of her person, no other moral +capital than a round enough sum of prejudices and follies, and whose +charms, finally, resemble more those of a Hottentot Venus than those of +Venus Aphrodite. + +The picture of virtues is an excellent thing, but still it is necessary +that these virtues should exist. We must not enunciate an idea simply +because it is moral, but because it is true. _Amicus Plato, sed magis amica +veritas_. + +That is why I shall not depict the little person, whom I am going to make +better known to you, as a model of virtue. She is an inquisitive girl, she +is vehement, she has been brought up in an atmosphere where depravity is +more generally inhaled than holiness. I should then be badly advised in +presenting you with an angel of candour and wisdom. + +An angel! She is at that age indeed, at which foolish men call women +angels. + + "Before they are wed, they are angels so gentle, + But quickly they change to vulgarian scolds, + She-demons who truly make hell of their homes." + +[Footnote 1: H. Taine (Notes sur Paris).] + + + + +XXVII. + + +OF SUZANNE IN PARTICULAR. + + "An exalted, romantic imagination of + vivid dreams, peopled with sumptuous + hotels, with smart equipages, fêtes, + balls, rubies, gold and azure. This is + what I have most surely gathered at + this school and is called: a brilliant + education." + + V. SARDOU (_Maison Neuve_). + +But she was a ravishing demon, this child, and more than one saint might +have damned himself for her black eyes, those deep limpid eyes which let +one read to her soul. And there one paused perfectly fascinated, for this +fresh resplendent soul displayed in large characters the radiant word, +Love. + +Have you never read this word in a maiden's two eyes? Seek in your memory +and seek the fairest, and you will have the delightful portrait of Suzanne. + +I am unable to say, however, that she was a perfect girl. What girl is +perfect here below? She had left school, and it would have been a miracle +if she were, and we know that away from Lourdes, God works no more +miracles. + +She had even many faults: those of her age doubled by those which education +gives to girls. Many a time, when opening the holy Bible, the only book +capable of cheering me in the hours of sadness, I have come across these +words of Ezekiel, + +"They are proud, full of appetites, abounding in idleness." + +It is of the daughters of Sodom that the holy prophet is complaining! What +would he say to-day to _the young ladies_ of our modern Sodoms? + +But if the little Suzanne had all the darling faults of forward flowers +forced in the warm soil of our enervating education, and our decayed +civilization, she was better than many plainer ones, and I do not think +that the sum total of her errors could weigh heavy on her conscience. +Perhaps she was culpable in thought; but if the imagination was sick, the +heart was good and sound. She had not sinned, but she said to herself, that +sinning would be sweet! + +Well! there is no great crime there. Does not every woman love instinctive +pleasure? Among them there are few stoics. They who are so, are so by +compulsion, and so they cannot make a virtue of it. Suzanne loved pleasure +then, and she loved it the more because she only knew it by hear-say. + +The education of Saint-Denis had contributed no little to develop her +natural disposition. + +Everything has been said about the _House of the Legion of Honour_, about +its curious system of education with regard to young girls, nearly all of +them poor, and brought up as if, when they left school, they would find an +income of £2,000 a year. + +It is known that in this establishment intended for the daughters of +officers _with no fortune_, everything is taught except that which is most +necessary for a woman to know. They leave having a barren, superficial +education, principally composed of words, and in which consequently, to the +exclusion of the intelligence and the heart, the memory plays the principal +part; none of the childish rules of ceremonial are spared them, none of the +frivolous accomplishments indispensable for access to a world which, for +the greater part, they will never be invited to see; and they return to +their father's humble roof, dreaming of balls, fêtes, equipages, hotels, +drawing-rooms, the only surroundings in which they could profitably display +the useless accomplishments with which they have been endowed, but also +perfectly incapable of darning their stockings or of boiling an egg. + +And so they soon blush at their father's obscure condition and evince a +mortal disgust of the modest joys of the poor fire-side. + +"Heavens! how little it all is!" Such was the first word which escaped her +when she returned to her father's house. + +She had grown, and everything she saw on her return had shrank; her father +like the rest, perhaps more than the rest. She loved him all the same, but +she could not help finding him common. + +She, the dainty young lady, brought up with the daughters of +country-gentlemen and generals, she said to herself that she was only the +daughter of an obscure captain, and it humiliated her. Ah! if her haughty +friends with whom she had exchanged confidences and dreams, had seen her +coming down the sumptuous stairs of her castles in Spain to go and live in +a poor village, while her father perspired over his cabbage-planting. + +Her dreams! You know them well, and have also told them in quiet at the age +when you know how to form them: + +At the age when you cease to be called a little girl, when the dress-maker +has just lengthened your dress, when your father's friends are no longer +familiar, but say with a smile: _Mademoiselle_. + +At the age, when you feel the attraction of the unknown redouble its power, +when for the first time you feel a conscious blush at the look of a man. + +At the age when the likeness of the young cousin you saw yesterday, appears +all at once on the page of your history or grammar, and strange to say, +pursues you at your games; when the noisy games of your companions weary +you, and you betake yourself to solitude in order to screen your thoughts. + +And solitude, a bad adviser, takes possession of your thoughts, isolates +them from the rest of the real world, in order to immerse them in imaginary +worlds, and then agitates, reflects, whirls, polishes all that marvellous +enchanted universe in which the daughters of Eve wander with each wild +license, whom the base-born sons of Adam approach only a single step. + +But when that step is taken, the enchanted world vanishes. The scaffolding +cracks and falls down. Palaces, geail, heroes and bounteous fairies +disappear pell-mell into the lowest depth. The old farce of humanity, the +comedy of love is played out. + +Ah! how ugly it all is then! Under the smoky lamp of reality you vaguely +distinguish the battered grotesque shapes, rising in the ruins. + +Suzanne therefore, like all her young friends, like you, Mademoiselle, and +also like you formerly, Madame, had commenced her little romance, had +sketched her little plot. She had loved, oh truly loved, with a love +necessarily confined to the platonic state, the handsome young men with +tasty cravats, whom she had seen on days when she walked out. What +delightful chapters were sketched upon their brown or fair heads! Oh! when +would she be free? When would she cease to have the ever-open eye of an +inquisitive under-mistress upon her slightest gesture? + +And then the day of liberty had come, and under the breath of that liberty, +so eagerly and impatiently expected, the chapters she had begun were +blotted out, and so was the handsome head of a cherub or an Amadis in a +sublieutenant's cap or in a chimney-pot. + +Fallen from these enervating heights of fictitious passions and +hair-dressers' scents into the prosaic but generous and brave arms of +paternal lore, on the breast of true and mighty nature, she had forgotten +for a moment her dreams. + +She lavished on her father all the treasures of affection which her heart +contained, and treated him with all manner of solicitude and caresses; and +the old soldier before this youthful future which shone before him, himself +forgot his dreams of the past. + + + + +XXVIII. + + +THE SHADOW. + + "Troubled by a vague emotion, I said + to myself, I wanted to be loved, and + I looked around me; I saw no one + who inspired me with love, no one + who appeared to me capable of feeling it." + + BENJAMIN CONSTANT (_Adolphe_). + +But what is the liberty that a well-behaved girl can enjoy? She had run +like a wild thing in the meadows, letting her hair fly in the wind, and +elated by the kisses of the breeze. She had relished the long mornings of +idleness in bed, recollecting, in order to double her enjoyment, that at +that very moment the friends she had left at school, were turning pale +beneath the smoky lamps of the school-room; and in the evening she read the +delightful novels of Droz by her lamp, and thought with pleasure that her +same friends had been in bed for a long while. Then she closed her book, +and reflected again and said with a yawn: "They are asleep, poor little +things, and I am awake, I am free to be awake." + +And she wrote long letters to them in which she told them, how happy she +was, assuming a charming air of superiority, treating them as children who +knew nothing yet of life. But she thought that she knew nothing more of it +herself, and yearned to be instructed. + +She felt that there was something wanting, and that her father's affection +was not enough to fill her heart. + +She had looked well about her, but she had found only what was commonplace. +No more young clerks with curled hair, who darted inflammatory looks at the +women from behind the shop-windows, no Saint-Cyrion with delicate +moustache, no doctors of twenty-five or poets of eighteen. Besides her +father and the notabilities of the village, middle-aged dignitaries, +nothing but peasants only. + +She held the belief which all girls hold; a nice little belief very +convenient and very simple: the sweet Jesus, the Paschal Lamb, and the +Immaculate Conception. Around this trio gravitated all the rest, but +graceful and light as the mists which float at sun-rise. + +Therefore the Captain had not thought it his duty to disappoint his +daughter, when she said to him one Sunday morning, "My darling papa, I am +going to Mass." He let her go, grumbling; and she noticed Marcel. + +The fine figure of the priest struck her; she was touched by the sound of +his voice, and while she fixed her gaze upon him, she encountered his, and +their eyes fell. + +In the days when she took her walks at Saint-Denis, and saw for the first +time that she was admired by some handsome young men, she had not +experienced a more delicious emotion. + +She was astonished and almost ashamed at it, and nevertheless she returned +for Vespers on purpose to see the Curé. She soon gained the certainty that +she had attracted his attention, and she was flattered at it. What! she, a +little school-girl, was she distracting from his prayers, at the very foot +of the altar, a minister of the altar? She felt herself rise in importance. +But her natural modesty made her reflect directly: "Has he looked at me +because I am a stranger, or because I am pretty?" + +She was almost afraid that it was not this latter reason; Marcel's eyes +reassured her. + +Nevertheless, the first impulse of self-love satisfied, what did it concern +her? How did this priest's admiration affect her? Is a priest a man? It +must be no more thought of. But she could not prevent herself from thinking +of him, being pleased at his finding her pretty. Others, doubtless, had +found her pretty before he did; perhaps had told her so in a whisper, but +was that the same thing? + +The silent admiration of this grave personage, clothed in a sacred +character, raised her all at once in her own eyes more than a thousand warm +glances or timid declarations from insignificant and common-place youths. +Besides, he was young, he was handsome, and his position, his studies +placed him far above the ignorant and common people, whom she elbowed since +her return. + +At night, the pale fine countenance of the Curé of Althausen crossed her +dreams several times; she was not disturbed at it, but she said to herself +that she would like to have a closer acquaintance with this shepherd of +men, who had made so deep an impression on her. + +She was affected by his grave voice, soft and sad, more than by his look, +and, with a school-girl's simplicity, she asked herself, if a heart could +not beat beneath that black robe. + +The visit of Marcel filled her with a strange trouble, and she hesitated a +long time before showing herself to him. Then the bitter raillery of her +father tortured her heart and wounded her in her delicate maidenly +sentiments. She suffered more than he from the insults which he received, +and she vowed to herself to have them forgiven. + + + + +XXIX. + + +OTHER MEETINGS. + + "There was no seduction on her part + or on mine: love simply came, and I + was her lover before I had even thought + that I could become so." + + MAXIME DU CAMP (_Mémoires d'un suicidé_). + +They saw one another again very soon: sometimes on the road which leads to +the little chapel of Saint Anne, sometimes behind the village gardens, +other times on the high-road lined with poplars. From the furthest point at +which he caught sight of her dress or her large straw-hat, trimmed with red +ribbon, he trembled and became pale. + +The first time he quickened his pace as he passed her, as though he were +afraid of being retained by a force stronger than his own will, or perhaps +from fear of ridicule, and he bowed to her as one bows to a queen. + +She returned his bow graciously, and that was all. He had his sum of +happiness for the rest of the day. + +The second time they met, they had both thought so much of one another that +they accosted one another like old acquaintances. The heart of each had +broken the ice and made all the advances before they had taken the first +steps. The young girl had read in the priest's eyes the wish to accost her, +and he saw that he would be welcome. + +Was anything more necessary? Therefore, mutually content, when they +separated, they each had the desire to see the other again. + +It was very often then that they saw one another; but especially at the +morning Masses; then, when he turned towards the nave, and raising his look +towards the gallery encountered hers, he asked no other joy from heaven. + + + + +XXX. + + +SERAPHIC LOVE. + + "How many times does it not occur + to me to blush at my tastes? to hide + them from myself? to feign with myself + that I have them not? to find some + covering for them beneath which I + conceal them, in order to play a part + a little less foolish in my own conscience?" + + JULES SIMON (_Le Devoir_). + +But one day the Curé awoke full of dismay. The first intoxication had +slightly dissipated, he had taken time to look closely within himself, and +when he sought to analyze in cool blood this new and ravishing sensation, +he saw the abyss beneath his feet. + +"What! he said to himself, whither am I going? What am I doing? I, a +priest, a minister of the altar, I should be at that point a slave of sin; +I shall continue to cast myself from darkness to darkness until the +definite and final fall. Oh! Lord, stop me, come to my aid; suffer not this +shame and this crime." + +But he altered his mind. When the devil has succeeded in bringing a soul to +sin, there is no artifice he does not use to blind him beforehand, and to +turn away his thought from everything capable of making him see the unhappy +state in which he is. That is what the Church teaches. + +Soon he viewed this passion under a new aspect, and he asked himself why he +had not the right to love. Had not all the saints loved? Had not St. Jerome +loved St. Paula? Had not Francis de Sales loved Madame de Chantal? Had not +Fénélon loved Madame Guyon? St. Theresa, her spiritual director, and +Venillot, his cook? + +Were there not two kinds of love? The ethereal, ideal, chaste, seraphic +love, the love of the creature grateful for the perfect work of the +creator; platonic love, free from all impurity, allowed to the virtuous +confessor for his virtuous penitent, the love of the wise man in fact; +or--the other. Then with that art of the rhetorician which sacred +scholasticism teaches to every Levite, he said to himself, "Yes, I can +love, for it is the spotless love of the angels." + +But his conscience protested and cried to him: "It is the other!" + + + + +XXXI. + + +THE VIRGIN. + + "In whatever place I was, whatever + occupation I imposed on myself, I + could not think of women, the sight + of a woman made me tremble. How + many times have I risen at night, + bathed in sweat, to fasten my mouth + on our ramparts, feeling myself ready + to suffocate." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +It was the other. He was soon obliged to confess this to himself; for +slumber abandoned his couch. + +In vain in the day-time he wearied his body under the labour which kills +thought. He sought to fly from the seductive image. He did not go out, for +fear of seeing her. He rushed upon every hard and unfruitful labour that he +could find. He rooted up his trees in order to re-plant them elsewhere; dug +useless banks in his garden; changed his library from its place, and +carried one after another his enormous folios to the upper story. He would +have liked to go upon the road, sit at the bottom of some ditch, and take +the stone-breaker's hammer. + +But the thought which he silenced by day, took its revenge by night. How +many times, during the long silent hours, his servant heard him get up all +at once and march with long steps in his room, as if he had to accomplish +some terrible vow. + +It was the devil, whispering low mysterious words in his ear, while his +impetuous desires constrained him with all the power of his vitality. He +walked like a madman from his bed to his window, which he dared not open. +He had often formerly, leant his elbows there during the hours of +sleeplessness, and breathed with delight the keen freshness of the valley. +But now he dared no longer; warm vapours rose up to him and completed the +conflagration of his senses. Nature was re-awakening from the long slumber +of winter, and already setting to work, was accomplishing from every +quarter the mysterious work of love. And within and without he felt its +formidable power growing and enveloping him. + +Nameless thoughts tumultuously invaded his sick brain and ruled there as +despots. They attached themselves to him like an implacable furious old +woman, who attaches herself the more closely to her young lover, the more +she feels he is going to escape her. + +He saw again in continual hallucinations, sometimes the lascivious player +as she had appeared to him near her little white bed, sometimes the fresh +face of the religious school-girl who smiled to him from the height of the +gallery. At other times he saw them both together, and each of them called +him and said to him: Come, come. + +Oh! why all these obstacles, these doors, these walls, these prejudices and +that formidable barrier which he dared not pass, duty. + +It seemed to him that a burning lava was escaping from his heart, running +into his veins and devouring him. His limbs were heavy and bruised; his +head was on fire like his heart, and his thoughts were enveloped in mire. +Often with his eye fixed on space, he contemplated some phantom visible to +himself alone; then big tears rolled slowly on his cheeks and fell one by +one on his bare chest, and he felt that they relieved him. + +He had placed a statue of the Virgin at the foot of his bed: the one which +has a heart in flames and open arms. He looked on it as he went to sleep +and prayed the Mother, eternally chaste, to watch over his dreams. + +But many times in his delirium he saw the Virgin come to life and take the +well-known face of her from whom he sought to flee, and come and find him +in his couch. And he woke with a start full of terror of himself at the +moment when, in his impious sacrilege, he felt the chaste bosom of the +Mother of God quiver beneath his kisses. + +Then he opened his scared eyes and perceived before him the sweet form +which stretched its plaster arms to him in the shadow, and full of agony he +cried: + +"_Mater inviolata, ora pro nobis_!" + +But once he thought he heard a voice which answered: + +"_Christe, audi nos_." + + + + + +XXXII. + + +THE DEATH'S-HEAD. + + "God is my witness that I did then + everything in the world to divert myself + and to heal myself." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +One night he went out by stealth, crossed the market-place, and descended +the hill. He had the look of a man who was hiding himself, and he went back +several times, as if he was afraid of being followed. He reached the +cemetery, took a key from his pocket, cautiously opened the gate and closed +it behind him. At the bottom of the principal path there was a little +chapel which served for an ossuary. In it was a hideous accumulation of the +remains of several generations. The cemetery was becoming too full and it +had been necessary to make room. Here as elsewhere the cry was: "Room for +the young." And it is only justice. What would become of as if all the old +remained? There is overcrowding under ground as there is above. "Keep off! +Keep off!" Therefore their ancestors' bones were in the way, and they had +cast them into this retreat to wait for the common grave. But the common +grave is again a place which must be taken, and the recent gluttonous dead +want everything. "Keep off! Keep off!" Let us not say anything ourselves, +perhaps they will dispute with us the corner of ground which should shelter +our bones! + +Marcel went into the gloomy chapel; he lighted a dark lantern and began to +search among the pile. + +Then he returned to the parsonage like a thief, afraid of being caught, and +shut himself up in his room. + +He had a parcel under his arm; he opened it and, carefully placing its +contents on the table, he sat down in front of it and contemplated it for a +long time. + + + + +XXXIII. + + +FRENZY. + + "Abstinence has its deadly exhaustions." + + BALZAC (_Le Lys dans la Vallée_). + +A few days before, the gravedigger, while digging up the whitened bones of +the ancient dead, had broken up with his pick-axe a mouldering coffin, and +a head rolled to his feet It was of later date, for the lower jaw was still +fastened to it and it had not the calcareous colour of bones buried long +ago. It was the more horrible. + +The gravedigger threw it into his wheel-barrow with its neighbour's +shin-bones, and carried it to the common heap. It was this _thing_ that the +Curé of Althausen had coveted and stolen. + +He had then placed it on his table and contemplated it in silence. The top +of the skull was polished and blunt, the front narrow, the bones small and +apparently not having attained their full development. It was therefore a +youthful head, the head of an adolescent cut down at the moment, when life +completely unfolds itself to hope; while the elliptical shape of the lower +maxillary, the small and similarly-shaped teeth, the slight separation of +the nasal bones, a few long hairs still adhering to the occiput, clearly +indicated its feminine origin. + +"A young girl!" murmured Marcel, "a young girl! beautiful perhaps; loved +without doubt ... and there is what remains. Ah! if he who was pleased to +kiss your lips, could see your dreadful laugh." + +And, after he had meditated a long while, he went to his bed, took the +plaster virgin from its pedestal, and taking in his two hands the skull, he +put it in its place between the serge curtains. + +And when the fever seized him, when he was burning with all the flames +which the fiery _simoom_ of passion breathed on him, and he felt the frenzy +taking possession of his pillow, he turned towards the wall and looked at +this new companion. Sometimes a moon-beam came and lighted up the hideous +skull and played in the gloomy cavities of its sightless eyes. The head +then seemed to become animate and its bare teeth gave an infernal grin. + +This was his remedy for love. + +But we grow used to everything. Custom destroys sensations. Death and its +mysteries, the horrible, and all its threatening shapes soon present +nothing to our eyes but worn-out pictures. He accustomed himself to +contemplate without emotion this lugubrious ruin. As before, the frenzy +seized him and shook him before the skull. It did more. It clothed it again +with flesh. It planted long hairs upon that shining, yellow forehead. It +placed in the hollow orbits large eyes full of love; it hid the wasted +cartillages under quivering nostrils, and upon that horrible jaw it laid +rosy lips and a sweet mouth, like a maiden's first kiss. And it is thus +that it appeared to him in the shadow, wrapped in the curtains of his bed, +like a modest girl who hides herself from sight. + +"Oh! sweet phantom, return to life," he said. "Take again thy body adorned +with its graces and with its charms; come, clothed in thy sixteen years." + +And he stretched his arms towards the enchanting vision, while the +death's-head, with its bare jaw, gave its eternal grin. + +He woke and found himself kneeling near his bed, facing the wreck of +humanity. + +Horror soiled him. His empty room was filled with spectres. He saw +hell-hags with death's-heads sporting and swarming on his bed. At the same +time, little sharp, hasty, shrill knocks shook his window. + +Fall of terror he ran to open it. A gust of wind, mingled with rain and +hail, heat against his face. He was ashamed of his fears and leant his head +out to catch the beneficent shower. His brain cooled and his blood grew +calm. + +He was there for a few minutes, when all at once, under the trees in the +market-place, he thought he distinguished two motionless shadows. He +thought for an instant that his hallucination lasted still, but soon the +shadows drew near. They seemed to walk carefully under the young foliage of +the limes in order to avoid the rain, and in one of them he recognized +distinctly Suzanne. + + + + +XXXIV. + + +THE PROHIBITION. + + "Do you know any means of making + a woman do that which she has decided + that she will not do?" + + ERNEST FEYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +That same day, after supper, the Captain had entered the drawing-room where +Suzanne was playing the _Requiem_ of Mozart. + +--So you are playing Church airs now? he said to her. + +--Don't you like this piece, father? + +--Not at all. + +--Perhaps, said Suzanne smiling, because it is a Mass. + +--My dear child, do you want me to tell you what you are with all your +Masses? + +--What? + +--Where did you go this morning? + +--At what time? + +--At the time when you went out. + +--I only went out to go to Mass. + +--And the day before yesterday? + +--Why this questioning, dearest papa? + +--Ah! dearest papa, dearest papa. There is no dearest papa here, I want to +know the truth. + +--But what truth? I have nothing wrong to hide from you. I went to Mass. Is +that forbidden? + +--To Mass! Good Heavens! To Mass! That is most decidedly making up your +mind to disobey me! + +--But papa, you have not forbidden it to me. + +--Not in so many words, it is true; because I counted on your reason and +good sense. Have I not spoken loudly enough my way of thinking on this +subject? + +--But, papa, your way of thinking is completely contrary to that which I +have been taught. You ought to have said when you sent me to Saint-Denis: +"You are not to teach my daughter any religion." They have taught me +religion, what is more natural than for me to follow it. + +--And what has your religion in common with your Mass? If you want to pray +to God, can you not pray to him at home? + +--Am I not a Catholic before all? + +It was the first time that Suzanne had spoken to her father in this firm +and decided tone. Nothing more was wanted to irritate the irascible +soldier: + +--Ah! I know the hidden and villainous insinuation! he cried, Catholic +before all! It is that indeed. Before being daughter! before being wife! +before being mother! the Church, the priest first; the rest only comes +after. The Mass, the Church! the Church, the Mass! With that they cover +every vileness. Well, do you want me to tell you what I think of women who +frequent churches? They are either lazy, or hypocrites, or idiots, or +finally hussies in love with the Curé. There are no others. In which +category do you want to be placed, my daughter? + +--And all that because I discharge my religious duties! + +--You have spoken to that Curé? I see it. Where have you spoken to him? + +--I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not +given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe. + +--So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in +secret. + +--I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I +was accustomed to do at school. + +--Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal, +after what I have told you concerning all his like! + +--All priests are not alike. + +--Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the +model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know +that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model +of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me +say too much. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from +my daughter? + +--You have every right, father. + +--Well, I forbid you for the future to put your foot inside the church. + +--In truth, father, would not one say that you were talking of some +ill-reputed place? + +--Worse than that. Those who enter a place of ill-repute, know beforehand +where they go and to what they expose themselves, which the little fools +who frequent churches never know. + +Suzanne made no reply and went down into the garden. + +The old governess who bad brought her up and who loved her tenderly, came +to meet her. + +--Your father is after the Curés again. What can these poor people of God +have done to the man? + +They walked a long time round the kitchen-garden, then they sat down under +an arbour of honeysuckle. + +--What time is it, Marianne? the young girl said all at once, fixing her +eyes on the window of her father's room. + +--It is late, my child, it is ten o'clock at least; everybody in the +village has gone to bed. Come, your father has finished his newspaper, +there is no longer any light in his room; he has just blown out his lamp. +Let us go in. + +They were near the little back-gate which led out to the meadows. Suzanne +opened it cautiously: "No, let us go out," she said. + + + + +XXXV. + + +THE SHELTER. + + "Is it a chance? No. And besides; + chance, what is it after all but the + effect of a cause which escapes us?" + + ERCHMAN-CHATRIAN (_Contes fantastiques_). + +As soon as Marcel had recognized Suzanne, he did not take time to reflect, +and say to himself: + +"What is it you are going to do, idiot?" He ran downstairs, stumbling like +a drunken man, and gently opened the door. What did he intend? He did not +know. Was he going to call these women? He did not know. He opened his +door, that was all, and his thought went no further. + +The same morning at church, he had seen Suzanne, and said to himself, "I +will not look at her." He did not look at her. He kept his eyes lowered +when he turned towards the nave, but he could have said how many times +Suzanne lifted hers, if she were joyous or sad, and if she had a red ribbon +or a blue ribbon at her neck. + +Oh! the eternal contradiction of mankind. He had not wanted to look at her +by day, and here he is throwing himself in her path in the middle of the +night. + +The steps approached and his heart beat with violence; he was so agitated +that, at the moment when the two women passed before his door to reach the +lane which led to the bottom of the hill, he could hardly articulate in a +hesitating voice: + +"Mademoiselle Durand." + +They uttered a cry. + +--It is I, he said coming forward. Is it possible? You here at such an hour +and in the rain? + +--I had gone out with my maid, said Suzanne, and the rain has surprised us. + +--Do not go farther. Shelter yourselves under my door. It is an April +shower; it will soon have passed. + +At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne's +hand. Never had he felt such boldness. + +--I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a +refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof. + +Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs +and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the +first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind. + +The Curé shut the door again and, passing near the two women, drawn up +against the wall, he brushed against the young girl's damp dress with his +hand. + +--But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be +wise to remain in this cold passage. Should I dare to ask you to go +upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire? + +His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near +hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne's. He seized it +therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: "Go up, I pray, go up," +he said. + +She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was +his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his +dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a +cheerful flame lighted up the hearth. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +THE HOT WINE. + + "I looked at her; she tried to show + nothing of what she felt in her heart. + She held herself straight, like an + oarsman who feels that the current is + carrying him away, and her nostrils + quivered." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Contes flamands et wallons_). + +Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of +the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while +Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast +around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on +the ground, was drawing up the fire. + +--Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close, +Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don't you find it +so? + +He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this +blazing fire. + +Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one +of the fire-dogs. The priest's eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line, +the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of +her dress. + +--I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at +such an hour. + +--Ought not the priest's house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour? +It is open to the poor man who passes by; it is open sometimes to the +vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter +against the storm? + +--It is true, it is the house of God, said Marianne. The young girl looked +at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no +longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained +standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran +through her frame. + +Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety. + +--Are you in pain? he said. + +She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed +her and answered with a kind of hesitation: + +--No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself +here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of +me? + +--But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here +because Monsieur le Curé has had the goodness to bring us in. Don't you +hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we +are at Monsieur le Curé's. + +--Reassure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because +you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the +good Marianne has just said, in the house of God, and I will say in my +turn, beneath the eye of God. These are very great words about so small a +matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a +cold already. + +He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to +be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant. + +Marianne opposed this with all her power. + +--Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady, +she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica! +what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right. + +--Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is +necessary. + +They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to +disturb Veronica's slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of +dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes. + +--Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne +alone. + +He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of +the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly +remounted the stair-case. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +TÊTE-À-TÊTE. + + "'Tis yours to use aright the hour + Which destiny may leave you, + To drain the cup of oldest wine, + And pluck the morning's roses." + + A. BUSQUET (_La poésie des heures_). + +He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to +commit a crime. + +He passed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What! +Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his +own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was +it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he +remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of +seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her +charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing +through her fingers. + +He sprang towards her. + +--Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these +tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to +you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them. + +--You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes. + +--I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things; +he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not +hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend. + +He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent; +he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which +raged in his own heart. + +At length he broke the silence. + +--Mademoiselle, dear young lady, he said with his most insinuating voice, +do you lack confidence then in me? Ah! I see but too well, your father's +prejudices have left their marks. + +--Do not believe it, she cried eagerly, do not believe it. + +--Thank you, dear young lady. I should so much wish to have your +confidence. And in whom could you better repose it? What others could +receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings? Ah, +that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account +that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those +who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the +afflicted. Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is +the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness. +Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our +arms to you, to me, who now say to you: "Open your heart to me, confide +to me your troubles. However sick your soul may be, mine will understand +it." + +The priest's voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne's +heart. She cast on him a look full of compassion: You are unhappy, she +asked. + +--Do not say that, do not say that! Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but +now I am so no longer. Are you not there? Has not your presence caused all +the dark clouds to fly away? No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a +blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of +his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my +hearth! + +--Happiness! I bring happiness to you! But who am I? a little girl just out +of school, who knows nothing of life. + +--And that is what makes you more charming. You are a rose which the breath +of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched. Life! dear child, do not +seek to know it too soon. It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best +are those who have suffered most deception and weeping. + +--But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows.... + +--Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know +all that passes at the bottom of a man's heart. + +Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the +difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you +cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can +open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no +loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your +intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all +families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and +no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have +no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our +weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I +mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little +disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ... +speak. + +--Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I +used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go +out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my +father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don't +believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my +father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met +you. + +Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl's hand, but he quickly dropped +it, fearing she might observe his agitation. + +--Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my +companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the +under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I +must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner +then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me +here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties. +That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this +evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I +grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my +life. + +She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence. +Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without +comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him, +but he only thought of one thing. She had said: "Your looks avoided mine." + +When she had finished speaking, he was surprised to hear her no longer and +listened afresh. + +--I have spoken with open heart to my confessor, said Suzanne timidly, +astonished at this silence. + +--To the confessor! no, no, dear child; to the friend, to the friend, is it +not? Do you want him? Will you trust yourself to me? Will you let yourself +be guided by me? I will bring you by a way from which I will remove all the +thorns. + +--But my father? + +This was like the blow from a club to Marcel. + +--Your father! Ah, yes! your father! Well, but what are we going to do? + +--I have just asked you. + +--It is written in the Gospel: "No one can serve two masters at the same +time." You have a master who is God. Your father places himself between God +and your duty. You must choose. + +Suzanne did not reply. + +--Consult your conscience, my child. What says your conscience? + +--My conscience says nothing to me. + +Marcel thought perhaps he had gone a little too far, he added: + +--You must decide nevertheless. It is also written, "Render unto Caesar the +things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." + +--How am I to unite the respect and submission which I owe to my father +with my duties as a Christian? That, repeated Suzanne, is what I wanted to +ask you. + +--And we will solve the problem, dear child. Yes, we will come forth from +this evil pass, to our advantage and to our glory. Nothing happens but by +the will of God, and it is He, doubt it not, who has guided you into my +path in order that I may take care of your young and beautiful soul. The +ancients were in the habit of marking their happy days; I count already two +days in my life which I shall never obliterate from my memory, two days +marked in the golden book of my remembrances. The one is that on which I +saw you for the first time. You were in the gallery of our church. The +light was streaming behind you through the painted windows and surrounded +you with a halo. I said to myself: "Is it not one of the virgins detached +from the window?" The other is to-day.--Do you believe in presentiments, +Mademoiselle? + +--Sometimes. + +--Well! I had a presentiment as it were of this visit. Yes, shall I dare to +tell you so? The whole day I have been wild with joy! I had an intuition of +an approaching happiness, a very rare event with me, Mademoiselle. + +--Of what happiness? + +--Why of this, of this which I enjoy at this moment; this of seeing you +sitting at my hearth, in front of me, near to me, this of hearing your +sweet voice, and reading your pure eyes. But what am I saying? Pardon me, +Mademoiselle. See how happiness make us egotistic! I talk to you about +myself, while it is about you that we ought to occupy ourselves, of you, +and of your future. + +And he looked at her with such glowing eyes, that she was a little +frightened. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +THE KISS. + + "That strange kiss makes me shudder + still." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Premières poesies_). + +--Are you not cold? said Marcel; and he stooped down to draw up the fire. + +But on sitting down again it happened that his seat was quite close to that +of Suzanne, so close that their knees were touching, and that he had only +to make a slight movement to take one of her hands. + +--Dear, dear child. + +And he began to talk to her of God in his unctuous voice. He talked to her +also of her duties as a Christian, and of the probable struggles she would +have to undergo. He talked to her again of the purity of her heart and +compared her to the angels. + +And while he talked, he began to fondle this little soft white hand, +lifting delicately the slender fingers with their rosy nails, drawing over +the soft and satiny tips his brown and muscular fingers. + +Soon his warm hand became burning. Magnetic influences were evolved. +Invisible sparks broke forth suddenly at the contact of these two +epidermises, ran through his veins, inflamed his heart and set his brain +a-blaze. + +[PLATE II: THE KISS. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent +over it, and pressed it to his lips.] + +[Illustration] + +He lost his presence of mind, his will wavered and sank in the molten lava +of his desires; he lost perception of his surroundings, of all those +formidable things which until then had bound him with the strong bands of +moral authority; he thought no longer of anything, he paused no longer at +anything, he saw nothing but this fair young girl whom he coveted, who was +alone with him, her hand in his, sitting by his fire-side, in the silence +and the mystery of the night. His clasp became convulsive. Under the fire +of his burning gaze Suzanne raised her head, and a second time fell back in +dismay. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent over it, and +pressed it to his lips. + +The door opened wide. + +--Don't get impatient, said Marianne, there is the hot wine. I have been a +long time, but the wood was green. Are you better? + +But Suzanne, trembling all over, remained silent. + + + + +XXXIX. + + +THE DEVIL IN PETTICOATS. + + "I know an infallible means of + drawing you back from the precipice + on which you stand." + + CHARLES (_Des Illustres Françaises_). + +--Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all +loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base +Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My +priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my +iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer +master of myself. + +Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of +my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!... It must have happened. +Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is +the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to +subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God. +They tried at the seminary by means of _nenuphar_ and _infusions of nitre_ +to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain +efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain +you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God +to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all +your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in +its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not +recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling +into an abyss of iniquity. + +Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me? +How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written +there?... She, she, what will she think of me?... To kiss her hand, her +soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going? +I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me. + +So spoke the Curé, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his +conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent +rapture. + +--Yes, it is shame, it is shame. + +--Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice. + +Marcel turned round, terror-struck. + +His servant was behind him. + +She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange, +green eyes. + +--Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that +pretty young lady will hold her tongue. + +She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the +priest's heart like a steel blade. + +Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a +passion. + +--You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then? +What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening +then at the doors? + +--That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously. + +--What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it? + +--There are many others who ought to blush and yet don't blush. + +--What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want? + +--Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn. + +--What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so. + +--You are, at the very least, most indiscreet. + +--Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a +witness of what passed. + +--Eh! what has passed then? + +--Sir, don't question me, she said in a pitying tone, _I have heard and +seen_. + +--You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen +then, wretched woman? + +And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon +the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door. + +--Please, Monsieur le Curé, she implored, don't hurt me. + +These words recalled the priest to himself. + +--No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I +flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am +calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me. + +--I will do so. Ah! you frighten me.... + +--It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion? + +--It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very +peaceably, like the _other_, it is so nice. + +--Please, enough of that subject. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is just about that I want to speak to you. + +--Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable +indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any +more. + +--A momentary error, which would have led you to some pretty things, +Monsieur le Curé. Good God! if Marianne had not arrived in time, who knows +what might have happened. + +--It is not for you to blame me, Veronica. There is only God who is without +sin. + +--I know that well. Therefore, I have not said that to you in order to +blame you. Quite the contrary, I was astonished that with a temperament ... +as strong as yours, you have remained free from fault till to-day. + +--And, please God, I will always remain so. + +--Oh! God does not ask for impossibilities, as my old master, Monsieur le +Curé Fortin, used to say: he was a good-natured man. He often repeated to +me: "You see, Veronica, provided appearances are saved, everything is +saved. God is content, he asks for no more." + +--What, the Abbé Fortin said that? + +--Yes, and many other things too. He was so honest, so delicate a man--not +more than you, however, Monsieur le Curé--but he understood his case better +than any other. He said again: "Beware of bad example, keep yourself from +scandal. Dirty linen should be washed at home." Good rules, are they not, +Monsieur Marcel? + +--Certainly. + +--He knew so well how to compassionate human infirmities. Ah! when nature +speaks, she speaks very loudly. + +--Do you know anything about it, Veronica? + +--Who does not know it? I can certainly acknowledge that to you, since you +are my Curé and my confessor. + +--That is true, Veronica. + +--And to whom should a poor servant acknowledge her secret thoughts, if not +to her Curé and her confessor? He is her only friend in this world, is he +not? + +The Curé did not reply. He considered the strange shape the conversation +was taking, and cast a look of defiance at the woman. + +--You do not answer, sir, she said. You do not look upon me as your friend, +that is wrong. Is it because I have surprised your secrets? + +--I have no secrets. + +--Yes?.... Suzanne? + +--Enough on that subject. Do not revive my shame, since you call yourself +my friend. + +--Oh! sir, it is precisely for that, it is because I do not want you to +distress yourself about so little. Listen to me, sir, I am older than you, +and although I am not so learned, I have the experience which, as they say, +is not picked up in books: well, this experience has taught me many things +which perhaps you do not suspect. + +--Explain yourself. + +--I would have explained already, if you had wished it. The other evening +you were quite sad, sitting by that fireless grate; you were thinking of I +don't know what, but certainly it was not of anything very lively, so much +so that it went to my heart. I suspected what was vexing you; I wanted to +speak to you, but you repulsed me almost brutally. Nevertheless, if you had +listened to me that day, what has just happened might not have occurred. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will make myself understood ... if you allow me. + + + + +XL. + + +LITTLE CONFESSIONS. + + "To relate one's misfortunes often + alleviates them." + + CORNEILLE (_Polyeucte_). + +The Curé laid his forehead between his hands, and rested his elbows on his +knees, a common attitude among confessors. + +--I am listening to you, he said. + +--I said to you, Monsieur le Curé, do not despair. You will excuse a poor +servant's boldness, but it is the friendship I have for you which has urged +me; nothing else, believe me; I am an honest girl, entirely devoted to my +masters. You are the fourth, Monsieur le Curé, yes, the fourth master. +Well! the three others have never had to complain about me a single moment +for indiscretion, or for idleness, or for want of attention, or for +anything, in fact, for anything. Never a harsh word. "You have done well, +Veronica; that's quite right, Veronica; do as you think proper, Veronica; +your advice is excellent, Veronica." Those are all the rough words which +have been said to me, Monsieur Marcel. Therefore, I repeat, really it went +to my heart to hear you speaking harshly sometimes to me, and to see that +you did not appear satisfied with me. I had not been accustomed to that. + +And the servant, picking up the corner of her apron, burst into tears. + +--Why! Veronica, are you mad? Why do you cry so? Who has made you suppose +that I was not satisfied with you? I may have spoken harshly to you, it is +possible; but it was in a moment of excitement or of impatience, which I +regret. You well know that I am not ill-natured. + +--Oh, no, sir, that is just what grieves me. You are so kind to everybody. +You are only severe to me. + +--You are wrong again, Veronica. I may have felt hurt at your indiscretion, +but that is all. Put yourself in my place, and you will allow that it is +humiliating for a priest.... + +--Do not speak of that again, Monsieur le Curé. You are very wrong to +disturb yourself about it, and if you had had confidence in me before, I +should have told you that all have acted like you, all have gone through +that, all, all. + +--What do you mean? + +--I mean that young and old have fallen into the same fault.... If we can +call it a fault, as Monsieur Fortin used to say. And the old still more +than the young. After that, perhaps you will say to me that it is the place +which is wicked. + +--Be silent, Veronica. What you say is very wrong, for if I perfectly +understand you, you are bringing an infamous accusation against my +predecessors. Perhaps you think to palliate my fault thus in my own eyes. I +thank you for the intention, but it is an improper course, and the reproach +which you try to cast upon the worthy priests who have succeeded one +another in this parish, takes away none of my remorse. + +--Monsieur Fortin had not so many scruples. He was, however, a most +respectable man, and one who never dared to look a young girl in her face, +he was so bashful. "Well," he often used to say, "God has well done all +that he has done, and He is too wise to be angry when we make use of His +benefits!" + +--That is rather an elastic morality. + +--It was Monsieur Fortin who taught me that. After all, that is perhaps +morality in word, you are ... morality in deed. + +--Veronica, you are strangely misusing the rights which I have allowed you +to take. + +--Do not put yourself in a rage, Monsieur le Curé, if I talk to you so. I +wanted to persuade you thoroughly that you can rely upon me in everything, +that I can keep a secret, though you sometimes call me a tattler, and that +I am not, after all, such a worthless girl as you believe. We like, when +the moment has come to get ourselves appreciated, to profit by it to our +utmost. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, I hardly know what you want to arrive at; but I +wish to speak frankly to you, since you have behaved frankly towards me. I +recognize all the wisdom of your proceeding, although you will agree it has +something offensive and humiliating for me, but after all, it is preferable +that you should come and tell me this to my face, than that you should go +and chatter in the village and tattle without my knowledge. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, Veronica is not capable of that. + +--Therefore, since you have discovered ... discovered a secret which would +ruin me, what do you calculate on making from this secret, and what do you +demand? + +--I, Monsieur le Curé, cried the servant, I demand nothing ... oh! nothing. + +--You are hesitating. Yes, you want something. Come, it is you now who hang +your head and blush, while it is I who am the culprit.... Come, place +yourself there, close to me. + +--Oh! Monsieur le Curé, I shall never presume. + +--Presume then to-day. Have you not told me that you were my friend?... +Yes. Well then, place yourself there. Tell me, Veronica, what is your age? + +--Mine, Monsieur le Curé. What a question! I am not too old; come, not so +old as you think. I am forty. + +--Forty! why you are still of an age to get married. + +--I quite think so. + +--And you have never intended to do so? + +--To get married? Oh, upon my word, if I had wanted to do so, I should not +have waited until now. + +--I believe you, Veronica. You could have done very well before now. But +you may have changed your ideas. Our characters, our tastes change with +time, and a thing displeases us to-day, which will please us to-morrow. +There are often, it is true, certain considerations which stop us and make +us reflect. Perhaps you have not a round enough sum. With a little money, +at your age, you could still make an excellent match. + +--And even without money, Monsieur le Curé. If I were willing, somebody has +been pestering me for a long time for that. + +--And you are not willing. The person doubtless does not suit you? + +--Oh, I have my choice. + +--Well and good. We cannot use too much reflection upon a matter of this +importance. I am not rich, Veronica, but I should like to help you and to +increase, if it be possible, your little savings, your dowry in fact. + +--You are very good, sir, but I do not wish to get married. + +--Why so? + +--It depends on tastes, you know.... You are in a great hurry then to get +rid of me, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Not at all: do not believe it. + +--Come, come, Monsieur le Curé. I see your intentions. You say to yourself: +"she holds a secret which may prove troublesome to me; with a little money +I will put a padlock on her tongue, I will get her married, and by this +means she will trouble me no more." Is it a bad guess? + +--You have not guessed it the least in world, Veronica. + +--Oh, it is! But it is a bad calculation, and for two reasons. In the first +place, if I marry, your secret is more in danger than if I remain single. +You know that a woman ought not to hide anything from her husband. + +--There are certain things.... + +--No, nothing at all: no secret, or mystery. The husband ought to see all, +to know all, to be acquainted with all that concerns his wife. Ah! I know +how to live, though I am an old maid. + +--You are a pearl, Veronica. + +--You want to make fun of me; but others have said that to me before you, +and they were talking seriously. On the other hand, she continued, if you +keep me, you need not fear my slandering you, since I am in your hands and +the day you hear any rumour, you can turn me away. + +--Your argument is just, and believe me that my words had but a single +object, not that of separating myself from you, but of being useful to you. +Since you are desirous of remaining with me, at which I am happy, let us +therefore try to live on good terms, and do you for your part forget my +weaknesses; I for mine will forget your inquisitiveness; and let us talk no +more about them. + +--Oh yes, we will talk again. + +--I consent to it. Let us therefore make peace, and give me your hand. + +--Here it is, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Ah, Veronica. _Errare humanum est_. + +--Yes, I know, Monsieur Fortin often repeated it. That means to say that +the devil is sly, and the flesh is weak. + +--It is something like that. So then I trust to your honesty. + +--You can do so without fear. + +--To your discretion. + +--You can do so with all confidence. + +--To your friendship for me. Have you really a little, Veronica? + +--I have, sir, said the servant, affected. You ask me that: what must I +then do to convince you? + +--Be discreet, that is all. + +--Oh! you might require more than that. But could I also, in my turn, ask +something of you? + +--Ask on. + +--It will be perhaps very hard for you. + +--Speak freely. What do you want? Are you not mistress here? Is not +everything at your disposal? + +--Oh, no. + +--No! You surprise me. Have I hurt you without knowing it? I do not +remember it, I assure you. Tell me then, that I may atone for my fault. + +--I hardly know how to tell you. + +--Is it then very serious? + +--Not precisely, but.... + +--You are putting me on thorns. What is it then? + +--Oh, nothing. + +--What nothing? Do you wish to vex me, Veronica. + +--I don't intend it; it is far from that. + +--Speak then. + +--Well no, I will say no more. You will guess it perhaps. But meanwhile.... + +--Meanwhile.... + +--It is quite understood between us that you will never see that little +hussy again. + +--What hussy? + +--That little hussy, who was here just now. + +--Oh, Veronica! Veronica! + +--It is for your interests, Monsieur le Curé, in short ... the proprieties. + +--My dignity is as dear to me as it is to you, my daughter, be answered +sharply. + +--Good-night, Monsieur le Curé; take counsel with your pillow. + + + + +XLI. + + +MORAL REFLECTIONS. + + "Ah, poor grandmamma, what grand-dam's tales + You used to sing to me in praise of virtue; + Everywhere have I asked: 'What is this stranger?' + They laughed at me and said, 'Whence hast thou come?'" + + G. MELOTTE (_Les Temps nouveaux_). + +The Curé of Althausen had no need of reflection to understand the kind of +shameful bargain which his servant had allowed him to catch a glimpse of. + +The lustful look of the woman had spoken too clearly, and when he had taken +her hand, he had felt it burn and tremble in his. + +Then certain circumstances, certain facts to which he had not attended at +first, came back to his memory. + +Two or three times, Veronica, on frivolous pretexts had entered his bedroom +at night; and each time, he remembered well, she was in somewhat indecent +undress, which contrasted strangely with her ordinarily severe appearance. + +He recalled to himself all the stories of Curés' servants who shared their +masters' bed. Stories told in a whisper at certain _general repasts_, when +the priests of the district met together at the senior's house to observe +the feast of some saint or other--the great Saint Priapus perhaps--and +where lively talk and sprightly stories ran merrily round the table. + +And what he had taken for jokes in bad taste, and refused to believe till +now, he began to understand. + +For he could no longer doubt that he had set his servant's passions aflame, +and he must either expose himself to her venomous tongue and incur the +shame and scandal, or else appease the erotic rage of this kitchen +Messalina. + +He tried to drive away this horrible thought, to believe that he had been +mistaken, to persuade himself that he was the dope of erroneous +appearances; he wished to convince himself that he had been the victim of +errors engendered by his own depravity, that he judged according to his +secret sentiments; his efforts were vain; the woman's feverish eyes, her +restless solicitude, her jealous rage, her incessant watching, the evidence +in short was there which contradicted all his hopes to the contrary. + +And then, the latest confessions regarding his predecessors: "All have +acted like you, all," possessed his mind. Like him! What had they done? +They also had attempted then to seduce young girls, and perhaps had +consummated their infernal design. What? respectable priests, ministers of +the Gospel, pastors of God's flock! Was it possible? But was not he a +respectable priest and respected by all, a minister of God, a leader of the +holy flock, a pastor of men, and yet.... + +How then? where is virtue? + +"Virtue," answered that voice which we have within ourselves, that voice +odious to hypocrites and deceivers, which the Church calls the Devil's +voice, and which is the voice of reason. Virtue? Of which do you speak, +fool? Without counting the _three theological_, there are fifty thousand +kinds of virtues. It is like happiness, institutions, reputations, +religions, morals, principles: Truth on this side the mount, error on that. + +There are as many kinds of virtues as there are different peoples. History +swarms with virtuous people who have been so in their own way. Socrates was +virtuous, and yet what strange familiarities he allowed himself with the +young Alcibiades. The virtuous Brutus virtuously assassinated his father. +The virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary had herself whipped by her confessor, the +virtuous Conrad, and the virtuous Janicot doted on virtuous little boys; +and finally Monseigneur is virtuous, but his old lady friends look down and +smile when he talks of virtue. + +See this priest of austere countenance and whitened hair. He too, during +long years, has believed in that virtue which forms his torment. Candid and +trustful, he felt the fervency of religion fill his heart from his youth. +He had faith, he was filled with the spirit of charity and love. He said +like the apostle: _Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est_. And he believed +that God was with him, and that alone with God he was peacefully pursuing +his road. But he had counted without that troublesome guest who comes and +places himself as a third between the creature and the Creator, and who, +more powerful than the God of legend, quickly banishes him, for he is the +principle of life and the other is the principle of death; it is the +fruitful love and the other is the wasting barren love; it is present and +active, while the other is inert, dumb and in the clouds of your sickly +brain. + +"It is in vain that in his successive halts from parish to parish, he has +resisted the thousand seductions which surround the priest, from the timid +gaze of the simple school-girl, smitten with a holy love for the young +curate, to the veiled smile of the languishing woman. In vain will he +attempt, like Fénélon formerly, to put the warmth of his heart and the +incitements of the flesh upon the wrong scent by carrying on a platonic +love with some chosen souls; what is the result in the end of his efforts +and his struggles? Now he is old; ought he not to be appeased? No, weighty +and imperious matter has regained the upper hand. He loves no longer, he is +not able to love any longer, but the fury urges him on. He seduces his +cook, or dishonours his niece." + +And yet those most courageous natures exist, for they have resisted to the +end. We blame them, we are wrong. Who would have been capable of such +efforts and sacrifices? Who would sustain during ten, fifteen, twenty +years, similar straggles between the imperious requirements of nature and +the miserable duties of convention? They, therefore, who see their hair +fall before their virtue are very rare. + +The crowd of priests strike themselves against the obstacles of the road +from the first steps, they tear their catechumen's robe with the white +thorns of May, and when they have arrived at the end of their career, they +have stopped many a time under some mysterious thicket, unknown by the +vulgar, relishing the forbidden fruit. + +Let us leave them in peace. It is not I who will disturb their sweet +tête-à-tête. + + + + +XLII. + + +MEMORY LOOKING BACK. + + "Man can do nothing against Destiny. + We go, time flies, and that which must + arrive, arrives." + + LÉON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Baufs_). + +Marcel was one of those energetic natures who believe that struggle is one +of the conditions of life. He had valiantly accepted the task which was +incumbent upon him. + +But there are hours of discouragement and exhaustion, in which the boldest +and the strongest succumb, and he had reached one of those hours. + +And then, it is so difficult to struggle without ceasing, especially when +we catch no glimpse of calmer days. Weariness quickly comes and we sink +down on the road. + +Then a friendly hand should be stretched towards us, should lift us up and +say to us "Courage." But Marcel could not lean on any friendly hand. + +He had no one to whom he could confide his struggles, his vexations, and +the apprehension of his coming weaknesses. + +Although his life as priest had been spotless up to then, his brethren held +aloof from him, for there was a bad mark against him at the Bishop's +Palace. It had been attached at the commencement of his career. He was one +of those catechumens on whom from the very first the most brilliant hopes +are founded. Knowledge, intelligence, respectful obedience, appearance of +piety, sympathetic face, everything was present in him. + +The Bishop, a frivolous old man, a great lover of little girls, who +combined the sinecure of his bishopric with that of almoner to a +second-hand empress, whose name will remain celebrated in the annals of +devout gallantry or of gallant devotion, the Bishop, a worthy pastor for +such a sheep, passed the greater portion of his time in the intrigues of +petticoats and sacristies, and left to the young secretary the care of +matters spiritual. + +It was he who, like Gil-Blas, composed the mandates and sometimes the +sermons of Monseigneur. + +This confidence did not fail to arouse secret storms in the episcopal +guest-chamber. + +A Grand-Vicar, jealous of the influence which the young Abbé was assuming +over his master's mind, had resolved upon his dismissal and fall. + +With a church-man's tortuous diplomacy, he pried into the young man's +heart, as yet fresh and inexperienced. + +He insinuated himself into the most hidden recesses of his conscience, +seized, so to say, in their flight the timid fleeting transports of his +thought, of his vigorous imagination, and soon discovered with secret +satisfaction that he was straying from the ancient path of orthodoxy. + +Marcel, indeed, belonged to that younger generation of the clergy which +believes that everything which alienates the Church from new ideas, brings +it nearer to its ruin. And the day when the foolish Pius IX presumed to +proclaim and define, to the great joy of free-thinkers and the enemies of +Catholicism, the ridiculous dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the +presence of two hundred dumb complaisant prelates, on that day he +experienced profound grief. According to his ideas this was the severest +blow which had been inflicted on the foundations of the Church for +centuries. + +He had studied theology deeply, but he had not confined himself to the +letter; he believed he saw something beyond. + +--The letter killeth, he said, the spirit giveth life. + +--The spirit giveth life when it is wholesome and pure, the Grand-Vicar +answered him with a smile, but is it healthy in a young man who believes +himself to be wiser than his elders? + +Marcel then without mistrust and urged by questions, developed his +theories. He believed in the absolute equality of men before God, in the +transmutation of souls: and the resurrection of the flesh seemed to him +the utmost absurdity. He quite thought that there were future rewards and +penalties, but he had too much faith in the goodness of God to suppose +that the expiation could be eternal. He allied himself in that to the +Universalists, who were, he said, the most reasonable sect of American +Protestantism. + +--Reasonable! reasonable! repeated the Grand-Vicar scoffingly; in truth, my +poor friend, you make me doubt your reason. Can there be anything +reasonable in the turpitude of heresy? + +Then he hurried to find the Bishop: + +--I have emptied our young man's bag, he said to him. Do you know, +Monseigneur, what there was at the bottom? + +--Oh, oh. Has he been inclined to debauchery? He is so young. + +--Would to heaven it were only that, Monseigneur. But it is a hundred times +worse. + +--What do you tell me? Must I fear then for all my little sheep? We must +look after him then. + +--I repeat, Monseigneur, that that would be nothing.... It is the +abomination of abomination, a whole world of turpitude, heresies in embryo. + +--Heresies! Oh, oh! That is serious. + +--Heresies which would make the cursed shades of John Huss, Wickliffe, +Luther and Calvin himself tremble, if they appeared again. + +--What do you say? + +--I tell you, Monseigneur, that you have warmed a viper in your bosom. + +--Ah, well, I will drive out this wicked viper. + +The Bishop, who kept two nieces in the episcopal seraglio, would willingly +have pardoned his secretary if he had been accused of immorality, but he +could not carry his condescension so far as heresy. He wanted, however, to +assure himself personally, and as Marcel was incapable of lying, he quickly +recognized the sad reality. + +The young Abbé was severely punished. He was compelled to make an apology, +to retract his horrible ideas, to stifle the germ of these infant +monstrosities; then he was condemned to spend six months in one of those +ecclesiastical prisons called _houses of retreat_, where the guilty priest +is exposed to every torment and every vexation. + +He was definitely marked and classed as a dangerous individual. + +His enemy, the Grand-Vicar, pursued him with his indefatigable hatred, so +far that from disgrace to disgrace he had reached the cure of Althausen. + + + + +XLIII. + + +ESPIONAGE. + + "A sunbeam had traversed his heart; + it had just disappeared." + + ERNEST DAUDET (_Les Duperies de l'Amour_). + +Since the fatal evening when the secret of his new-born love had been +discovered by his servant, Marcel had observed the woman on his steps, +watching his slightest proceedings, scrutinizing his most innocent +gestures. + +He encountered everywhere her keen inquisitive look. + +He wished at first to meet it with the greatest circumspection and the most +absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead +him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness. + +But he was soon obliged to renounce this means. + +The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Curé +pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt, +the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full +of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened +with a start by terrible noises during the night. + +He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and +threatened to leave him. + +--You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had +enough of it. + +--Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if +I were not afraid of your cursed tongue. + +Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and +smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant's manners changed +directly. + +She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive. + +Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the +same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to +conceal. + +He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her +usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place +remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed +without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing +gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the _Laudate pueri dominum_ with +the voice of the _De profundis_. + +Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from +coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before +upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and +with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He +saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him +in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were +astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he +forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church, +and whom he would meet again at his house. + +Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a +moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague +which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his +life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a +month ago; only a stranger. + +Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be +aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their +sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under +these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the +commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but +wishes to see the world at her feet. + +And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more +irritating and more insupportable. + +In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far, +very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant's gaze following him, and +weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted +jealousy. + +He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when +he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the +width of the village and the depth of the woods. + +She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye +searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds +of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to +strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts. + + + + +XLIV. + + +THE GARRET WINDOW. + + "Do I direct my love? It directs me. + And I could abide it if I would!... + And I would, after all, that I could not." + + V. SARDOU (_Nos Intimes_). + +Other days passed, and then others. + +From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view +of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain +Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several +times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet +object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he +forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts. + +Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream +edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with +the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne. + +Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber +and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with +that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable +complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the +tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul. + +But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of +observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught +one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under +the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in +that loft? + +He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his +pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his +flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled +his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment. + +He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers, +that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he +heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot. + +And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which +he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again +Suzanne's emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without +anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a +second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left +there. + + + + +XLV. + + +TREACHEROUS MANOEUVRE. + + "He stepped more lightly than a + bird; love traced out his progress." + + CHAMPFLEURY (_La Comédie Académique_). + +"I must know," he said to himself, "where I stand." + +And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village. + +He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But +after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being +watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged +with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the +circuit of Althausen. + +Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the +Captain's house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect, +resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could +suspect his secret agitation. + +He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the +other. + +To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though +it would break. + +In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine +argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever +under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating. + +Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its +nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever +increasing, consumed it. + +To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat +crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to +inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat. + +And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the +load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was +filled with a wild hope. + +A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the +little house, always so smart and white. + +Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind +it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a +goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore. + +There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which +crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed +of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than +once he had caught sight of a crabbed face. + +Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour +embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern. + +What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her? + +Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look +is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he +hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young +girl? Is he not her Curé? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has +he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the +disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another +blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after +what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore +rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is +enough. + +He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the +old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise. + +What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, +and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh, +that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of +love, into that chaste virgin conch. + +Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of +footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it +she? + +He turns round. + +Veronica is behind him. + + + + +XLVI. + + +THE LETTER. + + "Let them take but one step within + your door. They will soon have taken + four." + + LA FONTAINE (_Fables_). + +She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the +bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: "Ah, +ah, I have caught you here." + +--Come, Monsieur le Curé, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been +looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody +is waiting for you. + +--Who! + +But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards +home. The Curé followed her hanging his head. + +He reached the parsonage directly after her. + +--Who is waiting for me then? he said again. + +--It's the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait +till to-morrow. He had a letter for you ... for _you_ only, she added, +lingering over these words with a scornful smile. + +Marcel blushed. + +--Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of +mysteries there are here. Really it's worse than the Catechism. Your +letters for you only! Isn't that enough to humiliate me? You have reason +then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your +letters to _yourself only_. Holy Virgin! it's a pretty thing. What can they +think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your +letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don't matter to me. Would +they not say...? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in +this way? + +--There you are with your recrimination again! + +-Oh, Monsieur le Curé, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I +certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that +way with me. + +--Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish. + +--I see very well, that you don't ask advice from anyone.... And with the +insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added: +You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has +happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself? + +--Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I +consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions. + +--My business! Well, Monsieur le Curé, yours is mine just a bit, since I am +your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I +know. + +--Insolent woman. + +--Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Curé. I let you do as you like with +me. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded +with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you +want to arrive at? + +And the Curé approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes. + +--Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired. + +--I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica. + +Marcel's wrath passed all bounds. + +--Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; +tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless +narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. +Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, +beware of doing it a third time. + +--Be quiet, Monsieur le Curé, said Veronica softly, be quiet. + +--Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an +arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands. + +The servant came near him: + +--It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with +solicitude: shall I make you a little tea? + +--I don't want anything. + +--Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am +not. + +--It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica. + +--Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Curé, you will +understand it one day. + +--Leave me, I say. + +The servant withdrew. + +--It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a +horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation! +Ah, the apostle is right: "As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall +into the abyss." And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this +servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of +her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has +discovered.... Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a +dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!... dear +Suzanne ... no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so +loudly. + +He waited with feverish impatience for the postman's return. + +Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant's +inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his +letters to himself only. + +He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too +discovered excellent reasons for not going out. + +She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the +mysterious letter. + +Marcel's countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read +on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy. + + + + +XLVII. + + +GOOD NEWS. + + "Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia + O filii et filiae... + Et Maria Magdalena + Et Jacobi, et Salome! + Alleluia." + + (_Easter-Mass Hymn_). + +"Rejoice, my son, and sing with me _Hosannah! Hosannah!_ The ways of the +Lord are infinite. + +"Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest, +Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, _non tum +vilis quam nullus_, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a +guilty wretch as he is. + +"Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It +is written: 'If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.' Anastasius Gobin +has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it. +_Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu_, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you +will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will +relate the matter to you in private. + +"_Ergo_. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now +only a question of regaining Monseigneur's favour. The serpent is no longer +there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When +the beast is dead, the venom is dead. + +"I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it +costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has +been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope, +experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. _Filii Sion exultate et +laetimini in Domino Deo nostro_. + +"I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will +form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend, +you will do honour to your old master. _Tu quoque Marcellus eris_! + +"As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is +worth more, I am going to stir up the arrière-ban of the sacristies. + +"I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything +in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de +Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that +before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbé Marcel alone. + +"That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an +Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure--that at +length you shall leave your Thebaid. + +"Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to +dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your +wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will +discuss what is best to do. + +"Have patience then till then. _Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis, +fratres_, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you. + +"I embrace you tenderly, + +"Your spiritual Father + +"MARCEL RIDOUX + +"_Curé of St. Nicholas_." + + + + +XLVIII. + + +RECONCILIATION. + + "The fair Eglé chooses her part on a sudden + In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming." + + CHAMPFORT (_Contes_). + +"Here is salvation," said Marcel to himself, "the solution of the problem, +the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot +which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!" +And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him: + +--Good news! Veronica. + +--I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you +nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit? + +--Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbé +Ridoux, gives notice of his. + +--Monsieur le Curé of Saint Nicholas? + +--Himself. Do you know him? + +--Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul) +regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it +appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in +the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the +world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It's +he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a +little diversion, for we don't often laugh. + +--That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest's +house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where +there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness. +Our Saviour has said: "Every house divided against itself shall perish." + +--He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Curé. + +--We must not perish, Veronica. + +--I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war. + +--Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle +might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic +differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We +are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself, +it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we can come to an understanding directly, if you +wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice. + +--Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after +supper. + +--I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service. + +--And we will celebrate the good news. + +--I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you do not +know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I +am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another's, and when we +must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to +laugh, and do not give up my share. + +--Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only +way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to +my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my +secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is +at the bottom of your bag of iniquity. + + + + + +XLIX. + + +CONFIDENCES. + + "To thee I wish to confide this secret, + Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet + They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Curé of Althausen had +coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups. + +--You have asked somebody then? she enquired. + +--Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica. + +The woman smiled. + +She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the +shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed +partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her +master. + +--We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us. + +Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his +servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he +thought, and he answered quietly: + +--We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do +anything wrong. + +--Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your +table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would +begin to chatter. + +--It is true. + +--And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so, +Monsieur le Curé? + +Marcel bent his head: + +--You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one +cannot usually with a ... common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand +me. Then, after a moment's hesitation: + +--Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a +serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it. + +--Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Curé, I deserved everything that you +have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly +towards you. + +--I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate +all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely. + +--Monsieur le Curé is too good. + +--No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved +differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of +ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, +and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we +can come to an understanding. + +--Yes, I am easy to accommodate. + +--Let us save appearances, that is essential. + +--You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could +ever reproach me for setting a bad example. + +--I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is +well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we +must wash our dirty linen at home. + +--Poor Monsieur Fortin. + +--That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my +disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and +you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little +confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little +brandy? There! now sit close to me. + +--Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees. + +--At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I +mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, +but by right of a friend. + +--I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé. + +--There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, +but not a priest. Are you willing? + +--I am quite willing. + +--You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to +you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say +regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me. + +--What do you want me to tell you? + +--They committed faults then?... + +--I have told you so, sir,--sometimes--like you. + +--Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day. + +--Seven times! + +--Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but +I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater +saints? + +--Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between +ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar. + +--Oh, Veronica, Veronica. + +--Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another +thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted +their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them. + +--What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things? + +--One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one +sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to +his _valet de chambre_; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I +tell you so. + +--But that is blasphemy, Veronica. + +--Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel. + +--Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness? + +--Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who +surprised me. + +--You!... And how then? + +--Monsieur le Curé, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their +weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine. + +--Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? +these ecclesiastics? + +--Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet ... if Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand.... + +--Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to +me. It is wrong of you to forget that. + +--Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand +that since you, you have erred, the others.... + +--And what have they done? + +--Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus! + +--Let us see. + +--I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it. + +--Come, let us see, speak ... you have nothing to be afraid of before me +... speak, Veronica, speak. + +--Where must I begin? + +--Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose. + +--There are several of them. + +--Several beginnings? + +--Yes; I have had three masters, you know. + +--Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I +knew slightly. + +--He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no. + +--The Abbé Fortin? + +--Lord God, yes, the Abbé Fortin! + +--What has he done then? + +--My God ... you know well, that which one does when one ... is a man ... +and has a warm temperament. + +--To you, Veronica, to you? + +--Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, I am so good-natured, I don't +know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to +resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your +confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a +certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be +quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out +through the parsonage door. + +--Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad. + +--And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we +are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed +is a sin half pardoned. + +--Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what +causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence." + +--Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so? + +--A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe. + +--I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least? + +--He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman. + +--That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would +believe in us without that? I say _us_, for I am also somewhat a +church-_woman_. + +--Undoubtedly. + +--I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St. +Eprive's and my mother the Curé's housekeeper. + +--That is your title. + +--Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the +head of the association of the Holy Virgin. + +--No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy +and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot +contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!... And how did he go to work to +... seduce you? He must have used much deceit. + +--All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge. + + + + +L. + + +MAMMOSA VIRGO! + + "The monk could not refrain from admiring + the freshness and plumpness of + this woman. For a long time he made + his eyes speak, and he managed it so + well that in the end he inspired the + lady with the same desire with which + he was burning." + + BOCCACIO (_La Décaméron_). + +Veronica took several sips of the brandy which remained at the bottom of +the cup, collected her thoughts for a moment, and casting her eyes down +with a modest air, she proceeded: + +--The good Monsieur Fortin, as perhaps you know, used to drink a little of +an evening. + +--Oh, he used to drink! + +--Yes, not every day, but every now and then; two or three times a week: +but you know ... quite nicely, properly, without making any noise; he was +gayer than usual, that was all. But when he reached that point, though he +was ordinarily as timid as a lay-brother, he became as bold as a gendarme, +and he was very ... how shall I say?... very enterprising. I may say that +between ourselves, Monsieur le Curé, you understand that strangers never +knew anything about it. If by chance anyone came and asked for him at these +times, I used to say that he had gone out, or that he was ill. One day, I +was finely put out. Christopher Gilquin's daughter came to call him to her +mother who was at the point of death. He took it into his head to try and +kiss her. The little one, who was hardly fifteen, did not know what it +meant. I made her understand that it was to console her, and through pure +affection for her and for her mamma. It passed muster. But when she had +gone I gave it to him finely, and I made him go to bed ... and sharply too. + +--And he obeyed you? + +--I should think so, and without a word. He saw very well he was wrong. One +evening then ... I had been in his service hardly six months--I must tell +you first that he had looked at me very queerly for some time; I let him do +so and said to myself: "Here is another of them who will do like the rest." +And I waited for it to happen. I was better-looking then than I am now: I +was ten years younger, Monsieur le Curé. + +--Ten years younger! but you were thirty then. How could you be a Curé's +servant at that age? Our rules are opposed to it. + +--I passed as his relation. And that was tolerated. Besides, when +Monseigneur made his visitation, I did not show myself ... for form's sake, +for Monseigneur knew very well that I was there. I met him once on the +stairs; he took hold of my chin, looked at me very hard, and said in a sly +way: "Here is this little _spiritual sister_ then; faith, she is a pretty +little rogue." I was so bashful. I asked Monsieur Fortin what a _spiritual +sister_ was, and he told me that they used formerly to call women so who +lived with priests. They say that all had two or three _spiritual sisters_. +What indecency! I should not have allowed that. + +--Spiritual sister is not exactly the expression, said Marcel, it is +_adoptive sister_, because they were adopted.[1] Alas, Veronica, the clergy +were slightly dissolute in former times: it is no longer so in our days, in +which so many holy ecclesiastics give an example of the rarest virtues. + +--Oh, three wives, Monsieur le Curé! three wives! sweet Jesus! they must +have torn out each other's eyes. + +--No, Veronica. They agreed very well among themselves. They had different +ideas at that time to what we have now. + +--One evening then Monsieur Fortin had drunk at table a little more than +usual. I was going to bring the dessert and I leaned over to take up a dish +which was before him. As the dish was heavy and rather far from my hand, I +supported myself on the back of his chair, and involuntarily I rubbed +against his body with my stomach. "Oh, oh," he said, "if that happens again +I shall pinch that big breast." + +--What! Monsieur Fortin used that expression? + +--Yes, sir, and many others besides. I blush when I think of it.... Then I +looked at him quite astounded. He began to laugh. I went to look for the +cheese, and I passed again beside him on purpose, and supported myself on +his chair again to place it on the table. "Ah," he cried, "she is beginning +again. _O, mammosa virgo_!"--he repeated it so many times to me that I +remember it--"so much the worse, I keep my promises." And he pinched me. + +--Where? + +--Where he had said. He made no error. I blushed for shame and drew back as +quickly as possible: "How can he," I said to myself, "use Latin words to +deceive poor women?" Then he cried: "Are you ticklish?"--Yes, sir. "Ah, you +are ticklish. The big Veronica is ticklish! Who would have believed it?" +And he laughed, but I saw clearly that his laugh was put on, and that +something else preoccupied him. And from that moment, each time that I +passed near him and stooped down to clear away, he tried to pinch me where +he could: "And there," he said, "are you ticklish? are you ticklish there?" +I was so stupefied that I could not get over it. "It is a little too much, +Holy Mother of God," I said to myself, "a man like him! to pinch me in this +way! who would believe it! One would not credit it, if one saw it! Ah, I +will see how far he will go, and to-morrow I will give him an account." At +last, when I saw that he would not stop it, and that he was going too far, +I said to him severely: Monsieur le Curé, if you continue to tease me in +this way, you shall see something. + +--What shall I see? he said getting up suddenly, I want to see it directly. +Ah, _mammosa virgo_! you threaten your master! Wait, wait, I will teach you +respect. + +And, pretending to punish me, he caught hold of as much as he could grasp +with both hands; yes, sir, as much as he could. Ah, I was very angry, God +can tell you so. + +--And did he stop? + +--Not at all, sir; quite the contrary. I escaped from his hands, and I +turned round the table saying: "Ah, sweet Jesus, what is going to happen? +Divine Saviour! How far will he dare to go?" To complete the misfortune, I +let the lamp fall, and it went out. Then he put himself into a great +passion, and soon caught me. "You have upset the oil," he cried. "I will +teach you to spill the oil." He held me with all his might. Then I got +angry in earnest, in earnest, you know. + +--Well? + +--Well, that was useless. I was taken like a poor fly. It was too late. It +was all over. + +--All over! + +--All over. Monsieur Fortin let me go then. Ah! sir, if you knew how +ashamed I was. + +[Footnote 1: They are still called _sisters agapetae_ or _subintroduced_ +women. Perhaps it is not unnecessary to recall the fact that Gregory VII +was the first of the popes to impose celibacy on the clergy. He nullified +acts performed by married priests and compelled them to choose between +their wives and the priesthood. In spite of this, and in spite of +excommunication with which he threatened them, many kept their wives +secretly, the rest contented themselves with concubines. Besides, the +majority of the bishops, who lived after the same manner, tolerated for +bribes infractions of the rule by the lower and higher clergy. The Council +of Paris, in 1212, forbade them to receive money, proceeding from this +source. At the present time, however, the Catholic priests of the +Greeks-United, those of Libar and different Oriental communions, all under +papal authority, not only may, but must take wives. + +St. Paul said: "Choose for priest him who shall have but one wife." Would +he find many of them at the present time?] + + + + +LI. + + +CHAMBER MORALITY. + + "Practise moderation and prudence + with regard to certain virtues which + may ruin the health of the body." + + THE REV. FATHER LAURENT SCUPOLI (_Le Combat Spirituel_). + +--What a strange story, said Marcel. Oh, Veronica. But did you not make +more resistance? + +--Resistance! I was lame from it for more than a fortnight. I walked like a +duck. People said to me: "What is the matter with you, Mademoiselle +Veronica? They say you have broken something!" Ah, if they had suspected +what it was. + +--What a scandal! Monsieur Fortin! + +--He was stronger than I; but I don't give him all the blame. We must be +just. It was my fault too. That is what comes of playing with fire. + +--But it seems to me, Veronica, that you displayed a little willingness. + +--Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you are scolding me for telling you all this so +plainly. Was it not better for me to act thus, than to let Monsieur Fortin +run right and left and expose himself to all sorts of affronts, as some do? +That man had a temperament of fire. And that temperament must have expended +itself on someone. The business about little Gilquin made me reflect. I +sacrificed myself, and I acted as much in his interests as in the interests +of religion. + +--And does not temperament speak in you also, Veronica? + +--Ah, that is only told in confession. + +--Nevertheless it is fine to rule your passions, to be chaste. + +--Ah, yes, as you were saying once when I came in: "Chaste without hope." +All that is rubbish. God has well done all that he has done; I can't get +away from that. + +--How can you bring the holy name of God into these abominable things? + +--Abominable! that is rubbish again. Monsieur Fortin and I often asked +ourselves what evil that could do to God, when neither of us did any to +other people. Monsieur Fortin used to say to me: "Are we doing evil to our +neighbours, Veronica?" "Not that I know of, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we +causing a scandal?" "Ah, Jesus, no, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we setting a +bad example?" "No, Monsieur le Curé, no." "Are we populating the land with +orphans?" "Oh, as to that, no." "Well then, in what way can we be offending +God?" That was very well said all the same, the more so as his health +depended on it. + +--But, replied Marcel, wishing to change the conversation which was verging +upon dangerous ground, have you not told me that you have been in the +service of ecclesiastics for nearly five-and-twenty years. That appears to +me to be very extraordinary for, after all, you are hardly forty. + +--Thirty-nine, corrected Veronica, who was past forty-five. + +--Reason the more. + +--That is true, Monsieur le Curé, but I began early. At fifteen I went to +the Abbé Braqueminet's. + +--I was acquainted with a Braqueminet, who was Bishop _in partibus_. A very +worthy prelate. + +--That he is, sir; he went to America. + +--Come! this is too much, Veronica; you want to make a fool of me. At +fifteen, do you say, that is too much! At thirty you were with the Abbé +Fortin. I have no objection to that, since you passed as his relation, +although with regard to this, our rules are precise, and we cannot take a +housekeeper, till she is over a certain age. Sometimes, it is true, they +smuggle in a few years: but fifteen years! + +--It is the exact truth, however, sir. I was fifteen years old, and no more +at the Abbé Braqueminet's, and you will believe me, when I tell you that I +was his niece. + +-Monseigneur Braqueminet's niece! you, Veronica? + +-Yes, sir, his niece; the Holy Virgin who hears me, will tell you that I +was his niece, and I will explain to you how. + + + + +LII. + + +THE POSSET. + + "This little maid, so fair, with teasing ways, + Was made to be a lovely man's support. + For many a foolish thing in former days + He did to gain a face less fair than thine." + + BÉRANGER (_la Célibataire_). + +My father, as I have told you, was beadle at Saint Eprive's, and my mother +was servant to Monsieur le Curé. These were two good situations, but they +had a number of children, and not much time to attend to them. Therefore +when I was thirteen, they entrusted me to an old aunt who was willing to +take charge of me. She was servant to Monsieur Braqueminet, who was then at +Mirecourt. She placed me at first with a lady who made me look after her +little children. At the end of a year Monsieur l'Abbé had a change, and +went away to a village near Saint-Dié. He said to my aunt: "You cannot +leave Veronica alone at Mirecourt; she will soon be fifteen; she is tall +and nice-looking; she will run too much risk, and we must take her with us; +but as it would make these foolish peasants chatter if their Curé had a +strange young girl in the house, she shall pass as my niece. What do you +say to this proposal?" My aunt was delighted and agreed to it directly, and +all the more because I would have to assist her in the household work, and +that her labour would thus be lightened. They took me away from my +situation, they taught me my lesson, and I went away with them, very +pleased to be Monsieur le Curé's niece. Ah! that was the best time of my +life. My aunt spoilt me, Monsieur le Curé was excessively fond of me, I had +all my wishes. All the ladies in the neighbourhood spoke to me civilly, the +Collector's wife, the lawyer's wife, the Mayoress, the wife of the +exciseman, they all, in short, made much of me. Mademoiselle Veronica here! +Mademoiselle Veronica there! I had my place in the gallery. They invited me +to dinner and they were rivals as to who should make me little presents, as +if I were really his true niece; everybody believed it, and my aunt +herself, by dint of hearing it said, ended by believing it herself, for she +never called me anything else than Mademoiselle Veronica. + +Unfortunately after some time my aunt died. When we had both of us wept +copiously for her, Monsieur le Curé said to me: "Now your aunt is dead, +Veronica, what are you going to do?" I made no answer and burst again into +tears. "You must not cry like that, little one, you will spoil your pretty +eyes; will you remain with me? will you continue to be my niece?" That was +my dream; I asked for nothing more. I thanked Monsieur Braqueminet with all +my soul, and told him that as he wanted me to be his niece, I would remain +his niece all my life.--"That is agreed," he said to me, "you shall keep my +little house for me, and I will take another maid-servant for the heavy +work only." For he was so nice to me that he would not allow me to fatigue +myself in anything. Ah, the men, Monsieur le Curé, who can trust the men! +See what he has made of me after all his fine promises: a poor servant, +nothing more. + +--Had he then any reason to complain of you? + +--To complain of me! ah, sweet Paschal Lamb! Never has he said a word of +reproach. But since I am in the mood to tell you everything, I may as well +do so at once. It was he who had my innocence. + +--What! it was not the Abbé Fortin then? + +-No, Monsieur le Curé, it was the Abbé Braqueminet. + +--And how did he go to work to have your innocence? + +--Ah, he was a very clever man. First he knew how to inspire affection, he +was so kind to me. It was I who managed everything. I was mistress of all, +although so young, and, pray believe me, everything proceeded well. But ... +one fine day a real niece turned up, no one knows whence ... and, faith, I +was obliged to retire. I might have made an exposure, but I preferred to +sacrifice myself. + +--Was she younger than you then? + +--The same age, sir, but she was fresh fruit. She appeared so innocent that +one would have given her the sacrament without confession. Monsieur +Braqueminet, he undertook to give her the Sacrament.... Yes, he undertook +it, that man!... + +--But was she really his niece? + +--Yes, sir, his own sister's daughter. I have had proofs of it; do you +think I should have gone away, without that? This sister hated me, and I +thoroughly returned it; but when I saw her daughter arrive, I said to +myself: I am well revenged. + +--But your innocence.... how did he have it? + +--Ah, you are anxious to know that. I must tell you everything then! +everything! this is how it happened. He suffered a little from his chest, +and every evening my aunt used to carry him up a posset. When my aunt was +dead, I was obliged to take her place, for the servant we had taken was +married, and went home at the end of the day. He knew very well what he was +doing, and I, poor little lamb of God, believed everything. I was like a +new-born child. It is not right to be so silly as that. God has punished me +for it: it is quite right. I don't complain at it. So I used to take him up +his posset every evening. Then he used to kiss me and squeeze me to his +heart, calling me his dear niece, and charging me to be good: + +--You will always be good? he used to say to me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Always! you promise me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Ah, let me kiss you for that kind promise. I found that he kissed me for +rather a long time and although it was very pleasant to me, still it used +to give me reason for reflection: "How can he love me so much, I thought, +when he is not my uncle?" + +You can judge by that if I was not silly. But it is perfectly conceivable, +for I had never been to school, so who was there then to teach me +naughtiness. A young girl's brain is active, and I formed a thousand +fancies of every kind. "Perhaps he has some interest concealed underneath," +I said artlessly to myself, "and perhaps he does not love me as he wishes +me to believe." I was hardly fifteen, and you see I was quite candid and +simple. I thought I would pretend to be ill, in order to make a trial of +him, and see if he would be grieved and if he would come and nurse me. So +one evening, when he had finished supper, I told him that I was not well, +and that I was going to bed. He was reading his newspaper and did not +appear to hear me. At least he made no reply. I went away very sadly and +sorrowfully, thinking that his affection for me was not very great, as he +did not give the least attention to my complaints. In short, I went to bed. + +"He will go to bed too very soon," I said to myself, "he will call for his +posset and he will be obliged to get up to see why I do not bring it to +him." + +Indeed, about an hour after, I heard his bell. I wrapped myself up in the +sheets and pretended to be asleep. He rang a second time. "Veronica, +Veronica," he cried, "my posset; what are you doing then? Have you +forgotten it? Veronica!" + +I turned a deaf ear. + + + + +LIII. + + +THE LEG. + + "One is compelled sometimes to say to oneself, + 'On what does ruin or safety depend?'" + + J. TOURGUENEFF (_Les eaux printanières_). + +Then I heard him come upstairs cautiously and stop at the door of my room. +All at once he opened it. He remained standing still for a moment, then he +came near my bed on tip-toe. + +I half-opened my eyes quickly, and the first thing I saw was his naked +legs--my word, he had a very well-made leg! I looked again and saw that he +was covered with an old black cloak which served him as a dressing-gown. + +I closed my eyes again quickly, and, without giving an account of my +feelings, I was overcome by a strong emotion. + +My uncle passed his hand over my forehead. He found it burning, for he +cried out directly: "But she is really ill, she is really ill, poor child." +Then leaning over me: "Little one, little one, where are you in pain?" + +I pretended to wake up with a start, and I stared wildly at him, as if I +was much surprised to see him there. We women have the instinct of deceit +from birth; believe me, what I tell you is true, Monsieur le Curé. + +--It is possible, Veronica. + +--Well, then be said to me, "Where are you in pain, little one?" I put my +finger on the pit of my stomach, and replied in a feeble voice "Here." + +He put his hand there, and I saw that he moved it about with complacency on +that part. + +This touch seemed to make him beside himself, "Oh, the pretty little girl, +the pretty little girl!" he said, "she is ill, poor dear child." And his +hand continued to caress me. + +You may think how I was trembling. Although he did it very decently, I said +to myself that it was not altogether proper, but I took good care not to +utter a word. A girl is inquisitive, you know, and I was not displeased to +see what he would come to. + +"Will you have a fomentation?" he said to me after a moment. "No, uncle," I +answered, "I feel I am getting better, it is not worth while; I am even +going to get up to make you your posset." "To get up, do you dream of +it?... All the same, perhaps you are right, there is still some fire in my +room: will you come there? you will warm yourself better than in your bed." +"I will, if it does not disturb you." "Disturb me! no, no, don't be afraid +of disturbing me; come, put on a dress and come." + +I sat up in bed, thinking that he would go out of the room to let me dress, +but he remained standing in front of me, and his looks frightened me. + +I remained sitting on the bed, without stirring. "Well, well, little girl, +you are not getting up?" + +"I dare not get up before you, uncle." "Are you silly? What are you afraid +of? Are you not my niece? Come, come, out of bed, little stupid." He said +that in a gentle insinuating voice, and I dared not hesitate any more. I +put one leg out of bed. He followed my movements with the greatest +attention; "Well, well, and that other leg?" + +I put out the other leg, blushing all over with shame, and I wanted to take +my petticoat. + +But he came near directly and said: "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty +she is like this.... You will always be good, will you not?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"How pretty you are when you are good. You will always be so? You promise?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Oh, I want to kiss you for that kind promise." + +--I held out my cheek to him without resistance, but it was my mouth which +received the kiss. It was followed by a thousand others. One is not of +iron, Monsieur le Curé, and that was how ... I ... lost my innocence. + +--What, Veronica, you fell so easily! They say that it is only the first +step which is painful, but it seems hardly to have been painful to you. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we women are full of faults, and we deserve only +eternal damnation. + +--I do not say that, Veronica. Certainly in this circumstance all the fault +lies on your seducer, but I should have preferred more struggle on your +part. + +--You men are very good with your struggle. To hear you, we never make +enough resistance. Would one not say that the poor women are made of +another paste than you, and that they ought to be harder? + +--No, but it is necessary to know how to govern one's passions. That is the +noble, the lofty, the meritorious thing. Resist temptation, everything lies +in that. + +[PLATE III: THE LEG. "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like +this..."] + +[Illustration] + +--Everything lies in that, I know it well; but what would you? I had lost +my head entirely like Monsieur Braqueminet. And I did not know what he +wanted, or what he was going to do. I only understood when it was too late. + +--Ah, Veronica, you singular woman, you have made me quite beside myself +with your stories. + +--It was you who wished it. + +--The Abbé Fortin! the Abbé Braqueminet! God of heaven! and who besides? + +--The Abbé Marcel! + +--Yes, it is true, I also ... I have been on the point of transgressing. +Ah! temptation is sometimes very strong, Veronica, my good Veronica; the +noble thing is to resist. + +The greatest saints have succumbed. St. Origen was obliged to employ a +grand means, you know what, my daughter? + +--Monsieur Fortin has told me. But you must not act like that saint; that +would be a pity, it would be better to succumb, dear Monsieur Marcel. How I +like your name, Marcel, Marcel, it is so soft to the mouth. + +--To resist temptation like Jesus on the mountain.... + +--There was but one Jesus. + +--Like St. Antony in the desert.... + +--That is rubbish; in the desert no one could tempt him. + +--Leave the room, Veronica; since you have talked to me, I understand the +fault of your former masters; leave the room. + +--Are you afraid of me then? Angels of heaven, a woman like me. Is it +possible? Ah, I should have been very proud of it. + +--Proud to make me sin? + +--Sin! Sin! Monsieur le Curé: why do we call that a sin? + +She came nearer to him. He wished to rise from his chair, but his hand went +astray, he never knew how, on his servant's waist. + +Oh vow of chastity, sentiments of modesty, manly dignity and priestly +virtue, where were you, where were you? + + + + +LIV. + + +MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. + + "Well, you have found it, this ephemeral happiness." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +Sadness succeeds to joy, deception to illusion, the awakening to the dream, +the head-ache to the debauch. + +When the crime is perpetrated, remorse, the avenging lash of virtue, comes +and scourges the conscience. "Come, up, vile thing! thou hast slept over +long." + +And it exposes to the wretch the emptiness of pleasures, purchased at the +price of honour. + +The dawn found the Curé of Althausen groaning secretly to himself on his +couch. + +He had made himself guilty of an abominable wickedness, he had just +committed an inexcusable crime, he had succumbed cowardly, ignominiously; +he had betrayed his faith, abjured his priestly oaths, forgotten his +duties, prostituted his dignity on the withered breast of an old corrupted +maid-servant. + +Suzanne, the adorable young girl, who in the first place had insensibly and +involuntarily drawn him on the road of perjury, for whom he would have +sacrificed honour, reputation, the universe and his God, he had abjured her +also in the arms of this drab. + +And that was the wound which consumed his heart the most. + +For as soon as we have yielded to the infernal temptation, the lying prism +vanishes, the halo disappears, and there only remains vice in all its +hideousness and repulsive nudity. It is then that we hear a threatening +voice mutter secretly in the depths of our being. + +Happy is he who, already slipping on the fatal descent, listens to that +voice: "Stop, stop; there is still time, raise thyself up." + +But most frequently we remain deaf to that importunate cry. And, weary of +crying in vain, conscience is silent. It no more casts its solemn serious +note into the intoxicating music of facile love. + +And the wretch, devoured by insatiable desire, pursues his coarse and looks +not back. He goes on, he ever goes on, leaving right and left, like the +trees on the way-side, his vigour and his youth which he scatters behind +him. He set forth young, robust and strong, and he arrives at the +halting-place, worn-out, soiled and blemished. There is the ditch, and he +tumbles headlong into it. He falls into the common grave of cowardice and +infamy. The lowest depths receive him and restore him not again. + +Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums +have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened. Disturb +not this corpse, it is only putrefaction. + +The poet has said: + + "Evil to him who has permitted lewdness + Beneath his breast its foremost nail to delve! + The pure man's heart is like a goblet deep: + Whe the first water poured therin is foul, + The sea itself could not wash out the spot, + So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie." + +Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid +descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself: + +"Shall I ever be able to see the light of day? Shall I ever dare to raise +my eyes after this filthy crime? Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me. Avenging +thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the +nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth." + +But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest +rumbling of thunder. Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no +minister of God had sinned. The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and +danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the +pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden. + +There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the +burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile. +She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with +pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless +curiosity. + +[PLATE IV: MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. ...he sprang out of bed, surfeited with +disgust.... And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a +madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.] + +[Illustration] + +Doubtless she was saying to herself: "Is it really possible? Am I then in +bed with this handsome priest? Is my dream then realised?" + +And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in the +Curé of Althausen's bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones: + +--You say nothing, my handsome master. You seem to be dejected. What! you +are not tired out already? + +And she put out her hand to give him a caress. But he sprang out of bed, +surfeited with disgust. + +--Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful. I was forgetting your +Mass. + +And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and +carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm. + + + + +LV. + + +IN THE FOOT-PATH. + + "'Tis the comer blest where God's creatures dwell, + The wild birds' haunt and the dragon-fly's home, + Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell, + Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +"Abomination of abomination!" murmured Marcel, and he went out in haste; he +would not remain another minute in that cursed house. It seemed to him that +the walls of his room reeked of debauchery, and that everything there was +impregnated with the odour of foul orgies. + +He went out of the village, unconscious of his road, like a hunted +criminal; he tried to escape from himself, for that harsh officer, remorse, +had laid vigorous hold of his conscience. Be followed at random the +foot-paths, lined by gardens by which he had passed so many times with +placid brow and a clean heart; he walked on, he walked on, with bare head, +and blank and haggard eyes, thinking of nothing but his crime, seeing +nothing, hearing nothing, not oven the bell which summoned him to his +morning Mass, as it cheerfully filled the air with its silver notes. + +The morning was as bright as the face of a bride. May was shedding its +perfumes and flowers on the paths, and displaying everywhere its marvellous +adornments of universal life,--labour and love. The children were already +tumbling about in the foot-paths, the birds were warbling in the hawthorn +hedges, and in the moist grass the grasshopper was saluting the rising sun. + +And he, in the midst of all this joy and all this life, was walking on with +his head filled with vague ideas of suicide. A few peasants passed near him +and sainted him: he saw them not; he saw not the children who stopped still +and gazed in bewilderment at his strange appearance: he saw not Suzanne who +was approaching at the end of the path. + +She was only a few paces away when he raised his head, and all his blood +rushed to his heart. Vision blessed and cursed at the same time. She, she +there, at the vary moment of the consummation of his shame. She before him +when he had just dug an abyss between them. What should he say? Would she +not read on his troubled face the shameful secret of the drama within? Was +not his crime written on his sullied brow in indelible soars? He would have +wished the earth to open under his feet. + +Meanwhile she advanced blushing, perhaps as greatly agitated as himself. + +And from the smile on her rosy lips, from the brightness of her dark eyes, +from the gram of her carriage, from the chaste swelling of her bosom, from +the folds of her dress which, blown by the morning breeze, revealed the +harmonious outlines of her fairy leg, from all those inexpressible maiden +charms, there breathed forth that _something_, for which there is no name +in the language of men, but which accelerates the beating of the heart, +which pours into the veins an unknown fluid, and bids us murmur low to the +stranger who passes by, and whom perhaps we may never see again: "My life +is thine, is thine!" + +Mysterious sensation, which, in the golden days of youth, we have all +experienced once at least with ravishing delight. + +And everything seemed to say to Marcel: "Fool! If thou hadst wished it, we +were thine. The delights of paradise were thine, and thou hast preferred +the impurities of hell!" + +Oh, if he had been able, if he had dared, he would have cast himself at +this maiden's feet, he would have kissed her knees, he would have grovelled +on the ground and cried with tears: "Pardon! pardon! Fate has caused it +all. Almighty God will never pardon me, but it is thou whom I implore, and +what matters it, if thou, thou dost pardon me." + +The feeling of the reality recalled him to himself. Who was aware of his +fault, and what was there, besides, in common between this young girl and +himself? One evening when alone with her, he had acted imprudently, that +was all, and it was now long ago. Then, through desperation and also to +show that he attached no importance to that act of imprudence which he had +almost forgotten, he assumed an icy demeanour. + +She advanced with a smile, but she felt it congeal on her lips before this +insolent coldness, while he, gravely bowing to her as before, a stranger, +passed on. + + + + +LVI. + + +DOUBLE REMORSE. + + "Ah, how much better are the love-tales + which we spelt in our eyes with + our hearts." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Croquis d'automne_). + +His Mass said, Marcel did not want to return to the parsonage. He made his +way slowly to the wood, absorbed by a world of thoughts. All was quite +changed since the day before, and what a revolution had been wrought in his +soul in one day. + +The day before there was still time to stop, there was time to cast far +away temptations and impure desires, to avoid the infernal snares and +ambushes, to take refuge, according to the Apostle's advice, in the bosom +of God; now it was too late, it was no longer in his power; he found +himself hemmed in within the circle of abominations, and he did not see how +he could get forth. + +A double remorse tormented him, and wrung his conscience with fierce +fingers. + +On the one hand, there was his servant, become his accomplice and his +mistress, an odious thing; his servant defiling his couch, hitherto +immaculate; his couch of a virtuous priest. + +Then, on the other, there was the fair pale face of Suzanne, full of +reproaches, surprised and sad. Why had he not stopped? What fury had urged +him forward, cold and scornful, when he burned to hear once again the sound +of that voice which stirred his heart! + +And the memory of that meeting, at the very moment of the consummation of +his infamy, was the blow of the lash which laid bare the open wound of his +remorse. He did not curse his crime more than the inopportuneness and the +awkwardness of that crime. + +What! be had given himself up to a despicable old woman, he had slaked the +thirst of that ghoul with his generous blood, he had abandoned to that +hell-hag the promises of his young body and his virgin soul, while a young +girl whose like he had never seen but in fairy tales and dreams, came to +him and seemed to say to him: "You may love me." + +And he had repulsed her in order to give himself up to the former: that +horrible creature, that hypocrite, that sorceress. + +And now that his judgment was calm, he could not understand how he had +allowed himself to be carried away by such clumsy manoeuvres, that he had +fallen in so cowardly a way, and for such an object. + +If, at least, it had been in the arms of the lovely school-girl! If his +virtue had melted under the kisses of her charming lips! But no, none of +all that: none of those unparalleled joys, of those ineffable delights, of +those divine and sweet pleasures. + +Unclean touches, a withered body, an impure mouth. Lewdness instead of +love. + +And his servant's caresses recurred to him and froze him like the infernal +spectres of a hideous nightmare. + +He saw again her face, lighted up by amorous fever, her fiery lecherous +look, fastening on him with all the wild fury of her forty-five years, with +the cynicism of the sham saint who has thrown away her mask, and who, after +long fasting, continence and privation, finds at length the means of +glutting herself, and wallows more than any other in the sewer of +obscenities and Saturnalia. + +He saw her again like the old courtesan of Horace, + + ...._Mulier nigris dignissima barris_ + +soliciting horribly her too avaricious caresses, and employing all the +arsenal of her filthy seduction to excite him. + +Meanwhile the hours were passing away. The spirit travels in vain into the +land of phantoms; nature performs her modest functions without caring for +the wanderings of the spirit. + +He felt by the pangs of his stomach that he had as yet only breakfasted on +the body of Christ, a meagre repast after a night consecrated to Venus. In +short, he was hungry, and he decided to return to the parsonage. + + + + +LVII. + + +THE EXPLOSION. + + "What dost thou want with me, old + vixen, worthy to have black elephants + for thy lovers.... With what passion + dost thou reproach me for my disgust." + + HORACE (_Epodes_). + +Veronica was waiting for him with a puckered smile. At another time she +would have made a great uproar, for the hour for the meal had struck long +ago; but she did not wish to abuse her freshly conquered rights, and she +contended herself with asking in accents of soft reproach. + +--How late you are. Where have you come from? I was beginning to be +anxious. + +Marcel made no reply. + +--You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have +you come from? + +--I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply. + +The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the +table. + +--Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went +towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here +quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are +all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they +scorn her. + +This sentence struck the Curé to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his +wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he +wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him. + +--You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly. + +--There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I +said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not +young enough or pretty enough for you. + +--I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting. + +--What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick. + +--I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think. + +--I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken. Ah! I am +revolting! revolting! Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth. But +it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, +yesterday, she cried insolently. + +--Yesterday! yesterday! Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you. I would +that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of +the tomb. + +--Yes? is that your thought? Well, for my part, I will forget nothing. Oh! +you are pleased to wish to forget, are you? Therefore, you give yourself up +to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, +and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with +no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say: "Let us forget." +Ah! I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who +preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do +you hear? + +--Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven. + +--I will not be silent, I will not. So much the worse if they hear me. What +does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am? It is not I who am +guilty, it is you. It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you. +It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and +morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked +tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night +under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned +her back. Yes, yes, you have done that. I blush for you. And you are +Monsieur le Curé! Monsieur le Curé. If that wouldn't make the hens laugh. +Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it +is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you. Have I gone and +sought for you, have I? You have made me tell you a lot of stories which +ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside +you, drink brandy,... and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me. +Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has +been all her life the victim of priests like you. No, I will not be silent, +I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must. Ah! you have taken me like a +thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, +when one has no more need of it: I understand you; but I have more +self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant. + +You want to forget. Very good. But I do not want to forget, and I shall not +forget. Oh, I well know what it is your want, Messieurs les Curés; you want +young girls, quite young girls, green fruit, which you pick like that at +the Confessional, or in some corner, without appearing to touch it, and all +the while praying to God. I am aware of that, you know. You cannot teach +any tricks to me. You did not get up early enough, my good master. Your +Suzanne! there is what would please you. You would not tell her that she is +revolting. Affected thing! But they will give you them, wait a little. _Go +and see if they are coming, Jean_. The little girls come like that and +throw themselves at your neck! You would allow it perhaps. That is what +would be revolting. But the mammas are watching, and the papas are opening +their eyes. You hear, Monsieur le Curé? The papas; that is what annoys you. +Papa Durand. + +--Here! cried a voice of thunder from the bottom of the stair-case, and it +resounded in Marcel's ears like the trumpet of the last judgment. + +Pale and terrified, he questioned Veronica with his eyes. + +--It is he, she said, hurrying to the landing-place. + + + + +LVIII. + + +PROVOCATION. + + "For her, for her I will drink the cup to the dregs." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Chatterton_). + +--A thousand pardons, said the Captain, but the door was open and I have +knocked twice. Monsieur le Curé, I have the honour to salute you. I am not +disturbing you? + +--Not at all, Monsieur le Capitaine, quite the contrary, I am happy to see +you; please come in, stammered Marcel, trying to conceal his confusion, and +to look pleasantly at the old soldier. He eagerly brought forward an +arm-chair for him, the one on which Suzanne had sat. + +"Ah," he thought, "if he knew that his daughter was there, at this same +place!" + +The Captain sat down, and, tapping his cane on the floor, seemed to be +seeking for a way of entering on his subject; he appeared anxious, and +Marcel noticed that he no longer had his decisive scoffing manner. + +--Monsieur le Curé, he said after a moment's silence, you must be a little +surprised to see me ... although, after what I believe I heard, I may not +be altogether a stranger here. + +--My parishioners are no strangers, Captain. + +--Parishioner! oh, I am hardly that. I was not making allusion to that +title, but to my name, which was uttered at the very moment when I was at +your door. + +--Your name, Captain, said Marcel growing red; but there are several +persons of your name. + +--That is what I said to myself. There is more than one donkey which is +called Neddy, and more than one _Papa_ Durand in the world. _Papa_! that +recalls to me my position as father, sir, and the purpose of my presence +here. + +Marcel trembled. + +--For you may guess that independently of the pleasure of paying you a +call, I have moreover another object in view. + +--Proceed, Captain. + +--Yes, sir. I wish to talk to you about my daughter. + +--About your daughter! cried Marcel. + +--About my daughter, if you allow me. + +--Do so, I beg of you. + +--Monsieur le Curé, you have been in this neighbourhood some six or eight +months. People have certainly spoken to you about me; they have told you +who I am; a miscreant, a man without religion, who regards neither law or +Gospel: that is to say, only worth hanging. In spite of that, you came to +see me. Very good. You know that I do not pick and choose my words, that I +do not seek a lot of little twisting ways to express my meaning. You have +had a proof of it. I am blunt, and even brutal, that is well known; but I +am open and true. + +--I do not doubt it, Captain. + +--After our little conversation the other day, you must have decided on my +sentiments with regard to those of your profession. Are those sentiments +right or wrong? That is my business. I am not come to begin a controversy, +I am come to ask for an explanation. + +--Please go on, said Marcel alarmed. + +--Not liking the priests, I should have wished to bring up my daughter in +these principles. You see I am straightforward. Unfortunately, like many +other things, her education has slipped out of my hands. We soldiers do not +accumulate property, and those who have the best share, if they have no +private fortune, remain as poor as Job. We are not able therefore to bring +up our children as we intend. The State, in its solicitude, is willing to +undertake this care: we are glad of it, and we are thankful to the State; +but our children slip out of our hands; they become what the State wishes +them to be, that is to say, its humble servants, and, if they are +daughters, anything but what their father has ever dreamed. + +Marcel breathed again: + +--The vocation of children, he said softly, is often in contradiction to +the wishes of parents, and that is precisely the sign of the real vocation +... to shatter obstacles. Where is the great artist, the great man, the +hero, the saint, the martyr, who has not had to struggle with his own +family? + +--I am not speaking of a vocation, sir, but of prejudices, of fatal habits, +of disheartening nonsense, which children, and especially young girls, +imbibe in certain surroundings. The education which my daughter has +received, has inoculated her with ideas which I am far from blaming in a +woman--I have my religion myself too--but the abuse of which I resent. I am +not then at war with my daughter because she has her own, and her own is +more receptive, but what I blame with all my power, and what I am +determined to oppose with all my power is the excessive attendance at +church and on the priest ... on the priest, above all. You are a man, sir, +and you understand me, do you not? + +--I understand, Captain, that you do not wish your daughter to go to +church. + +--As little as possible, sir. + +--Nevertheless, as a Christian and as a Catholic, she has duties to +perform. + +--What do you mean by duties? + +--Why, the first elements which the Catechism prescribes. + +--I do not remember exactly what your catechism prescribes, but if you mean +by that the little box where they tell their sins, that is exactly what I +absolutely forbid. + +--Nevertheless a young person has need of counsel. + +--Undoubtedly; but that counsel I intend to give myself. + +--There is also the priest's part, Captain. + +--Allow me to have another opinion. Besides, the adviser is too young; that +is why, Monsieur le Curé, I ask you to abstain in the future from all +advice, and undertake to abandon any intention you may have with regard to +the direction of this young soul. Such is the purport of my visit. + +--Monsieur le Capitaine, answered Marcel, relieved from a great weight, I +am an honourable man. Another perhaps might be offended at this proceeding. +I will take no offence at it. Another perhaps might answer: "It is a soul +to contend for with Satan; it is the struggle between the Church and the +family; an old struggle, sir, an eternal struggle. You are master to impose +your will among your own, just as among us, we are masters to act according +to our conscience. As a father of a family, your rights are sacred, but +they stop at the entrance to the holy place. You desire the struggle. It +lies between us." For myself I simply reply: "Let it be done according to +your wish, and may the will of God equally be done!" + +--And what does that mean? + +--That your daughter is and shall be in my eyes like all the souls which +Heaven has willed to entrust to my care. If she does not come to church, I +will not go to seek her; but if she comes there, I cannot ask her to +depart. + +--You are really too good. And if she comes and kneels in the little box? + +--Then the will of God will be stronger than the paternal will. + +--That is no answer. + +--Well! what can I do? humbly replied Marcel. + +--Allow me, sir; I ask you what you would do in such a case. + +--I make you the judge of it; can I treat your daughter differently to the +other ladies of the parish? + +--That is to say that you will receive her confession? + +--That will be my duty, Captain. I am frank also, you see. + +--But, Monsieur le Curé, the first of your duties is not to encourage the +disobedience of children, and not to place yourself between a father and +his daughter. + +--I place myself on no side, Captain. I confine myself, as far as I can, to +the very obscure and modest character of a poor priest. I am charged with +an office; is it possible, I ask you yourself, for me to repel those who +address themselves to that office? + +--Very good, sir, said the Captain rising; I know henceforth what to rely +on. + +--Pardon me, Captain, but allow me to say that your proceedings and +apprehensions appear to me a trifle superfluous; for indeed, if you have a +reproach to make your daughter, it is not that of excessive devotion, for +it is a long time since she has come to church. + +--I have forbidden it to her, sir. But my daughter is grieved, and that +pains me. I came to address myself to you, man to man, and as you see, I am +disappointed. + +--Believe me, Captain, let the thing alone. Do nothing in a hurry. Young +people are irritated by obstacles. They need freedom and diversion. Think +of this young lady's position, dropped from her school into the midst of +this solitude, having neither friends or companions any longer; at that +age, the family is not everything; books, walks, music are not sufficient, +What harm is there in her coming sometimes on Sunday, to hear Divine +Service? We do not conceal it from ourselves, sir, that many women whom we +see at service, come there for relaxation. + +--And it is precisely that relaxation which ruins them. + +--Not in the church, sir. + +--Not there, no. But behind, in the sacristy, or at the back of some +well-closed room. Adieu, sir. + +--I do not want to criticize your language, Captain But one word more, I +ask. Is your daughter acquainted with your proceeding? + +--Why that question? + +--Because then my task will be all traced out. + +--What task? + +--To avoid every sort.... + +--Of intercourse. Do what honour counsels you, and trust to me for the +rest. I will act with my daughter as it will be suitable for me to act. As +for you, you have asserted that any other priest _less honourable_ would +have said to me: "We are going to engage in the struggle, it lies between +us." I see now that in your mouth the word _honourable_ signifies _polite_, +for you have been polite, but the other alone would have been frank and +honourable. "Between us" is better, "between us" pleases me. It is plainer +and shorter. Again, I have the honour to salute you. + + + + +LIX. + + +ACTS AND WORDS. + + "Intrigues of heavy dreams! We go + to the right; darkness: we go to the + left; darkness: in front; darkness ... + the thread which you think you hold, + escapes out of your hand, and, triumphant + for a moment, you set yourself + again to grope your way to the catastrophe, + which is a denseness of shadows." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Croquis d'automne_). + +When the Captain had gone away, Marcel perceived the triumphant face of his +servant. Mad with shame and rage he shut himself up in his room, and asked +himself what was going to become of him. "What am I to do?" he said to +himself; "here is the punishment already." + +Nevertheless, on serious reflection, he saw a way all traced out before +him; it was the ancient, the good, the old way which he had followed until +then, and into which the Captain had just brutally driven him back: + +The way of his duty. + +To forget Suzanne! He had that very morning, without wishing it, almost +unknowingly, commenced the rapture; the father's visit had just completed +the work. + +To forget Suzanne! Yes, he would forget her, he must; not only his honour, +his reputation, but his very existence were involved in it. Material +impossibilities rose up before him in every direction where he tried to +deviate from the straight path. His servant! The father! He was compelled +to be an honourable man anyhow, not lost sight of, watched and spied upon +by these two enemies. + +To forget Suzanne! How, after what had passed the previous day, would he +dream for a moment of remembering her? He was almost thankful to his +servant for having stopped him in time on a descent, at the end of which +was scandal and dishonour. + +In any other circumstances his pride would have revolted at the menaces of +the foolish father, he would have been stung in his self-esteem, and he +would have disputed with him for his treasure. But where was his pride? +Where was his dignity? He had left all that on the lap of a cook. + +Reputation was safe; that was henceforth the only good which he must keep +at any price. + +"Come," said he, "keep it, have courage. Stand up, son of saints and +martyrs. Yield not, hesitate not, march forward, without being anxious for +what is on the right or left. Do thy duty in one direction, since in the +other thou hast failed. Is a man then lost because he has for one moment +deviated from his way? Is he dead for one false step? Peter denied his +master three times, thou hast done so but once!"[1] + +The postman's ring drew him from his reverie. He ran to receive the letter, +recognized the writing, hastily put it into his pocket, took up his hat and +his breviary, and went out without saying a word. + +When he was in the little hollow road which is at the bottom of the hill, +he turned round, and, certain that he was not being followed, only then did +he open the letter which follows: + + +"MONSIEUR LE CURÉ, + +"Why are you vexed with me? If you have not seen me any more at Mass, it is +that I have had to contend with my father, and that I have been obliged to +yield. Nevertheless, I am unhappy, and more than ever have I need of your +counsel. You have said: 'We cannot serve two masters,' and 'it is very +difficult to render to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which +is God's.' One word, if you please, through the medium of Marianne to + +"Your very devoted + +"S.D." + +He tore up the letter into the smallest fragments and returned home in all +haste. + +A few hours after, Marianne received the following notice: + +_"To-morrow evening at 7 o'clock, in honour of the Holy Virgin, there will +be Salutation and Benediction at the Chapel of St. Anne. The faithful are +besought to attend."_ + +[Footnote 1: Thou art man and not God, says the holy book of Consolation, +thou art flesh and not an angel. How canst thou always continue in very +virtue?] + + + + +LX. + + +TALKS. + + "When from the hills fell balmy night, + 'Neith the dark foliage of the lofty trees, + Starred by the moon-beams' placid light, + Often we wandered by the water's side." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poésie inédite_). + +As he expected, she did not fail to be at the meeting-place. She was +unaware of her father's proceedings; it was Marcel who informed her of +them. She was quite terrified; but he reassured her, and knew how to soothe +her young conscience; and meeting followed meeting. Dear and innocent +meetings. The most prudish old woman would have found nothing to find fault +with. The mystery, and their being forbidden, formed all their charm. + +The Chapel of St. Anne, half-a-league distant from the village, was a +charming object for a walk. You cross the meadow as far as the little +river, bordered with willows, then the chapel is reached by a hollow lane +hedged with quicksets. The sweet month of May had begun. Three evenings a +week the little nave was in festal dress, and filled with light, and +perfumes and flowers. + +Suzanne went no more to Mass, but she had said to her father: + +--Will you not let me go instead and take a walk sometimes beside Saint +Anne's, to hear the music and the singing of the congregation? + +--Marianne shall accompany you, replied Durand. + +They were always the last to leave the chapel, and Marcel soon rejoined +them. It was at some winding of the path that he used to meet them _by +chance_, and every time he showed great surprise. They walked slowly along, +talking of one thing and another. The Spring, the latest books, the _good_ +Captain's rheumatism, were themes of inexhaustible variety. The future +sometimes attracted their thoughts, her own future; and the priest tried to +cause a few fresh rays to shine into the young unquiet soul. + +They talked also of the school and of friends who had gone out into the +world. One of them, a fair child with blue eyes, was her best-beloved and +the fairest of the fair, and Marcel sometimes felt jealous of these warm, +young-girl friendships. + +He did not disdain to talk of fashions; it is one way of pleasing, and he +admired aloud the elegant cut of the waist, the twig of lilac fastened to +the body of her dress, and the graceful art which had twined her long jetty +plaits. She smiled and said: "What, you too; you too; you pay attention to +these woman's trifles!" + +But what matters the topic of their conversations, all they could say was +not worth the joyous note which sang at the bottom of their hearts. + +When they drew near the village he bowed to her respectfully, and each one +returned by a different way. + +Marianne was then profuse in her praises: + +-What a fine Curé! she said, so kind and civil. If your father only knew +him better! + +And Suzanne, who returned very thoughtful, said once: "The Curé! can it be? +It is the Curé then." + + + + +LXI. + + +LE PÈRE HYACINTHE. + + "She still preserved for herself that + little scene; thus, little by little, we + accumulate within ourselves all the + elements of the inner life." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +She had shown Marcel the portrait of her beloved Rose. "Yes, she is very +pretty," he had replied, "but I prefer dark girls ..." Suzanne blushed. He +opened his breviary and drew out a card. + +--Are you going to show me a dark girl? she said. + +He handed it to her without answering. + +It was the photograph of a man of about forty, with strongly-marked and +characteristic features. The eyes, prominent and slightly veiled, were +surrounded with a dark ring, a token of struggle, fatigue and deception. A +profile out of a picture of Holbein in every-day dress. + +--It is a priest, she cried. + +--It is a priest, indeed, answered Marcel. We are recognized in any +costume. We cannot conceal our identity. Do you know who that is? + +--Is it not that monk who has made such a noise? That Dominican who has +married, and broken with the Church? + +--Yes, Mademoiselle. + +The young girl regarded it with curiosity. + +--It must have been a violent passion to come to that, she said. + +--No, it was an idea well resolved upon and matured. No transport of youth +carried him away. See, he is no longer young, and the companion he has +chosen is very nearly his own age, and he had for her only a tender and +holy feeling. + +--Why then this uproar and scandal? + +--In order to protest aloud against a rule which he did not approve. In our +days there are so many cowardly and degenerate characters, that we cannot +too greatly admire those who have the courage to proclaim their opinion in +the presence of the mob, especially when those opinions shock the +brutalized mob; for my part I admire this man; but what I admire still more +is the woman who has dared to put her hand in his, and brave the derision +of the vulgar, and the calumnies of hypocrites. + +--But his vows? + +--What is a vow when it is a question of the duty which your conscience +dictates? I heard him say one day: "If, after reaching middle age, I have +decided after long reflection to choose a companion, it is not in response +to the cry of the senses, but in order to sanctify my life." He has taken +back the word which he had given, as we all do, at an age when we are +ignorant of the import, and the consequence of that word. Be assured that +his conscience does not reproach him, for you can see on this fine +countenance that his conscience is at rest. Besides, is it the case that +God enjoins celibacy? The celibacy of priests dates only from the year +1010: Christ never speaks about it. + +--And so he has broken with all his past, his relations, his world; he has +ruined what you men call his future. He must begin his life again. + +--And he begins it again in accordance with his inclinations, his needs and +his heart: It is never too late to change the road when we discover that we +have taken the wrong way. It takes longer time, there is more hardship, but +what matters it, provided we attain happiness, the end which we all have in +view. Ah, Mademoiselle, how many, like he, would wish to begin their life +again, if they found a courageous soul who was willing to accompany them? +The future, do you say? But the future, the present, the past, the whole +life lies in the sweet union of hearts. To devote oneself, to renounce +everything, to give up everything, even one's illusions, one's beliefs, +one's dreams for the loved object, is not a sacrifice: it is the sweetest +of joys and the noblest of duties. + +He stopped, fearing that he had gone too far, and did not dare to look at +Suzanne. + +She answered coldly. "Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you approve of that! I did not +think you would have approved of Père Hyacinth; truly, I am astonished." + +_Monsieur le Curé_! It was the first time Suzanne had called him _Monsieur +le Curé_. That name wounded him like an affront. He remembered what he was, +and what he must not cease to be in the eyes of the young girl: the Curé! +nothing but the Curé. + +And he was sick at heart for several days. + +But one fine morning, on coming out from Mass, his countenance lit up, he +uttered a cry of joy and fell into the arms of Abbé Ridoux. + + + + +LXII. + + +THE HAPPY CURÉ + + "Such was Socrates said to have + been, because the outside beholders, + and those estimating him by his external + appearance, would not have given the + slice of an onion, so plain was he in + his person, and ridiculous in his bearing ... + simple in habits, poor in fortune, + unfortunate with women, unfit + for all the offices of the republic, + always laughing, always drinking with + one or another, always sporting, always + concealing his divine wisdom." + + RABELAIS (_Gargantua_). + +Monsieur Ridoux was a very good fellow, but he was not handsome. A big +nose, a big belly, blinking eyes, an enormous mouth, hair on end, the arm +of a chimpanzee, and the legs of a Greenlander. At first sight, he gave me +the impression of a monkey with young. + +But what is a man's outward form? The vessel, more or less regular, filled +with a baneful or beneficent liquid, and you all know that the shape of the +flagon has no influence on the quality of the wine. + +The outward form is the wrapper of the goods: very often that wrapper is +brilliant and gilded, of satin or watered silk, and the goods are +adulterated and spoiled. At other times the wrapper is rough and coarse, +but it enfolds precious commodities. + +The stamp of genius is usually found only on countenances with fantastic +features. Have you ever seen on the fair insipid faces of our _young +swells_ the imprint of a powerful and fertile intelligence? + +The body nearly always is adorned at the expense of the mind. + +Of all the deformities of nature, the hunchbacks are intellectual in +proportion as the handsome men are not. + +Enquire of the army its opinion on its pre-eminently _fine man_, the +drum-major. + +Vincent Voiture, who had, as he confessed himself, the silly face of a +dreaming sheep, used to say that nature usually likes to place the most +precious souls in ill-favoured, puny bodies, as jewellers set the richest +diamonds in a small quantity of gold. + +Accordingly, the pitiful wrapper of the Abbé Ridoux covered an excellent +soul. With his ugly face and his old stained cassock, he reminded me of +those dirty bottles, coated with spider-webs and dust, which we place +daintily on the table on days of rejoicing, and which lord it majestically +among the glittering decanters, soon to be despised, when their dusty sides +appear. + +Thus Monsieur Ridoux lorded it amongst his curates, younger, handsomer, +fresher, more tasty than himself, and eclipsed them by all the brilliancy +of his good-sense, his tact, and his experience. + +He had certainly his little failings!... Who can say that he is exempt from +them? But his mind was sound. A good companion, besides, and of a cheerful +disposition. "We have reached a period," he used to say, "when the priest +must lay aside the stern front and the anathema. There is already much to +obtain pardon for in the colour of his robe. Let us be cheerful, let us be +insinuating, let us be compassionate to human weaknesses. Let us sin, if +need be, with discretion and propriety; but, in heaven's name, let us not +terrify. Let us promise paradise to all. There are always plenty enough +whose life is a hell." + +In that he was not of Veuillot's opinion, that rigid saint, who wished to +see all the world damned for the love of God. + +Therefore, on seeing this cheerful countenance, this openness of manner, +this freedom of speech, this unrestrained good-nature, even those who had +been warned, could not help saying: "Well indeed! this Curé has a pleasant +phiz!" + +Slanderous tongues, Voltairians--who is sheltered from the stings of that +race of vipers?--slanderous tongues affirmed that beneath this Rabelaisian +exterior, he was profoundly vicious, artful, and hypocritical. Marcel, who +had been brought up by him, and was acquainted with the most secret details +of his inmost life, has always assured me that he was nothing of the kind, +and that his uncle Ridoux, endowed with the ugliness of Socrates, had also +his wisdom. + +Nevertheless, I would not dare to assert that he did not like to pinch the +young girls' chins, especially of those who had made their first communion +and were near to the marriageable age; a familiarity which, thanks to his +gray hairs, and the development of his abdomen, he thought was permitted +him, but which, however, is not always without danger. + +Cazotte, a wise man, used to say to his daughters: "When you are alone with +young people, distrust yourselves; but if you find yourselves with old men, +distrust them, and avoid allowing them to take hold of your chin." + +Cazotte was right, for old men begin with that. I would not dare either to +assert that the charms of his cook were safe from his indiscreet curiosity, +for it is there too that old men finish; and we must swear not at all. +Everybody knows the wise man's precept: "When in doubt, abstain." + +At the period of which I am speaking to you, he reigned in a good parish, +well frequented by devout ladies, both young and middle-aged, where from +the height of his pulpit he laid down his laws to his kneeling people, +without hindrance or control. + +He was happy, as all wise men ought to be. Happy to be in the world, +satisfied to be a Curé. "It is the first of professions," he often used to +say, and there is not one of them which can be compared to it. + + "I am a village Curé, + Where I live most modestly; + I'm no important person, + But I'm happy and content + No, I do not envy aught, + For my wants they are but small. + How I love to pass my days + Within the house of God!" + +But if he had complained, it would have been very hard, and everybody in +the diocese, from Monseigneur the Bishop to his sexton, would have risen +with indignation and called him, "Ungrateful wretch." For Ridoux was +favoured above all his colleagues; above all his colleagues Divine +Providence bad overwhelmed him with its favours. He possessed in his +parish, in his very church, at his door, beneath his eyes, beneath his +hand, a real blessing from Heaven, a grace of God, a Pactolus always +rolling down a mine of Peru, a secret of an alchemist, the veritable +philosopher's stone caught sight of by Nicolas Flamel, and vainly sought +for till the time of Cagliostro, a marvel which made him at once honoured +and envied, which made his name celebrated, which gave him a preponderant +voice in the Chapter and a place in the episcopal Council, which swelled +his heart with pride and his money-bag with crowns; he had in the choir of +his church behind the mother altar, in a splendid glass-case, laid on a bed +of blue velvet ... an old yellow skeleton! The relics of a saint. + +But there are saints and saints; those which do miracles, and those which +do them not, those which work and those which rest. + +Monsieur Ridoux's saint worked. + + + + +LXIII. + + +THE MIRACLES. + + "Miracles have served for the foundation, + and will serve for the continuation + of the Church until Antichrist, + until the end." + + (_Pensées de PASCAL_). + +The miserable herd of free-thinkers, people who have no faith, those who +are still plunged in the rut of unbelief, are ignorant perhaps that all the +saints have done miracles, that they have all begun in that way, that that +is the condition _sine qua non_, for entrance into the blessed +confraternity. + +No money, no Swiss; no miracles, no saint. It is in vain that during all +your life you shall have been a model of candour and virtue; it is in vain +that you shall edify the universe by your piety and your good works, that +you shall have resisted like St. Antony the temptations of the flesh, that +you shall have covered yourself with hair-cloth like St. Theresa, with +venom like St. Veuillot, with filth like St. Alacoque or with lice like St. +Labre: it is in vain that you shall have been beaten with rods like St. +Roche, been scourged by your Confessor like St. Elizabeth, that finally you +shall have sinned only six instead of seven times a day; if at your death +you should not succeed in performing some fine miracle, you will never be +admitted into the Calendar. + +The Pope causes your shade to appear before his sacred tribunal, and +according as the number of the dead whom you have raised to life is judged +sufficient or not, as the touch of your tibia or coccyx has cured the itch +or scrofula or not, you are admitted or excluded. + +It is a difficult profession to be a saint, and is not for anyone who +wishes it. + +Therefore, the candidates who die in the odour of sanctity hasten to +accomplish their regular total of prodigies, in order that our father the +Pope may be pleased to assign them a place in the highest heaven. + +They have hardly closed their eyes before they begin to _operate_. Allured +by the hope of being crowned with a glorious halo, they display infinite +zeal, and we have seen them, from their tooth-stumps to their prepuce, +effecting the most marvellous miracles. + +That of Jesus Christ--I speak of the prepuce--is preserved thus in several +churches; all of which contend for the honour of possessing the veritable +one. It is not yet exactly known which is the best; but all without +distinction work wonders, and at certain seasons of the year, are kissed by +pious young women.[1] + +But this noble zeal of the saints lasts but for a time, and this is a proof +of the imperfection of human kind, that our faults and whims follow us even +beyond the tomb. + +The saints, themselves, fall into all the little meannesses so common with +the most ordinary sinners. Like candidates who solicit the votes of the mob +in order to gain power, and make the most brilliant promises which they +hasten to forget as soon as they have climbed the stairs, so the candidates +for canonization perform marvels at first, but once admitted into the +seventh heaven, they appear to trouble themselves no more concerning lowly +mortals. + +Or perhaps miraculous properties are like all other faculties, as they grow +old they become worn-out, and an _elect_ who has stoutly brought the dead +to life when he was only an aspirant for honours, is now only capable of +curing the ringworm. + +But, as I have said, it was a zealous candidate that the Abbé Ridoux had in +his church. His bones had been there for fifty years, and as the longed-for +time for his canonization had not yet arrived, and he had as yet only the +rank of _blessed_, his zeal had not grown cold. + +Each saint, we all know, has his medical speciality, like Ricord, for +instance, or Dr. Ollivier. + +Suppose you are suffering from ophthalmia, and instead of consulting a +physician, you pray to God, in hopes that God will cure you. + +You are wrong, that does not concern God. It is the business of St. Claire, +who has the principal management of the sight of the faithful. + +You are paralyzed, and you commend yourself to your patron saint. "You must +not address yourself to me, that one answers. Go to the other office. See +St. Marcel (or _Marchel_), to make the impotent walk is entrusted to him." + +And so one after another: + +St. Cloud cures the boils; St. Cornet, the deaf; St. Denis, anemia; St. +Marcou, diseases in the neck; St. Eutropus, the dropsy; St. Aignan, the +ringworm, and it is generally admitted that we ought to pray on All Saints +Day to be preserved from a cough.[2] + +And observe how the good people of France are always the most enlightened +and intelligent people in the universe! + +The speciality of Monsieur Ridoux's candidate was broken legs, girls in +complaints of childhood, and fluxes of the womb. That was what he healed, +but he must not be asked for anything else; besides fluxes of the womb, +sprains, and girls in complaints of childhood, he did not attend to +anything. + +That is conceivable; one cannot do everything. + +It is quite unnecessary to state that he did not give all his consultations +free, and that he did not work for fame alone. No one was constrained to +pay, it is true; but it would have been a very unhandsome thing not to make +a preliminary contribution to Monsieur le Curé's poor-box. + +Little presents have always maintained friendship, and there is nothing +like sterling silver to predispose the benevolence of the saints and the +love of heaven in our favour. + +While on the contrary: + + A poorly furnished niche affronts the saint: + The God deserts, and when we enter, shows + His anger from the door of his poor shrine. + +He no longer worked every-day, but on fête-days. + +All the cripples came from twenty leagues round, and there were miracles +then for crutches. + +As in the time of Paris the deacon, when Cardinal de Noailles kept a +register of the wonders of St. Médard's Cemetery, a churchwarden of the +place, assisted by two secretaries and the corporal of Gendarmes, +religiously inscribed the miraculous cures of the saint on a magnificent +volume. + +_Credible_ witnesses attested these prodigies and, if necessary, gave +details to the incredulous. + +If all were not cured, they had the hope of being so, which was a +consolation. + +"And then," whispered Monsieur Ridoux in the ear of sceptics, "if the +touching of these blessed bones produces no benefit, you are sure it will +do no harm, and you cannot say the same of your doctor's drugs." + +[Footnote 1: The Holy Prepuce is at Rome in the Church of St. John Lateran; +it is also at St. James of Compostelia in Spain; at Anvers; in the Abbey of +St. Corneille at Compiègne; at Our Lady of the Dove, in the diocese of +Chartres, in the Cathedral of Puy-en-Velay; and in several other places +(Voltaire, Dictionnaire philosophique). + +The Able X...., author of _Maudit_ also places the holy fragment in the +church of Chanoux (Vienné) and asserts that a Bishop of Châlone in the 18th +century threw a pattern of it into the river.] + +[Footnote 2: Ainsi parchait à Sinay un caphar, qui Sainct Antoine mettoit +le feu ès jambes; Sainct Eutrope faisait les hydropiques; Sainct Gildas les +fols; Sainct Genou les gouttes. Mais je le punis en tel exemple, quoi qu'il +m'appelast hérétique, que dépuis ce temps caphar quiconque n'est ausé +entrer en mes terres. + +Et m'esbahi si vostre roi les laisse perscher par son royaulme tels +scandales. Car plus sont à punir que ceulx qui par art magique ou sultre +engin auraient mis la peste par le pays. La peste ne tue que le corps, mais +tels imposteurs empoisennent les âmes. (Rabelais).] + + + + +LXIV. + + +THE TWO AUGURS. + + "I am surprised that two augurs + can look at one another without laughing." + + CATO. + +--Ave Marcellus! said the old Curé, giving his nephew a paternal embrace; +how are you, my poor boy? + +--I am very well, replied Marcel. + +--No! your servant has told me that you have been unwell for some time. + +--She is really too kind. You have been talking to her then? + +--Yes, while waiting for you. She seems to me a worthy and intelligent +person, but a little irritated with you. Do you live badly together? + +Marcel coloured. + +--Come, the blush of holy modesty is covering your face. Don't do so, +child, don't we all know what it is, my dear fellow? + +--Indeed, much you ought to know what these women are. They are +cross-grained and stubborn, and claim to be the mistresses of the house, +especially with priests younger than themselves. + +--That is the inconvenience of our condition, Monsieur le Curé. What will +you? We must pass it over. But, tell me, she is not so _old_ as that. Ah, +come, the maiden's blush again! I do not want to offend your virtuous +feelings any longer, and I am going to talk to you about something else. +You know I have centred all my ambition on you, that I occupy myself about +you only, and that together with my saint and my salvation, you are the +sole object of my care. Therefore, you can explain my indignation and wrath +at seeing my pupil buried in this frightful village, at seeing you +extinguishing your brilliant qualities, having no other stimulant for your +intellect than your Sunday sermons and your stupid peasants, no other +emotion than your disputes with your cook. I have therefore asked of the +Lord one thing only, only one. _Unam petii a Domino, hanc requiram_. You +know what it is--your promotion. Well, Monsieur le Curé. I come to tell you +that everything is going as it were on wheels. + +--Really? said Marcel indifferently. + +--Just think. The day before yesterday a letter reached me from the Palace. +It was Monseigneur's secretary, little Gaudinet, who wrote to me. You know +Gaudinet? + +--No, uncle. + +He is not a bad fellow, but a devil to intrigue. Well, as he knows the +interest I take in you, and as he wants to creep up my sleeve, because he +hopes soon to take the place of one of my curates, he wrote to me that +Monseigneur had spoken of you with interest, and that he proposed to put an +end to your exile. I recognize there the Comtesse de Montluisant's good +offices. You see that she has lost no time, and so we will do the same; we +most strike the iron while it is hot; you are going to get your bag and +baggage, and take yourself off to Nancy. + +--Already? + +--Why already? Have you any business here which detains you then? + +--Nothing ... absolutely nothing; but what shall I do at Nancy? + +--That is just why I have come, you impatient young man, to point out to +you what line of conduct to follow, and, as I know, you are rather more +scrupulous than there is any need for in our profession, to assist you in +removing certain scruples which might stand in the way of your promotion. + +--Heavens! What scruples? + +--We will talk about them at table. Meanwhile, this is the question. I have +told you that I will move heaven and earth for you; you, however, must help +me a little on your side, for whatever I may do, I can effect nothing +without you. In his letter, Gaudinet informs me that the parish of St. +Mary, Nancy, is deprived of its pastor. It came into my head directly that +you must take the place of the defunct. It is an excellent parish, very +prominent, splendid surplice fees, devout ladies, sisters, elderly +spinsters to plunge into saintly jubilation, a host of Capuchins, +everything indeed which constitutes a _blessing from heaven_ for a poor +priest. You are young, you are handsome, you are intelligent, you are +energetic; while you are waiting for something better, I promise you an +existence there, of which the most ambitions of village Curés has never +dared to dream. But we most hasten, time presses; Gaudinet tells me that +there are already at least a dozen candidates in earnest; and although old +Collard's intentions (and he intends to atone for his former injustice) +regarding you are favourable, you are well aware that he allows himself to +be led by the nose, and generally the last one who talks to him is right. +You must be then both the first and the last, and you must not let him +slip; not you, but your second, your aide-de-camp, your _fideicommissum_, +or rather your protectress, the Comtesse de Montluisant. + +--But I do not know this lady. + +--It is precisely for that reason that it is indispensable for you to +hasten to go and see her, in order to make her acquaintance. You have only +to present yourself, and I assure you even if you were not sent by me, she +would receive you with the greatest pleasure. For, between ourselves be it +said, she is an elderly coquette, but she is good-natured and knows how to +remember her old friends. You will have therefore to be amiable, +insinuating, respectful, assiduous. You might even tell her that she is +charming, and that one sees she has been very pretty; which is true. Old +ladies dote on young people, and devout old ladies on young priests, +especially on those with a figure and face like yours. "The face is +everywhere the first letter of introduction," said Bernardin de +Saint-Pierre, and I assure that with Madame de Montluisant, you will not +require another. Ah, the Comtesse de Montluisant, my friend, there is a +precious soul! What a misfortune that she is a little over-ripe! It is all +the same to you, and if you are wise, you will pass over that defect, which +she amply atones for by her amiable qualities. She has the complete mastery +of Monseigneur. She is the Maintenon of that old Louis XIV. Be to her what +she is to him, and have the mastery of her in your turn. I was talking to +you a little while ago about scruples; for once you must leave them at home +or put them in the bottom of your cassock. _Dixi_! You have understood me I +hope. + +--No, uncle, I don't understand you. + +--Are you talking seriously? + +--I declare, uncle, that I don't understand you. + +--_O rara avis in terris_, oh phoenix! oh pearl! you don't understand me!!! +Well, I am come expressly, however, to make myself understood. Must I put +the dots on the i's for you? You don't understand me, you say? Surely, you +are making fun of me. Come, look me straight in the face; in the white of +my eyes ... yes, like that, and dare to tell me that you have not +understood me, and keep serious. Ah, ah, you are laughing, you are +laughing. You see you cannot look at me without laughing. + + + + +LXV. + + +TABLE TALK. + + "I allow that it is necessary to be + virtuous in order to be happy, but I + assert that it is necessary to be happy + in order to be virtuous." + + CH. LEMESLES (_Tablettes d'un sceptique_). + +They sat down to table. It was an excellent meal, and the worthy Ridoux +tried to make it cheerful, but a vague feeling of sorrow oppressed Marcel. + +That departure, which he had so eagerly desired before, and the hope of +which he had clung to as one lays hold of a means of safety, he could not +think of without grief, when he saw it near and practicable. Undoubtedly he +would leave without regret this village, where his youth was buried, where +his abilities were rendered unfruitful, where his sanguine aspirations were +slowly killing themselves.... But Suzanne? + +That sweet name which he murmured low with love. That sweet young girl the +sight of whom was as pleasant as a sun-beam, he was going to leave her for +ever. + +It was for his good, his honour, his quiet, his future; he knew it, he felt +it, but he was full of sorrow. + +Meanwhile, he overwhelmed his uncle with marks of attention and friendship; +he made every effort to cope with his guest's cheerful discourse, who, +after relating the flight of the Grand-Vicar, surprised in criminal +conversation with the wife of the Captain of Gendarmerie, acquainted him +all the little ecclesiastical scandals. But he gave only a partial +attention; his thoughts were absorbed in his inmost preoccupations. Now and +again only did he let fall a few observations in reply: "How horrible," or +"How shocking," or again: "How abominable!" + +Ridoux did not appear at first to pay attention to his nephew's gloomy +thoughts. He laughed and joked all alone, but he did not miss a mouthful. +Old priests are generally greedy. Good cheer is one of the joys which is +left to them. + +With no serious preoccupation, with no anxiety for the future, exempt from +family cares, they transfer all their solicitude to themselves, and make a +divinity of their belly. + +But when his appetite, sharpened by his journey, was appeased, he examined +Marcel with curiosity, and what he observed, combined with a few indiscreet +words of Veronica, confirmed him in his suspicions, that a drama was being +enacted in the young man's soul. + +--Do you know, he said to him, that you are a pitiable companion. You +scarcely eat, you scarcely speak, you do not drink, and you laugh still +less. Why, what's the matter with you? Are you not gratified at my visit? + +--Forgive me, uncle, but I am rather poorly, said Marcel; that is my +excuse. + +--That is what the maid-servant told me, but you declared to me that you +were quite well. + +--How can you suppose that I am not happy to see you? You know my feelings +well. + +--I know that you have excellent feelings. But I find you quite changed. It +is scarcely a year since I saw you, and you bear marks of weariness. You +stoop like an old man. Look at me, always the same, firm as a rock. "God +smites the wicked with many plagues, but he encompasseth with his help +those that hope in him." Second penitential psalm. You are not wicked: what +plague consumes you? Ambition? Patience, everything will be changed, since +your enemy is vanquished. Is it your conscience which is ill at ease? But +conscience should be cheerful; that is its true sign. Is it anything else? +Come, tell me. + +--Well yes, uncle, there is something. The same complaint as before, you +know, when I hesitated to enter the seminary, when I had doubts about my +vocation. You ended my hesitation and silenced my doubts; you have made a +priest of me; well, now more than ever, I have moments of lassitude which +make me disgusted with my calling. + +--Really? + +--Yes, there are hours when this priest's robe devours me, like the robe of +Nessus; I wish that I could tear it off, but I feel that I should tear off +pieces of my flesh at the same time, for it is too late, and it has become +a portion of myself. I am ashamed to make this confession to you, but you +wished it, and I have opened my heart to you. + +--May it not be that the heart is sick? Come. I see that I am come to take +you away from here at a seasonable time. + +--Do not believe that, uncle. + +--So much the better, if I am mistaken. I should be delighted to be +mistaken. To be in love, my son, is the greatest act of stupidity which a +priest can commit. Make use of women, if you will, for your health and your +satisfaction, and not for theirs. Otherwise you are a lost man. + +--In truth, uncle, you have singular theories, cried Marcel. Have you not +then taken your calling seriously? + +--My calling? I have taken it so seriously that you will never see me +handling it but in the practical way. Therefore, among those who surround +me I enjoy a fine reputation for wisdom. To be wise is to be happy, and I +have contrived so as to pass my existence in the most pleasant manner +possible. I counsel you to make as much of it, and I am going to tell what +I mean by being wise: Make use of the things of life with moderation, +discretion, and prudence. Now, what constitutes life? Spirit and matter. +Well, I wisely make the enjoyments of matter and spirit march abreast. I +obtain the equilibrium: health of body and health of soul. As soon as the +equilibrium is broken, the mental faculties are deranged, or the +constitution declines. You are in one of these two cases, my dear fellow. + +--I! + +--Yes, you. And, in spite of all your denials, I wager that you are in +love. Ah, ah, ah. It is a good story. He keeps his countenance like a +thrashed donkey. Come, drink, cheer up; honour the Lord in his benefits. +Your glass is always full. Enjoy yourself, you don't entertain your uncle +every day. + +Marcel emptied his glass. + +--Is she possessed of a husband? + +--But uncle, I don't know, what you want to talk about. + +--Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man's heart. I +congratulate you on it: it is good for strangers, for the profane.... But +I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger? + +"Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings." + +Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh. + +--Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my +only true friend. Yes, I want to ask your advice. I am afraid of soiling +one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame +and compassion. Ah, I am unhappy. + +--Here we are, cried Ridoux. Speak. The only point is to understand one +another. + + + + +LXVI. + + +GOOD COUNSEL. + + "Ah, my friend, have not all young + people ridiculous passions? My son is + enamoured of virtue!... The customs + of the word, the need of pleasure, + and the facilities of satisfying himself + will bring him insensibly to a moderate + state of feeling, and at thirty he will + be just like any other man; he will + enjoy life, and shut his eyes to many + things which shock him to-day." + + PIGAULT-LEBRUN (_Le Blanc et le Noir_). + +At that moment Veronica came in to serve coffee. + +In honour of her master's guest, she had put on her black dress of +Associate and her silver medal; and on her head she wore coquettishly an +embroidered cap, trimmed with tulle of dazzling whiteness. + +The old Curé threw himself into his arm-chair with his head back, in order +to contemplate her with admiration. She went and came, clearing the table, +and he followed her movements with the eye of a connoisseur, estimating the +value of an article. + +He smiled sanctimoniously, and the smile and attention, which the bashful +Veronica noticed, made her blush and cast her eyes modestly down. + +-Eh! Eh! he seemed to say, here is a girl who is still fit to adorn a bed. + +When the servant had left the room, he rose, drew the screen between the +table and the door, and then came and sat down again facing Marcel. + +--I don't understand, he said, why a man should go and search away from +home, amid perils and obstacles, for a pleasure which he can obtain +comfortably, quietly, with no fear or disquietude, at his own fire-side. + +--To what are you pleased to allude? + +--There is a girl, Ridoux continued, who certainly has merit, and I am +convinced that many younger ones are not worth as much as she. She is +there, in your hands, at your door, in your home; ready, I am sure, to +satisfy all your requirements. Avail yourself of her willingness? No? Make +use of this blessing which you possess? Again, no. You throw it aside to +run after phantoms. Alas, all the men of your age are the same: like the +dog in the fable, they let go their prey to seize the shadow. You are like +the fool, who spends his life in vainly following fortune to the four +quarters of the world, and who, when he returns to his hearth wearied, +worn-out and aged, finds it sitting at his door. But he is too late to be +able to enjoy it. + +That girl is really very well: handsome, fresh, very well-preserved, with a +decent and respectable appearance. Why then do you disdain her? Why? Tell +me. Because she is a few years older than you? But that is just what you +young priests require. You require women of that age: matrons with more +sense than yourselves. She is staid, she is ripe, she is experienced, a +mistress of love's science, and above all, she has a great quality, an +inestimable quality, she is cautious and will never compromise you. + +--Uncle, I implore you. + +--Let me finish. + +Another thing which is very valuable. She is full of little attentions for +her master. Ah, you are not aware with what tender solicitude, with what +kindness, with what jealous affection an old mistress surrounds you. She +fears more for your health than for her own, she is acquainted with your +tastes and knows how to anticipate them, she satisfies all your desires, +and lends herself to all your fancies. + +--What a conversation! If anyone heard us.... + +--Be easy. I have drawn the screen. + +The young mistress is fickle, egotistical, capricious; she exacts +adoration, and most frequently loves you for a whim and for want of +occupation. + +The old one devotes herself entirely to you and does not ask you (sublime +self-denial!), that you should love her, but only that you should let her +love you. Balzac extolled the women of thirty; that was because he had not +tasted those of forty. Ah! the women of forty! + +They are the only women who are of value to the priest, my friend. You have +had the good fortune to meet one here, and instead of profiting by it, of +thinking yourself fortunate, of thanking heaven and piously and devoutly +enjoying the good which God grants you, you cast it away, you disdain, you +despise it; and why? For some giddy little thing who will bring upon you +every kind of vexation and unpleasantness. _Dixi_. You can speak now. + +Marcel made no reply. With his elbows resting on the table and his head in +his hands, he stared at his uncle. + +He asked himself if he was really awake, if it was really his adopted +father, the mentor of his childhood, the wise and virtuous Curé of St. +Nicholas, who was talking to him so. + +He knew the worthy man's somewhat eccentric character, his coarse +witticisms in bad taste, but he never could have believed that he would +have stated such theories before him with a cynisism like that. He quite +understood that a man might commit faults, he even excused _in petto_ +certain crimes, and he excused them the more willingly because he himself +had been guilty of them; but he did not understand how a man could dare to +talk about them. + +He was rather of that class of persons who are modest in words, but not in +deeds, who are offended at the talk, while they delight in the acts. We +hear them utter cries of horror and indignation at the slightest equivocal +word, we see them stop their ears at the recital of a racy tale, chastely +cover their face before the figure of the Callipygean Venus, treating +Molière as obscene and Rabelais as debauched; yet, out of sight, sheltered +by the curtains of the alcove, they love to strip in silence some +lascivious Maritorne, and cautiously abandon themselves to disgusting +orgies with Phrynes whom they chance to encounter. + +Therefore the Curé of Althausen was offended and indignant at his uncle's +cynicism, who had so crudely broached the chapter about the love of +middle-aged women to him, who the evening before had abandoned himself to +all the furies of a long-repressed passion, in the arms of a debauched old +maid-servant. + +At the same he felt that his brain was confused and that he was gradually +losing the exact idea of things. The wine he had drunk was more than he was +accustomed to; it was rising to his head and he was becoming intoxicated. + +--Well, said Ridoux, you give me no answer and you stare at me like an +earthen-ware dog. + +--What answer do you wish me to give you? except that I believe I am +dreaming; in truth, I believe I am dreaming. + +--Be more sincere. I do not like hypocrisy. + +--You talk of a giddy little thing; I know no giddy thing. As to the rest, +I have not quite made out what it is you wanted to tell me. I think that +you have intended to make a joke about your old women. + +--Ah, you, you never understand anything. Where did you come from? + +--Why, from your school, from the seminary, and neither you nor my masters +taught me that there. + +--To me! to me! to me! you speak in such a manner to me? Oh clever fox! +_Alopex, alopex_. Well, you are sharper than I am, cried the old Curé, +striking the table and looking at Marcel with astonishment mingled with +admiration. Why should I concern myself about your future? You will +succeed, my dear fellow, you will succeed. Oh, oh, you are a master. A +gray-beard like I cannot teach you anything. Jesus, Mary, Joseph! That is +my nephew! My dear old Ridoux, Curé of St. Nicholas, allow me to +congratulate you. Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I swear you will become a +bishop. Monseigneur, I drink your health! + + + + +LXVII. + + +IN A GLASS. + + "The fumes of the wine were working + in my veins; it was one of those + moments of intoxication when everything + one sees, everything one hears, + speaks to us of the beloved." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siècle_). + +They conversed for a long time still, and they drank too, so much so that +Marcel went to his room with his brain charged with the fumes of the wine. +He opened his window and breathed with delight the fresh air of night. +While he gazed on the stars which were rising slowly in the sky, he tried +to analyze the new sensation which he experienced. "How a few mouthfuls of +liquor alter a man," he said to himself. + +He felt himself to be totally different, and he allowed his thoughts to +wander in an ocean of delights. His ardent and ecstatic imagination +launched itself into space. Bright unknown worlds rose before him with +their atmosphere saturated with warmth, with caresses, and with perfumes. +He saw the future, and it appeared to him radiant. There were sons without +number and feasts without end; the entire universe belonged to him. He flew +from planet to planet without effort or fatigue, borne by a mysterious wing +into the fields of the Infinite. + +He discovered an unknown audacity, and all obstacles subsided before his +powerful will. No more barriers, no more bolts, no more doors, no more +pretences, no more social chains, no more terrible father, no more +servant-mistress; Suzanne alone remained in all her youthful grace and her +chaste nudity. For, after having wandered in boundless space, it was +towards her that his hopes, his desires, his aspirations inclined. There +was the soul and the body; happiness and life, sacred symbolical wedlock, +the chosen vessel, the nubile maid ready for the husband. And he murmured +the Song of Songs: + + "Let her kiss me with kisses of her mouth, + For her teats are better than wine." + +And it was at the very moment when he was about perhaps to be able to taste +this exquisite cup, that he must go away. Go away! that is to say, leave +her, she who had just cast a ray into his life. Go away, to obey a culpable +ambition; to lose for ever this ravishing young girl! And the promises +which he had made to himself; and the unsatisfied desires, and the +boundless joys, the delicious troubles, the sweet evening talks, the hand +sometimes squeezed in a moment of audacity; of all that but the memory +would remain. Of all the intoxications of soul, of heart, of sense; of all +those joys which should repay him for his wasted youth, for his fair years +lost, he would preserve but remorse ... remorse for having so senselessly +let them go. + +And all at once in the whirlwind of his ideas, he seized one as it passed +by. He noticed during the day the Captain entering the _diligence_ for Vic. +It was, in fact, the time at which he drew his pay. He could not return +till the following day. Suzanne then was alone with the old maid-servant. +She went to bed late, he knew; perhaps she was still awake. He looked at +his watch, it was not yet eleven o'clock; he still had a chance of seeing +her. He cherished this idea; it pleased him and he was surprised that he +had not thought of it before. Yes, certainly, he must see her, in order +that she might keep the remembrance of him, as he was bearing away the +memory of her. + +What would be more delightful than to say to himself: "I hold the thoughts +of a beautiful young girl, I hold her simple confidences; I possess the +treasure of her sweet secrets." + +And although there would never be between her and him but the pure and +chaste sympathy of two souls, was not that enough, was not that a +compensation, sufficient for the step which he was venturing? + +And with the audacity of conception and the temerity of conduct of a man on +the border of intoxication, he determined to put his fine project into +execution immediately. His sense became inflamed the more he thought of it, +and what had at first presented itself to him as a vague desire, soon +became firmly fixed in his brain, and, in less than ten seconds, he had +conceived the plan and weighed all the chances. + +He decided that nothing was more simple, and that the only serious +difficulty was to get out of the house without being heard. He still felt a +few scruples; he poured himself out a glass of brandy. + +--Let me swallow some courage, he said. What a singular piece of machinery +is man, who imbibes in a few drops of liquid the dose of bravery which he +lacks, and spirit which he needs. + +And, in fact, he soon felt a generous warmth which ascended to his head; +and his heart became anew surrounded little by little with that triple +breast plate of brass, _robur triplex_, without which there is no hero. + +He listened inside and out. All sounds were hushed; in the parsonage as in +the village, everybody was asleep. He heard only the croaking of a legion +of frogs which were sporting in the neighbouring marsh, and, far away, the +bark of some farm-dog. + +The night was splendid. The moon was rising behind the woods. That was a +serious obstacle; but are there any serious obstacles for a man +over-excited by drink? He did not even think of it; his mind was cheerful +and content. If anyone encountered him in the night, wandering along the +roads, what could they say? Had he not a perfect right like anybody else to +take, the fresh air of evening? And, besides, might he not have been +summoned by a sick person? + +On the other hand, no more favourable moment would ever present itself for +talking with Suzanne. His uncle was snoring in the next room, and his +servant, supposing she was still awake, would she dare, while there was a +guest at the parsonage, to come and assure herself if he was in his bed? + +He took off his shoes, opened the door noiselessly and glided into the +street. + +He rapidly went round the parsonage, and he put on his shoes again only +when he was at some distance, under the discreet shade of the limes. + +Then he walked boldly on, keeping to the middle of the road, on the side, +however, where the houses cast their shadow, and advanced with the step of +a man who is going to accomplish a duty. + +He arrived without any hindrance at the Captain's house. It was fully +lighted up by the pale moon-light, and all the shutters were closed. +Consequently, the side looking upon the garden was in the shadow, and there +was Suzanne's room, the room hung with rose. + +So he pursued his way at a rapid pace, entered the little path, bordered +with hawthorn, and soon reached the clump of old chestnut-trees. + + + + +LXVIII. + + +THE ROSE CHAMBER. + + "They are women already, they were + so when they were born, but one + guesses them so still, one reads it + in their little thought, one comes + across an end of thread here and + there, which is like a revelation ... + They are ... But forgive me, young + ladies, I am afraid of going too far." + + G. DROZ (_Entre nous_). + +What man is there who has not experienced a delicious emotion on entering +for the first time a young girl's room? Who has not breathed with +voluptuous delight its sweet and chaste perfumes, and felt his heart soften +in its fresh and fragrant atmosphere? + +How pretty, neat, and harmonious is everything there. The most +insignificant objects, the most common articles of furniture, have a +mysterious and secret aspect there which makes one dream; one contemplates +with transport all those nothings, all those little trifles, all those +trinkets which young girls delight in, and because they have been touched +by a white hand, they appear clothed in enchanting colours. + +The fairy who lodges in this place has left a _something_ of herself on all +which surrounds her, and _that something_ transforms all into jewels, even +the least pin. + +But that which above all else arrests the gaze, that which drives the blood +to the head and causes the heart to beat, is the bed. + +The young girl's bed, the sanctuary, the delicious nest of love. + +There is the pillow on which her head reposes ... And then the question +comes: What passes in the young head when, softly leaning on the warm down, +she lets her thoughts travel into the land of dreams? + + When slumber soft on all + Around thee is outpoured; + Oh Pepita, charming maid, + My love, of what think'st thou? + +Here is the place of her body. Yes, it is there, beneath the discreet +eider-down, that she hides her naked charms. And we begin to dream as well, +and we say to ourselves that we would give much to be able to penetrate +into this sanctuary at the hour when the divinity is going to bed. + +Happy Gyges, lend me your ring that I may assist mutely and invisibly at +the sweet mysteries of the night toilette. + +She is here! She has given and received the evening kiss. "Sleep well," her +father and mother have said, and the child replies: "Oh, yes, I am very +sleepy." + +Then she quickly shuts the door and breathes a sigh of satisfaction. She is +in her own room, she is alone! + +Alone! do you believe it? If so, you would be greatly mistaken, for this is +the time when she receives her own visitors, and often there is a numerous +company. + +Oh, be reassured: these guests will not be able to compromise her; they are +secret, silent and invisible for all else but her; she alone sees them, +talks to them and listens to them. + +It is at the summons of her thought that they hasten there, passive and +obedient. Then she passes them in review one by one; she examines them from +head to foot, she clothes and unclothes them at her will; never has a +Captain of infantry, under orders for parade, made a more minute inspection +of his conscripts. + +Sometimes they come all in a crowd, giving themselves up with her, in the +mysterious comers of her imagination, to the wildest frolics. Young people +with a stiff collar, beardless sublieutenants, coxcombs with red hands, +swells with white cuffs, little heads of wax and little souls of cardboard, +run up, ran up, ye pretty puppets. + + Dance my loves + You are but dolls. + +And she makes them dance on every cord and every tune. + +But soon the figures are effaced and blend into one. The pomatumed band +disappear into space, whence there rises clearly the image of the chosen +one. + +He is young, he is dark or fair: she has seen him to-day; she looked at +him, he smiled at her, he thinks her pretty. + +Is she then always pretty? And quickly she goes to her mirror. Heavens! how +badly her hair is done. How badly that ribbon sets! If she had put it in +another place? And that little wandering lock; decidedly it must set off +that. "Perhaps he would like me better if, instead of plaits, I had curls, +and if instead of the brown dress, I put on the blue?" + +He. Who is he? He is the imaginary lover, the handsome young man whom she +has met in the street, he who turned round to look at her, or the one who +was so charming at the last ball, or again the one who has just passed the +window. + +Who is he? Does she know? It is the one she is waiting for. The first who +presents himself who is _handsome, young, intelligent and rich_. What does +the rest matter provided he possesses all these qualities, and all these +qualities he must possess. + +Often she has never even seen him, but he is charming, and she feels that +she loves him already. + +And there are the brilliant displays of the future appearing, the enchanted +palaces which are built out of the chapters of novels which never will be +finished. + +And thus every evening--wild adventures in the young brain, intrigues in +embryo, meetings full of mystery, delightful terrors with phantom lovers, +until at length a very palpable one presents himself, and comes and knocks +at the door of reality. + +Sometimes he is very far from the cherished dream. He is neither young, nor +handsome, nor rich, nor intelligent. She rather makes a face, but she ends +by taking him. It is a man. + +And meanwhile mamma has said as she kisses her daughter's forehead, "Sleep +well, my daughter," and she murmurs to papa, "What an angel of candour!" + + + + +LXIX. + + +THE GUST OF WIND. + + "I turned my eyes instinctively towards + the lighted window, and through + the curtains which were drawn, I + distinctly caught sight of a woman, + dressed in white, with her hair undone, + and moving like one who knows that + she is alone." + + G. DROZ (_Monsieur, Madame, et Bébe_). + +Suzanne's room ... but why should I describe the room?... let me describe +Suzanne to you at this secret hour: I am sure that you would prefer me to +do so. + +The young people who read this, will do well to skip this chapter, it +interests the men alone. Like the preacher who one day turned the women out +of church, as he wanted to keep the men only, I warn over-chaste young +ladies that these lines may shock.... + +Suzanne was preparing to go to bed. + +To go to bed! That is not done quickly. You have, Mesdames, so many little +things to do before going to bed. So Suzanne was going to and fro in her +small room, attending to all these little details. + +She was in a short petticoat, with her legs and arms bare and her little +feet in slippers. I warned you that I had borrowed the ring of Gyges and I +can tell you that I saw her calf and right above the knee, and all was like +a sculptor's model. Beneath the thin, partly-open cambric her budding bosom +rose and fell, marking a voluptuous valley on which, like the Shulamite's +lover, one would never be weary to let one's kisses wander. + +But on seeing the white plump shoulders, the graceful throat, and the neck +on which was twisted a mass of little brown curls, and the back of velvet +which had no other covering than the thick rolls of half-loosed hair, and +the delicate hips which the little half-revealing petticoat closely +pressed, one asked oneself where the kisses would run on for the longest +time. + +She was delicious like this and under every aspect, and undoubtedly she +knew it, for every time she passed before the large glass of her wardrobe, +she looked at herself in it and smiled. And she was quite right, for it was +indeed the sweetest of sights. + +A pretty woman is never insensible to the sight of her own charms. See +therefore, what a love they have for mirrors. Habit, which palls in so many +things, never palls in this; for her it is a sight always charming and +always fresh. Very different to the forgetful lover or the sated husband, +whose eyes and senses are so quickly habituated, she never grows weary of +finding out that she is pretty, and making herself so; in truth a constant +homage, earnest and conscientious. + +Suzanne then examined herself full face, in profile, in three-quarters +view, and behind, attentively and conscientiously, like an amateur judging +a work of art, who cries at length, "Yes, it is all good, it is all +perfect, there is nothing amiss." One could have believed that she saw +herself again for the first time after many years. + +At length, when the survey was completed, and the toilette finished, she +let her petticoat slip down, opened her bed, put one knee upon it, and, the +upper part of her body leaning forward on her hands, prepared to get in. + +The lamp on the night-table, close beside her, threw its light no longer on +her face. + +But at the same instant a little zephyr taking her astern, caused the white +tissue which English-women never mention, to gently undulate. + +She noticed then that she had forgotten to shut her window. + +"Heavens," cried Marcel to himself, for it was he, who perched on the rise +of the road and armed with his good opera-glass, had just been witness of +what I have narrated. + + + + +LXX. + + +THE AMBUSCADE. + + "Be not discouraged either before + obstacles, or before ill-will. Wait + patiently. The sacred hour will sound + for you and all the ways will be + made smooth." + + (_Charge of Mgr. de Nancy_). + +Drawing near to the window, Suzanne distinguished in front of her, behind +the open-work palisade, a dark motionless figure. + +She immediately recognized the Curé. + +Alarmed and trembling, she hastily drew back; but she heard a gentle cough, +as if someone was calling and was afraid of being surprised. + +"What is happening?" she said to herself, "what is he doing there?" + +She covered herself hurriedly with a dressing-gown and drew near the +casement again. Marcel, with his hat in his hand, bowed to her, and +appeared to invite her by a sign to come down. + +Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. She +hesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, she +was afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake and +catch the Curé of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour, +before her door, during her father's absence. God only knew what a scandal +there would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps might +hear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they were +beginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetings +on the road. + +She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating that +the Curé would withdraw. + +But the Curé of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition to +abandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by the +alcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that he +had just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place, +he was waiting with impatience. + +Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to see +if he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and calling +her by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy, +multiplied his salutes and his signs. + +She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for him +to have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require an +interview with her in the middle of the night "Good God! could some +misfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. She +hesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over her +shoulders, and went downstairs. + + + + +LXXI. + + +THE BREACH. + + "Who art thou, who knockest so + loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom + all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed + (more than life) their very heart ... + Ah, if thou art he, let the door be + opened wide." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +She saw at once that he was all in a fever. + +--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father? + +--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him this +morning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well. + +--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me. + +--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous has +happened. Be comforted. I was passing by in my walk, I saw the light, I +observed you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself: +Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away. + +--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? And +where? And when? + +--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Mass. + +--For ever? + +--Perhaps. + +--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to your +parishioners, to your friends! + +--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hear +me some ... friendship; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poor +solitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom of +my heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell. + +--But why this sudden and unexpected departure? + +--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, like +others, a little grain of ambition. + +--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change in +your fortune. Is it far? + +--Nancy, Mademoiselle. + +--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions there +which you have not here. I almost envy you. + +--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I am +sorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, I +have no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me to +depart. + +--Motives ... serious? + +--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, and +that I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day I +saw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy. +Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness which +I should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if God had given me one. +Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblem +of purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you, +for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why I +wished to see you again and bid you farewell. + +--I thank you, sir. + +--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I may +ask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if I +shall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with your +thought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. We +leave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end? +May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar on +the arduous road of life? + +It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heaven +is dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, in +a little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul, +which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmurs +across space: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and less +alone. + +--Yes, that is true, I understand you. + +--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all the +pleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of the +Covenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that we +should follow one another thus in life? You do not answer.... + +--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road. + +--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there are +footsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell, +Mademoiselle, farewell. + +--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for they +must have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions. + +--What shall I do? I cannot remain here. + +--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safe +from any gaze. + +--What! said Marcel, you wish...? + +--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It is +more prudent for both of us. + +She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-open +gate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour. + +Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him. + + + + +LXXII. + + +THE ASSAULT. + + "Be mine, be my sister, for I am all thine, + And well I deserve thee, for long have I loved." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Eloa_). + +They were standing up under the dark arbour. One close to the other, +excited, panting: they could scarce get their breath again. Does their +heart beat so hard because there is someone in the path? Silence! + +The cricket, just by their side, sends forth from under the grass his soft +monotonous cry, and down there in the neighbouring ditch the toad lifts his +harsh voice. Silence! + +A noise in the road, faint at first as the murmur of the wind, increases. +It comes near. It is the cautious hesitating step of someone listening. It +comes nearer and stops. Silence! The philosopher cricket continues his +song, the amorous toad his poem. + +Behind the branches of honeysuckle they watch attentively, and can see +without being seen. A shadow passes slowly by, with its head turned towards +the dark arbour. Suzanne made a movement of surprise;--Your servant, she +said. + +--Silence, murmured Marcel; and he seizes a hand which he keeps within his +own. + +Veronica slowly walked on. + +When she reached the gate, she pushed it as if to assure herself if it was +open. + +--Well, there is an impertinence, said Suzanne. Who can have made her +suspect that you were here? + +Marcel, for reply, pressed the hand which he was holding. + +Finding the gate closed, the servant continued her road, then all at once +returned, stopped for a few seconds facing the arbour, and at length +disappeared behind the chestnut-trees. + +They followed the sound of her footsteps, which was soon lost in the +silence, and found themselves alone, hearing nothing but the beatings of +their own heart. + +--Let us remain, said Suzanne in a low voice, we must not go out yet. +Really, that is the most impertinent creature I have ever seen. By what +right does she spy on you thus? + +--Dear child, do you not know that these old servants are on the track of +every scandal, jealous of all beauty and all virtue. She will have noticed +our frequent interviews, and has imagined a world of iniquities. +Nevertheless, I bless her, yes, I bless her, since I owe to her the joy of +finding myself in this tête-à-tête with you. See, dear child, how strange +is destiny, which is none other but the hand of God--for we must be blind +not to recognize in all these things the finger of divine Providence--it is +precisely the efforts made to put an obstacle between us, to prevent us, me +from fulfilling my duties of a pastor, you those of a Christian, which have +been the cause of our sweet intimacy. Your father forbids you to assist at +the Holy Sacrifice, and you come to me to ask for counsel. This servant +pursues us with her envious hate, and obliges us to take refuge like guilty +lovers beneath this dark arbour. Almighty God, thanks, thanks. But what a +strange situation! If anyone were to surprise us, the whole world would +accuse us, and yet what is surer than our conscience? You see plainly, dear +child, that we cannot separate thus, and that, whatever happens, we must +not remain strangers to one another. + +Suzanne did not answer, and he, emboldened by this silence, pressed between +his the hand which she abandoned to him. + +--I was so much accustomed to see you in our church that, when you ceased +to come there, it seemed to me that everything was in mourning. You were +the most charming and the chastest ornament of it. When I went up into the +pulpit, it was for you that I preached, and when I turned towards my flock +to bless them, it was you alone, sweet lamb, that I blessed in the name of +the Father. You understand now, why I shall go away enveloped in sorrow. + +--But, sir, I do not deserve the honour which you do me, and I am unworthy +to occupy your thoughts in this way. + +--Do not say that, for since I have seen you, you have become, without my +knowing how, the joy of my life, the source from which I draw my sweetest +and most holy pleasures. With the memory of you, I lull myself in the +Infinite. I see Heaven and the angels, I dream of Seraphims who resemble +you, who bear me on their diaphanous wings into the abode where all is joy +and love ... heavenly love, dear Suzanne, love like that of the angels for +the Virgin, the mother, eternally pure, of our sweet Saviour. You see, you +have no reasons to be offended with my dreams. You are not offended at +them, are you? + +--Why should I be offended at them, said Suzanne softly. Can one be +offended with dreams? + +--You remember that night, when, alone as we are now, I allowed myself in a +moment of pious transport, to bear to my lips your lovely hand. I have +often blushed at it.... I have blushed at it, because I thought that you +might have mistaken that respectful kiss. I kissed it as I should have +kissed the hem of a queen's robe, if that queen had been a saint, as I +should have kissed the feet of the Virgin, as Magdalena kissed those of +Christ, as I kiss it at this moment, dear, dear Suzanne. + +And his lips rested on that little warm, quivering, feverish hand, and they +could no more be separated from it. + +And, when at length he withdrew his mouth from it, he found that Suzanne +was so near to him that he heard the beatings of her heart. + +--Leave me, said the imprudent girl, I entreat you, leave me. Oh, why are +you doing that? + +And she tried with vain efforts to loosen herself from the embrace. + +But he murmured softly: + +--Leave you, oh, never; you shall be my companion in life as you are my +betrothed before the Eternal. Leave you, dear Suzanne, sweet mystic rose, +chosen vessel. See, there is something stronger than all the laws and all +the proprieties; it is a look from you. Why do you repulse me? I speak to +you as to the Virgin, and I kiss your knees. Chaste betrothed of the +Levite, let me espouse you before God. + +She struggled with all her might, excited and maddened. But what can the +dove do in the talons of the hawk! Pressed to his breast by his vigorous +arms, it was in vain that she asked for pity. Hell might have opened, ere +he would have dropped his prey. + +The struggle lasted several minutes, passionate, silent, ardent. Woman is +weak. Soon nothing was heard ... a sob ... and all died away in the dense +shade. + +The startled cricket was silent, and it alone might have counted the sighs, +while in the neighbouring ditch the toad unwearied continued its love-song. + + + + +LXXIII. + + +AUDACES FORTUNA JUVAT. + + "If you have done wrong, rebuke yourself sharply: + If you have done well, have satisfaction." + + SAINT FRANÇOIS DE SALLES (_Traité de l'Amour Divin_). + +Marcel reached the parsonage without hindrance. Veronica had not yet +returned. He congratulated himself on that, and went up the stair-case +which led to his room with the light step of a happy man, locked his door, +and began to laugh like a madman. + +Everything was safe; only there was down there in a corner of the village, +an honour lost. + +--Is it really you, Marcel, is it really you, he said, who have just played +so great a game, and won the trick? + +And he laughed, and he rubbed his hands, and he would willingly have danced +a wild saraband, if he had not been afraid of making a noise. + +He listened in the next room where his uncle was in bed, and heard his loud +breathing. + +--And the hag who is watching still beneath the limes! And the father who +is at Vic, and who, I doubt not, is snoring too. Come, all goes well! all +goes well! + +But he stopped, ashamed of himself. + +--Decidedly, he said to himself, I have become in a few days utterly bad. I +did not believe that it was possible to make such rapid progress in evil. +But nonsense. Is it evil? Has not God made wine to be drunk, flowers to be +plucked, and women to be loved? As to that weather-beaten old soldier, why +should I feel any pity on his account? He has been insolent, he has +detested me without my ever having done anything to him; I have loved his +daughter, his daughter has loved me, we are quits. I do not see why I +should distress myself about an adventure which would make so many people +happy, and for which all my brethren would have very quickly sold the +sacred Host and the holy Pyx besides. Ah, my dear uncle, good father +Ridoux, sleep, sleep in peace. How greatly am I your debtor for what you +have done for me, unwittingly and in spite of yourself; for, have you not, +by urging me to drink more than is my custom, in order to draw my secret +from me, given me the courage to undertake what I should never have dared +to dream of? _Audaces fortuna juvat_. Oh, Providence! Providence! She is +mine, the girl with the dark eyes is mine! + +He heard a slight noise in the corridor. + +--Good never comes alone, he continued, it always has evil for an escort. +Behind the sweet form of the angel, the grinning face of Satan. He is +coming upstairs and knocks at the door. + +He had not lighted his lamp again, and he carefully refrained from +answering. He heard Veronica, trying to open the door and calling him in a +low voice. But he pretended to be deaf, and quietly got into bed, all the +while cursing his accomplice, and thinking of the clumsy trap into which he +had fallen like a fool, and of that thick and filthy spider's web where, +like an unwary and silly fly, he had daubed his wings. + +What a difference between the chaste resistance of Suzanne, her tears and +her defeat, and the hideous advances of that old courtesan of the sacristy! + +In place of that unclean creature, accomplished in crime, oozing hypocrisy +from every pore, he had an adorable, loving, charming mistress, such as he +had never dared to dream of. And all this alteration in a few hours! +because he had faced it out, because, excited by intoxication, he had taken +his courage in both hands, and because he had dared. + +Oh, why had he not dared ere this? He would not be under the infamous yoke +of his servant. And how many priests, he said to himself, for want of a +little boldness, are devoted to a degrading concubinage with faded old +spinsters! + +He was not without uneasiness. How could he see Suzanne again, situated as +he was between the jealous watching of the servant and the vigilance of the +father? And above all, how could he discard his uncle's entreaties, and +refuse an unexpected promotion, without arousing suspicion in high +quarters? For, more than ever, he wished to remain at Althausen and keep +the treasure which had just caused him so much anxiety. Yes, he saw them +accumulating on his head, swooping from all parts and under all aspects: +Veronica, Durand, Ridoux, the Bishop, the gossips, scandal, dishonour. + +But, after all, what did it matter to him? The essential is that he was in +possession of Suzanne, that Suzanne was his, that he had the most charming +of mistresses, and he was indifferent to all the rest. + +To see her again readily and without danger, to contrive other interviews, +and above all to act prudently, was what he must think of. The chief step +was taken, the rest would come of its own accord. + +With Suzanne's consent all obstacles could be smoothed away, and clever is +he who succeeds in barring the way to two lovers who are determined to see +one another again. + +The old counsellor Lamblin, who in his capacity of magistrate was aware of +that, said long ago: + + "To safely guard a certain fleece, + In vain is all the watchman's care; + 'Tis labour lost, if Beauty chance + To feel a strange sensation there." + +It was on this indeed that Marcel calculated; and, smiling, he slept the +sleep of the just and dreamed the most rosy dreams. + + + + +LXXIV. + + +BEFORE MASS. + + "You think that we ought not to + break in two this puppet which is + called Public Opinion, and sit upon it." + + EUG. VERMEESCH (_L'Infamie humaine_). + +A loud and well-known voice roused him unpleasantly from his dreams. + +--Well, well, lazy-bones, still in bed when the sun is risen! You are not +thinking then of going away? You go to bed the first, and you get up the +last. I, a poor old invalid, am giving you an example of activity. Ah, +young people! young people! you are not equal to us. Come, come you can rub +your eyes to-morrow. Get up! Get up! + +--How early you are, my dear uncle; my Mass has not yet rang. + +--Have you no preparations to make for departure? + +--For departure. Is it for to-day then? + +--Do you wish to put it off to the Greek Kalends? + +--To-day! repeated Marcel. I did not think really that it was so soon. + +He dressed with the prudent delays of a man who says to himself: Let us +see, let us consider carefully what we must do. + +--You don't look satisfied, resumed Ridoux; I bring you honour, fortune and +success, and you look sulky. + +--Honour, fortune and success. Those are very fine words! + +--It is with fine words that we do fine things, and one of them is, it +appears, to unmoor you from this place. + +--The fact is, replied Marcel, that I have reflected to-night; and, after +well considering everything, I am perfectly well off, and have no desire to +go away to be worse off elsewhere. + +--Hey! what do you say? + +--My parish, humble as it is, is not so bad as you think. The people are +simple, kind and affable. I love peace and tranquillity, and I tell you, +between ourselves, that to be Curé in a large town has no attractions for +me. + +--What stuff are you telling me now? + +--Your town Curés are full of meanness and intrigues. The little I have +seen of them has disgusted me for ever. They spy one upon another. It is +who shall prejudice a fellow-priest in order to supplant him, or play the +zealot in Monseigneur's presence. When I was the Bishop's secretary, hardly +a day passed without my being witness to some shameful piece of tale +bearing. You must weigh all your words, cover your looks and have a care +even of your gestures. The slightest imprudence is immediately commented +on, exaggerated, embellished and retailed at head-quarters. The Vicar +General is the spy in general. + +Marcel uttered the truth. + +The position of the priest is a difficult one; he is surrounded with the +malevolence of enemies. But the priest's chief enemy, is the priest. As a +body, they march together, close, compact, disciplined, defending their +rights and the honour of the flag, resenting individually the insults +offered to all, and all rejoicing at the success of each. As individuals, +they spy on one another, are jealous of one another, fight, accuse and +judge one another; and they do all this hypocritically and by occult ways. +These hatreds and intrigues do not go outside the sanctuary domains. It is +a strange world which stirs within our world, a society within a society, a +state within the State. It is the behind-the-scenes of the temple, and it +stretches from the sacristy to the parsonage, from the parsonage to the +Palace. The profane world suspects nothing; it passes unconcernedly by +without dreaming that tempests are rumbling by its side. But, like the +revolutions raised by the eunuchs of the Seraglio, the intrigues of the +sacristy have been known to change the face of nations. + +The priest is the spy upon the priest. + +Misfortune to the cassock which unbuttons itself before another cassock. +The old priests are aware of this, and when they are among themselves, they +draw the folds of their black robe close, carefully hiding the least +tell-tale opening. But the young ones, simple and unreserved, often let +themselves be taken. They sound them and turn them up, and soon know what +they have underneath. In order to please Monseigneur and to deserve the +good graces of the Palace, there are few priests who resist the temptation +to sell their brother-priest, and are not ready to deny Jesus like Peter +the good apostle, the first and the model of the Roman pontiffs, three +times before cock-crow, that is to say before Monseigneur gets up. + +--No, that will not do for me, added Marcel; if I am poor here, at least I +am free. + +--Pshaw! You did not raise all those objections to me yesterday. + +--I have reflected, my dear uncle, as I have had the honour of telling you. + +--Your reflections are fine. Well, whether you have reflected or not, is +all the same to me. I have taken it into my head that you should go, and +you shall go. I will make you happy in spite of yourself, for I have +reflected also, and more than ever I said to myself that you most go. Do +you want me to enumerate the reasons? + +--The same as yesterday I have no doubt. + +--No, there is one more, and that is worth all the rest. + +--I know what you are going to say to me, but I have my answer all ready. +Speak. + +--What! at your age! in your position! Are you not ashamed to fall into +errors which would scarcely be pardonable in a seminarist? Ah! you want the +dots on the i's, well I am going to place them. + +--Place them, uncle, place them. + +--Had you not enough girls then in the village without going to lay a claim +on the one yonder? On a well-educated young lady, whose fall will cause a +scandal, the daughter of an enemy, of a Voltairian, almost a radical, a +gaol-bird in fine who will be happy to seize the occasion to raise a +terrible outcry, and to proclaim your conduct to the four quarters of the +horizon. You see I know all. + +--And who has informed you so correctly? + +--I know all, I tell you. You can therefore keep your temper. Will you act +like the Curé of Larriques? + +--What is there in common between the Curé of Larriques and me? + +--You ought to humble yourself before God. If you wanted a young girl, if +your immoderate appetites were not satisfied with what you had under your +nose, is there no cautious person in the village who would have been proud +and happy to be of service to you, and whom you could have married to some +clodhopper or to some Chrysostom ready for the opportunity; whilst that +one, whom will you give her to? There will be an uproar, I tell you, and +that will be abomination. + +--Really, uncle, said Marcel pale with anger, if anyone heard us, would +they believe that they were listening to the conversation of two +ecclesiastics? you talk of these shameful things as if you were talking of +the Gospel. In fact, I do not know which to be the more astonished at, the +freedom of your talk or the sad opinion which you have of me. But I see +whence all this emanates. Do you take me then for a bad priest? + +--What is that? Do you take me for a simpleton? for one of Molière's +uncles?... Enough of playing a farce. You do not take me in, my good +fellow. I told you yesterday that you were cleverer than I; you did not see +then that I was joking? Your mask is still too transparent. One sees the +tears behind the grinning face. No tragic aim. Come down from this stage on +which you strut in such a ridiculous manner, and let us talk seriously like +plain citizens. + +--Or bad priests! + +--Be silent. The bad priests, that is to say the clumsy priests, which is +all the same, are in your cassock; and the clumsy ones are those who allow +themselves to be caught. You have been caught, my son; and caught by whom? +by your cook. Ha! Ha! + +--Are you not ashamed to listen to the tale-bearing and calumny of that +horrible woman? + +--Horrible! Be quiet, you are blind. It is your conduct which is horrible. +To concoct such intrigues! + +--I concoct no intrigue. And when that does occur; when my feelings of +respect, of esteem, of friendship for a young person endowed with virtues +and graces, change into a sweeter feeling: at all events, if my position +compels me to conceal my inclinations from the world, I shall have no need +to blush for them when face to face with myself, that is to say: with my +dignity as a man. While your allusions, your instigation to certain +intimacies, which in order to be more closely hidden are only the more +abominable and degrading, inspire me only with disgust. + +--Oh, Holy Spirit, enlighten him. He is wandering, he is a triple fool. +When I suspected, when I discovered, when I saw that you were entering on a +perilous path, I gave you yesterday the advice which a priest of my age has +the right to give to one of yours, especially when he is, as I am, +regardful of his future. + +--I am as regardful of it as you. + +--Cease your idle words. Have you decided to go? + +--No, uncle, I am well off here, and I stay here. + +--Well off! Mouldy in your vices and obscurity. Wallowing, like Job, on +your dung-heap. Roll yourself in your filth: for my part I know what course +remains for me to take. + +--You will do what you think proper. + +--I am sure of it. But you, instead of having the excellent cure which was +destined for you, you shall have one lower still than this where you can +wallow at your ease in your idleness, your nothingness and your vices, for, +I swear to you by my blessed patron, that if I go away without you, you +shall not remain here for forty-eight hours. I will have you recalled by +the Bishop. You laugh. You know me all the same; you know when I say _yes_ +it is _yes_. A word is enough for Monseigneur, you know. _Magister dixit_. + +Marcel knew the character of the old Curé well enough to know that he was +capable of keeping his word. Fearing to irritate him more by his obstinacy, +he thought it better to appear to yield. + +--It is time for Mass, he said. We will talk about that again. + +--Go, my son, and pray to the Holy Spirit. + + + + +LXXV. + + +DURING MASS. + + "I have my rights of love and portion of the sun; + Let us together flee ..." + + A. DE VIGNY (_La Prison_). + +It will easily be credited that Marcel's thoughts had little in common with +the Holy Eucharist. He would have been a very ungrateful lover, if his +whole soul had not flown towards Suzanne. This was then his chief +preoccupation, while he murmured the long _Credo_, partook of Christ, and +recited his prayers. + +What should he decide? that was his second. Should he go away? That meant +fortune, reconciliation with the Bishop, putting his foot in the stirrup of +honours. Young, intelligent, learned, what was there to stop him? + +But that meant separation from Suzanne: saying farewell to all those divine +delights which he had just tasted. He had hardly time to moisten his +parched lips in the cup, before the cup was shattered. He was truly in +love, for he should have said to himself: "There are other cups." But for +him there was but one. Uncle Ridoux, the Bishop and greatness might go to +the devil. The promised cure and the episcopal mitre might go to the devil +too. Did he not possess the most precious of treasures, the most enviable +blessing, the supplement and complement of everything, the ambition of +every young man, the desire of every old man, of every man who has a heart: +a young, lovely, modest, loving, intelligent and adored mistress. But what +might not be the result of that love? What drama, what tragedy, and perhaps +what ludicrous comedy, in which he, the priest, would play the odious and +ridiculous character? + +This love, which plunged him into an ocean of delights, would it not plunge +him also into an abyss of misfortunes? + +Could it proceed for long without being known and remarked? + +Scandal, shame, and death perhaps, a terrible trinity, were they waiting +not at his door? + +For the viper which harboured at his hearth, had its piercing glassy eye +fixed unweariedly on him; and how could he crush the viper? + +What could he do? What could he venture? He remembered hearing of priests +who had fled away with young girls whom they had seduced, and he thought +for an instant that he would carry off Suzanne and fly. + +Willingly would he have left behind him his honour and his reputation, +willingly would he have torn his priestly robe on the sharp points of +infamy and scandal, willingly would he have quitted for ever that cursed +parsonage where shame and humiliation, vice and remorse were henceforth +installed; but Suzanne, would she follow him? + +Then, had he well weighed the mortifications which await the apostate +priest! + +To be nameless in society, with no future, repulsed, despised, scoffed at +by all! + +Should he, like the Père Hyacinth, go and found a free church in some +corner of the republic, and rove through Europe, like him, to confer about +morality, the rights of women and virtue? + +Would not poverty come and knock at his door? Poverty with a beloved wife! +It would appear a hideous and terrifying spectre, chilling in its livid +approach and in its kisses of love. + +To struggle against these obstacles he would need high energy and high +courage, and he felt that courage and energy were lacking in him, the +miserable coward, who had shamefully succumbed to the clumsy artifices of a +lascivious woman, who had allowed the first fruits of his virginity and his +youth to be lost in shameful debauch; while close by there was an adorable +maiden whose heart was beating in unison with his own. + +Thus did his reflection lead him till the end of the Gospel, and when he +said the _Deo gratias_ he had as yet decided nothing. + + + + +LXXVI. + + +AWAKENING. + + "We never permit with impunity + the mind to analyze the liberty to + indulge in certain loves; once begin + to reflect on those deep and troublesome + matters which are called _passion_ and + _duty_, the soul which naturally delights + in the investigation of every truth, is + unable to stop in its exploration." + + ERNEST FRYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut the +street-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and sat +down on the side of her bed. + +She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination, +if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had held +her in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself. + +Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, to +reflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even to +recover herself. + +A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a few +seconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she had +lost her honour, and that was love! + +She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelled +hair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than all +that, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming. + +He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and light +of heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in her +soul. + +And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, still +burning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Where +is my virginity?" + +Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing, +it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not a +virginity which flies away. + +And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse. + +The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice of +illusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regarding +the opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, be +it understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, without +which she is not a woman, but an unclean female. + +When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself: + +--What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me? + +And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have said +so already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her. + +And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed +_illegitimately_ the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, does +not say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when the +bandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love _suppliant_, is unbound +from the eyes of love _satisfied_, when the _unknown_ which has so many +charms, has become the _known_ that we despise, when of the rosy, inflated +illusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to me +trustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equal +facility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... what +devil...?" + +A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the +heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the +time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by +Pleasure. + +And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own +fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love. + +For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have given +one's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country, +family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the +ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend +half-a-sovereign. + +Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh +morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a +loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the +shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome, +young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or +blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards +another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought +to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip. + + "One of those noble loves which have no end." + +Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is +insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The +universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in +order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple +in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony, +the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love. + +You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes +by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because +like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them +as the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon +with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear +the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting +ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles. + +Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become +of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an +endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves? + +As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which the +evening breeze carried away last year. + + "But where are the snows of yester-year?" + +What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always. +Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two first +forfeited the oath? + +There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those who +had sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers. + +The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on the +arm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, a +little faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian. + +That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head of +her lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dull +tallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, and +who said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to and +separated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished by +fastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish but +substantial. + +And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea of +oblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses, +can he precisely remember her name? + +Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpools +of life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipated +into an abyss. + +She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she had +received a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, her +heart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn which +somehow or another had made its way into the field of tares. + +She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility with +which she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuse +to try and palliate her fault in her own eyes. + +But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl is +pardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness and +excitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault. + +But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Curé? + +Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husband +who is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroad +whom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Her +father, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The white +hairs of that worthy, brave old man. + +She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled to +confess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected her +most was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremely +surprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt to +find an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But in +proportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what a +corner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom she +had fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater. + + + + +LXXVII. + + +CONSOLATIONS. + + "Every fault finds its excuse in + itself. This is the sophistry in which + we are richest. The struggle of good + and evil is serious, and really painful, + only in the case of a man who has + been brought up in a position where + actions, deeds and thoughts have had + the power of self-examination." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the odd +caprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings are +exhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourished +by the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existed +nowhere but in the brain of novelists. + +Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the first +rascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness and +good looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if he +knows how to brazen it out. + +"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope. + +And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament, +remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on that +account. + +It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. The +opportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women's +virtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, although +it is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it by +which they seize and do not let it go again. + +Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying _Ab una disce +omnes_. + +You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not in +that category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark. + +Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom she +had yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequently +yield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him by +the purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towards +the male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on our +dwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and the +quintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there always +comes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion of +seraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man. + + ........who goes by night + In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark. + +Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions. + +Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet and +unctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on his +countenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of her +father, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she was +going. + +She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerably +surprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise than +as a sister is loved. + +But that is not what we men understand by love. + +The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we ought +to touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen. +Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires become +more inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress. + +If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubt +that she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessary +to resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recovered +from her terror and confusion. + +I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far more +worthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than the +haughty virtue of certain others. + +And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried to +deceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who had +ruined her. + +--He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not love +the man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. It +is natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since I +cannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes, +I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power to +resist him? + +Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed the +looks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It would +have been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he has +seen me only. + +He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man as +handsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought to +be loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and being +loved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because I +admire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, so +audacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, must +find itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my look +met his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inward +feelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments. + +And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in their +love. + +In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the reality +kills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, it +nearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination of +being loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble, +the shame, the sacrifice. + +For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her whole +life. + + + + +LXXVIII. + + +FALSE ALARM. + + "She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid + Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now, + When I beheld her in her home; alas, + And can the flower so quickly fade?"... + + DELPHINE GAY. + +Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning, +when her father burst into her room like a hurricane. + +She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless to +assume the most innocent and the calmest air. + +--What is the matter, papa? + +But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye, +apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were asking +them if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event. + +But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannot +relate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter in +such a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going to +faint. + +--Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night? + +--I! she said with the most profound astonishment. + +--Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hear +anything in the night? + +She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite of +herself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she replied +with the most natural air in the world: + +--What do you mean that I have heard, father? + +--Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, said +Durand, scanning his words, something extraordinary. + +This time Suzanne was terrified. + +Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to the +last extremity. + +--Well? + +--Well, father? you puzzle me. + +And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her father +with perfect assurance. + +She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered her +round, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed on +Durand's. + +The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, and +reproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he said +gently: + +--Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know very +well that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you have +nothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry. +But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts of +thoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yet +have a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered the +garden. + +--The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and +scrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father, +no, I have heard nothing. + +--I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take +more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed. + +--Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt... + +--Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible. + +Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her, +and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her father +knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her +terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying: + +--Ah, papa! Ah, papa! + +The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears. + +--Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this, +little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if you +had heard anything. + +--No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes. + +--You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Another +time we will keep our eyes open, that is all. + +But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she +decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her +father in a reproachful tone: + +--And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your +asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell +me that. + +--True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talk +about it any more, hang it. + +But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the +end. + +--I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by +coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your +asparagus, as if it were my fault. + +--It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived this +morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very +quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped. +What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in the +middle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makes +himself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the +house and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. There +was still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself then +what it meant, and I came to you to learn. + +--To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do you +suppose that I know more about it than you? + +Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy and +frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and +frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty. + +Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by their +children with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands are +deceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered their +eyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the +_cherub_ which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whose +long roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recount +before strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice and +hide-bound in overweening vanity. + +He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for some +time gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes: + +--No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is not +this calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul? + +And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said to +her gently: + +--It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes, +without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which are +nothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimes +carelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church, +at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough for +him to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least as +an encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake some +enterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men are +for the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, can +make that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed the +age of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals who +want to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Men +are very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that all +the ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passes +by, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, they +say directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they try +the knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphant +air, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address her +impertinently. + +--Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some young +fellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches well +waxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they have +amused us. + +--At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman, +passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyes +meet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rather +nice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that it +would not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look she +gave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and down +under the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl. + +And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the most +deplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had all +been very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough. + +Together they passed in minute review all the young village _beaux_, but +Durand's suspicion did not rest on any. + + + + +LXXIX + + +IN THE _DILIGENCE_ + + "Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts + on the mitre, and Bobêche the crown, + Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin + parades as Solon. Scapin is heard + calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My + Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are + titles for honours. The more they + are branded on the shoulder, the more + they are bedisened on the back. + Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace + resplendent." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Paris-Berlin_). + +During this time, the _diligence_ for Nancy was carrying away Marcel and +Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's +exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to +anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;" +and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy. + +They were alone in the _coupé_, and could converse at their ease. + +--Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away +there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret +at leaving this part? + +--And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there? + +--Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you. + +--Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and +trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you. + +--Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray. + +--Let us rather talk about your promotion. + +--My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious. + +--What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are going +perhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouse +yourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longer +ambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do you +hear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man, +like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen your +nephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however, +who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will give +me your patronage, will you not? + +--Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Curé's hands, you +still have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become a +Bishop? + +--What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you not +of the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as well +as another? + +--A bishopric is not for the first-comer. + +--Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you really +must get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession, +evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there are +two things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stir +yourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that is +an accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely an +accessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than is +necessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are not +sufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myself +up for you. Success wholly lies in that. + +You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh. +Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does he +possess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues very +doubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleased +the world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dear +friend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales of +our destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something about +it, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should not +be now Curé of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many I +know who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say in +the pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receive +the confessions of influential sheep. + +--You confess, uncle, that it is abominable. + +--I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it not +logical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than those +whose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been the +case since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on the +subject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by our +advantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to the +foolish and envious. + +--Birth also counts for much in our fortune. + +--Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of a +journeyman baker. + +--He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII. + +--Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, nor +his genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then something +else. + +--In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men, +starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity: +Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VI +was the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar. + +--And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourage +you who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller. + +--Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could have +married according to my taste and have become the worthy father of a +family, an honest artisan rather than a bad Curé. + +--Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you. + +--Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are not +acquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see her +through the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on her +account, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well as +I, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from those +dangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no more +than others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature.... + +-Alas, alas, human infirmity! + + Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori. + +--Then.... + +--Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there. + +And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, where +they changed horses. + + + + +LXXX. + + +AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. + + "Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek + Doth blend the tints of cream and rose. + And lends the pearls which deck her hat + And rubies too from off her gown, + To be your own fit ornament." + + E. DARIO (_Strophes_). + +Before the _Hôtel des Messageries_, a young girl, modestly dressed, was +waiting for the _diligence_, with an old band-box in her hand. + +Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with +surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had +seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and +those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their +freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her +prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the +mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the +market-place of Althausen. + +By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow? + +Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded +horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the +red face, and the thin and hungry little children? + +He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair +girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow. + +--Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor. + +--It is I, she said. + +--This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a +good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. +And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupé. + +The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said: + +--What, in the coupé? + +--Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupé, and in good hands too. Do you +complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will +undertake your conversion. + +--Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing +herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me? + +He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get +up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she +sat down beside Marcel. + +--You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle. + +--I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the +hospital. + +--Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you? + +--'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening +performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or +leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been +very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, +there are good people everywhere. + +--And you are going to Nancy? + +--To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be at +Epinal. + +Ridoux was listening in his corner. + +--You know this young person then? he said. + +--I know her through having seen her once at Althausen. + +--Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away. +You remember, we were both of us at our window? + +Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic +sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical +low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion +of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect +that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered. + +--I don't remember. + +Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the _diligence_; allured by the +sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time _litanies_, +_paters_ and _aves_ in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. +Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few _sous_ among the +most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert +beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they +threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears. + +--I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you +set of idlers. + +--Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are +some who cannot work. + +--There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be +lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now +these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart +bleed to see such misery. + +And he took a pinch of snuff. + +A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind +the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a +pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half. + +--You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel. + +--Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it +yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a +good action, she added laughing. + +--I see that the Sisters were very kind to you. + +--Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take the +Communion, which I had not done for a long time. + +--That is well, said Ridoux. + +The _diligence_ had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and +with bare feet was running, cap in hand. + +He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he +cried: + +--Charity, kind Monsieur le Curé; charity, if you please. + +--Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal. + +-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home. + +--Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the _gendarmes_. + +The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again. + +--Poor little fellow, said the dancer. + +And she threw him the other half of the pie. + +Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous +action, for he cried angrily: + +--Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion? +No doubt it was with that piece of meat. + +--Why, sir? + +--In what religion have you been brought up? + +--In the Catholic religion. + +--Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your +meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of +the deepest indignation: has not your Curé then taught that it is forbidden +to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from +your sins? + +--I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to +attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish. + +--What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling? + +--I am a travelling artiste, sir. + +--A travelling artiste. What is that? + +--I dance character dances, and I appear in _tableaux vivants_ and _poses +plastiques_. + +--_Poses plastiques_! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that +calling? + +--That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the +young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that +when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves +with. + +--Honourably! that's a fine word! + +--I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour. + +--And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when +you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, +which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage +others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given +that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church.... + +--I did not think of that. + +--And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child +to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly +life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday.... +You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our +Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to +offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine +Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth +in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by? + +--I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke. + +--A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the Holy +Virgin. + +--Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat? + +--Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It +appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give +me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and +work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must +not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your +soul also requires to eat. + +Marcel interrupted. + +--Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the +duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide. + +--I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to +guide her. + +Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page +of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep. + + + + +LXXXI. + + +A LITTLE CONFESSION + + "Let us not ask of the tree what + fruit it bears." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Mes Medailles_). + +--Monsieur le Curé is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellent +heart. + +--Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the old +gentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of a +man! + +--The Chaplain, no doubt. + +--No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge, +that makes one think of the _gendarmes_. I was quite in order, fortunately. +Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere, +and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened me +very much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be. + +--You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Society +of St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic. + +--Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only to +people who are religious and honest and right-minded--as he says. As I am +an artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself about +me, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl. + +--What do you mean by honest girl? + +She looked at him attentively: + +--You know very well, she said. + +--But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be +honest. + +--Was I not obliged to go to confession before? + +--Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. That +is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again. + +--Fall where? + +--Into your sins. + +--That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of +them. + +--Many! so young! How old are you? + +--Sixteen. + +--Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you can +commit at sixteen? + +--Many. The Curé of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that I +was a cup of iniquity. + +--Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins do +you commit then? + +--I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass. + +--What then? + +--Others besides. + +--What are they? + +--I do not know; there are so many. + +--Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you have +just related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others ... +you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing? + +--They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, +is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin. + +--But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others. + +--Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins? + +--All those which are not innocent, yes. + +--How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so? + +--Your conscience is the best judge. + +--And when my conscience says nothing? + +--That is not a sin. + +--Well, Monsieur le Curé of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins +for which my conscience does not reproach me at all. + +--My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to +have a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is +kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance. +What are then those great faults? + +--Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl? + +--Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good +advice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, +exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are. + +--Pretty! you think me pretty? + +--Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't you +know it? + +--Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when I +am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the pretty +girl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to +hear it. Is that a sin too? + +--A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greater +ones than that, you are really an honest girl. + +He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed. + +--Where are you going to stay at Nancy? + +--The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house where +I can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company: +the _Hôtel du Cygne de la Croix_. + +--I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house, +the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt but +that you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommended +by the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is a +conscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. She +is not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes a +great interest in you then? + +--Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a more +suitable position for me; but what position could he give me? + +--He might find you some ... he is an influential man. I invite you to +follow his advice. He is a member of the _Society for the protection of +poor young girls_. + +--But, no doubt, I shall not see him again. + +--Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; but +unfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here for +long. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need of +anyone ... you understand ... a young girl might find herself at a loss in +a huge town ... you will enquire for the Abbé Marcel at this address. + +-Many thanks, sir. + +They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her small +amount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the inn +which the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquainted +her with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance, +where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant. + + + + +LXXXII. + + +THE CHURCH-WOMAN. + + "Devotion is the sole resource of + coquettes: when they are become old, + God becomes the last resource of all + women who know not aught else to do." + + MME. DE REUX. + +As _his uncle_ had foreseen, the young Curé pleased the old lady greatly. +She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make his +way. + +--You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such as +we require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, who +bring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back to +their village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbé? It is a shame, an +absolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproach +Monseigneur severely for it. + +--It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken a +dislike to my nephew. + +--I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Too +frozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. He +is the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That is +what comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, Monsieur +Marcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion and +agreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory and +amiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I may +confess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shall +have the women, the world is ours. + +While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady could +exercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that in +order to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of this +estimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried to +be amiable and witty. + +But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuous +drawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he had +only to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of the +earth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to be +the instrument of a rapid fortune. + +The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who make +of religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs of +gallantry. When they are old, and can scarcely _venture_ any longer on +their own account, they generously place their experience and their small +talents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others. +That is called _lending the hand_, and more than once the old lady had +countenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews of +sweet sheep with their tender pastor. + +The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesans +when they are young and procuresses in their ripened age. + +Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usually +comes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches of +the temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls at +length upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for the +most part they begin with conviction and good faith. + +They attend church frequently, not only because it is _good form_, not only +through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination. + +The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir, +the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the +pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass +windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of +Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small +chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and +intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the +beadle and the sacristan. + +It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to +the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship. + +They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have +knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there +is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are +invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again. +They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed +on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book +of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to +reality. + +A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them +like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same +place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to +read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious +look, which inspires fear. + +What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively +behaviour of this red-faced Abbé? + +How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can +find no better employment for the day than to mutter _Paternosters_, devoid +of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague +sanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_. + +Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission +in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and +joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by +a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting +mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence, +into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of being +the fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become the +passive instruments, the unfruitful _things_ of the priest, that is to say +the agents of reaction. + +It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman is +called to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is the +desolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, that +she is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society: + +"_Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady, +she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morally +certainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of the +old race: The Stick_!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet, _Love_. + +No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says. +She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured and +reformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful and +intelligent, she knew _what talking meant_, and how to read in wise men's +eyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in good +time, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be so +opposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple: _Religion +and pleasure_. + +"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasure +hurt God." + + + + +LXXXIII. + + +CONVENTICLE. + + "Je, dist Panurge, me trouve bien + du conseil des femmes, et mesmement + de vieilles." + + RABELAIS (_Panurge_). + +They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair to +the Palace that very day. + +--There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Curé of St. Marie is +much coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the Abbé +Matou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he is +young, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choose +myself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little story +formerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, after +all, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur would +he desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in public +esteem. He is dangerous. + +Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is the +son of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. There +is yet the _Sweet Jesus_. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbé Ridoux? + +--Yes, it is the Abbé Simonet. + +--The Abbé Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at the +Seminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow. + +--Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly in +love with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers, +and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbé Gobin. Now he +has gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town? +Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough to +make one shudder. Dear _Sweet Jesus_! When I see him wandering in the +Cathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand the +infatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat. +Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young and +handsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holy +flock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strive +very hard against the _Sweet Jesus_. + +--We will strive, said Ridoux. + +--And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbé, hasten to Monseigneur's, +he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is well +to reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St. +Marie. + +Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Curé of St. +Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one or +another mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhaps +indispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputation +and the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longer +Suzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there are +reconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant, +and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne from +time to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and less +perilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in that +village where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see.... + + + + +LXXXIV. + + +AT THE PALACE. + + "This world is a great ball where fools, disguised + Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness + Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness + In vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us; + Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different." + + VOLTAIRE (_Discourse sur l'Homme_). + +Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first +time after five years, within the episcopal Palace. + +It was there formerly--five years ago, quite an abyss--he had dreamed of a +future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had +seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away. + +Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same +faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at +once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, +browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost +bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young +and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into +the illimitable future. + +The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good +looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain +and insolence this obscure country Curé, of whose disgrace they were aware. + +--Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind of _valet de chambre_ with a +sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again +to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed. + +--Then I will wait. + +--Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting +a long time. + +If it had not been for the valet's insolence, Marcel would no doubt have +gone away, and perhaps, would have abandoned the affair; but, humiliated at +hearing himself addressed in that tone, he became obstinate. + +--Can you not then inform Monseigneur that the Curé of Althausen desires to +speak with him? + +--Althausen! Ah, well! I believe that the Curé of Mattaincourt and Monsieur +le Curé of the Cathedral have called and not been received, replied the +valet; consequently, he added _in petto_, we shall not disturb ourselves +for a junior like you. + +--Can I speak with _Monseigneur_ the Secretary? + +--Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet does not like to be disturbed, and I believe +besides that he is in conference with his Lordship. + +Marcel was aware that in the episcopal Palace the village Curés are treated +with less regard than the dogs in the back-yard; therefore he took his own +part, and he had just sat down on a bench without saying a word, +deliberating with himself whether be ought to wait or to go away, when a +little priest with a busy and important air, with spectacles on his nose +and a pen behind his ear, quickly crossed the anteroom. + +--Is it not Monsieur l'Abbé Gaudinet? said Marcel rising. + +--Ah, cried the former, Monsieur le Curé of Althausen, I think? + +It was the Secretary, and he aspired, as may be remembered, to the envied +post of curate at St. Nicholas. He thought to obtain the good graces of +Ridoux by rendering a service to Marcel. + +--Monseigneur is really too much engaged, said he, but I will obtain +admittance for you anyhow. + +And he made him go into a small apartment next to the Bishop's private +cabinet. + +--I will call you when it is time, he said to him and went out. + +Marcel, left alone, heard the sound of a voice in Monseigneur's cabinet, +and he recognized perfectly old Collard's. + +He would have been failing in good clerical traditions, if he had not +gently drawn near the door and listened with all his ears; struck with +amazement, he heard the singular conversation which follows. + + + + +LXXXV. + + +LITTLE PASTIMES. + + "One thing which it is necessary + to take into account, is that they are + very precocious. A French girl of + fifteen is as much developed as regards + the sex and love, as an English girl + of eighteen. This is accounted for + essentially by Catholic education and + by the Confessional, which brings + forward young girls to so great an + extent." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +--Let us see, little one; look me right in the face. Madame de Montinisant +has assured me that you were very nice, very sweet, very submissive, very +modest, in fact ail the good qualities in the superlative, and that you +were worthy of entering into the sisterhood of the Holy Virgin, in spite of +your youth; is that quite true? + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! It is true, do you say? I am going to know exactly, I am going to +know if you are truthful or not. God has bestowed on Bishops the gift of +divining everything. Did you know that? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! You are smiling; you believe perhaps that it is not true; wait, +wait, you shall see indeed. Is it long since she made her first communion? + +--Nearly two years, Monseigneur. + +--Two years, ah, ah! Then the little girl is fourteen. + +--Only thirteen, Monseigneur. + +--Thirteen! thirteen! that is very nice. At thirteen one is already a +grown-up girl. Are you already a grown-up girl, little rogue? + +--I don't know. + +--You don't know, ah, ah. We are going to see first, if you are modest. +Come close to me; see, little girl, give me your chin, and this pretty +little dimple.... Oh, oh! you are laughing, stay, stay ... she has some +pretty little dimples on her cheeks too, the little naughty thing. We are +going to make a little confession.... Ah, you are blushing. Why are you +blushing? You have then some great sins on your conscience? Come, you are +going to tell me all that ... quite low ... in my ear. + +--But, Monseigneur.... + +--There is no _but, Monseigneur_. It is the condition _sine qua non_ of +entering the sisterhood. You understand that in order to admit a sheep into +his flock, the shepherd must be completely edified regarding that fresh +sheep.... The sheep then must relate all her wicked sins to her Bishop. It +is God who wills it, it is not I, little girl. What enters by one ear, goes +out directly by the other. I should be much puzzled, after the confession +to repeat a single word of what you have told me. You know what a +speaking-tube is. + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, the Confessor's ear is the speaking-tube of the ear of God. Has not +your Confessor taught you that? + +--Oh, yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, then, we have nothing to be afraid of, and she must not hesitate to +confide to us her little faults. Even were there very great sins, I shall +hear them without making any remonstrance, for that will prove to me that +you have confidence in your Bishop. Come, place yourself there, near me, on +your knees. You have no need to recite your _Confiteor_; it is only an +examination of conscience that we are both going to make. There! very well, +put this little cushion under your knees, you will be less tired. See, +where are we going to begin? + + --One God only thou shalt adore... + +No, no, that is unnecessary; I am fully persuaded that you love God and +your parents with all your heart. + + --The goods of others thou shalt not take... + +Ta, ta, ta, I am quite aware that you are not a thief--a thief has not a +pretty little face like that; let us go on at once to the sixth +commandment: + + The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire + But in marriage only. + +There, that is what moat concerns little girls. Do you know what are the +works of the flesh? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it +to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this +commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already +spoken to you about it? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in +confession. Who is your Confessor? + +--He is Monsieur Matou. + +--Ah, Matou! the Abbé Matou. Yes, yes, he has spoken to you about it, I +know him; he must have spoken to you about it. Come, tell me all about +that. + +--Well, once he asked me.... + +--Ah, ah! well, well! do not stop. What is it he asked you? + +--He asked me ... ah! it is a long time ago, before my first communion. + +--Well? + +--He asked me, if I did not go and play with the little boys. + +--And then? + +--If I had not culpable relations with them. + +--Culpable relations with little boys, well! And what did you answer him? + +--I answered him that I had not. + +--That you had not! Was that quite true? Do not blush, and do not tell a +falsehood. I shall see if you are going to tell a falsehood. + +--Yes, Monseigneur, it was quite true; I did not even know what Monsieur +Matou meant. + +--And you know it now? + +--Yes, he explained it to me. + +--Oh, oh! he explained it to you. And how did he explain that to you? + +--He told me.... + +--Let us see what he told you. Come, come, you most not hang down your +head: see, lift up this pretty face and show me this little dimple; what +did the Abbé Matou say to you?... Eh, eh! who is there! who is knocking at +the door? Is it you, Gaudinet? Rise up, my little daughter, and go and sit +down there, in the corner. Come in, Gaudinet, come in then. + +Gaudinet put his head discreetly inside. + +--Monseigneur, I came to inform you that the Curé of Althausen has been +there for some time. + +--There? where is that? + +--In the cabinet. + +--What! in the cabinet? Ah, are you mad, Gaudinet, to send people in this +way into my cabinet? I do not approve of that, I do not approve of that at +all. What does that Curé of Althausen want with me? + + + + +LXXXVI. + + +SERIOUS TALK. + + "Such were the words of the man + of the Rock; his authority was too + great, his wisdom too deep, not to + obey him." + + CHATEAUBRIAND (_Atala_). + +Marcel had not heard these last words. At Gaudinet's first word, he had +quickly vanished, foreseeing that a terrible tempest would burst upon his +head, if the Bishop should suspect that he had been a witness of his way of +hearing little girls' confessions, the usual way however of nearly all +priests; I appeal to the memories of the Lord's sheep. + +--Monsieur le Curé!... cried Gaudinet, opening the door. Ah, he is no +longer there. He has gone away, Monseigneur. I had told him, in fact, that +your Lordship was very busy, and, no doubt, he wished not to trouble you. + +--I was, in fact, expecting him. He will return to-morrow. But, for God's +sake, Gaudinet, never let anybody enter that room without warning me +beforehand. + +Marcel was already at the bottom of the stairs. A valet called him back, +and Gaudinet, after bringing out the little girl, introduced him to +Monseigneur's presence. + +--Ah, there you are, said the latter in a harsh tone, looking him straight +in the face. Why did you go away? + +--I was told that Monseigneur was engaged, and I feared to disturb your +Lordship. + +--Who told you that? + +--The Abbé Gaudinet. + +--You are much changed. I should not have recognized you. I have received a +letter from Monsieur le Curé of St. Nicholas, he added, searching on his +desk. Here it is. He says that you have returned to better sentiments ... +that you are amended, humbled before God ... that you wish henceforth to +follow the good way ... Is that so? + +--That is my desire, Monseigneur. + +--It is not enough to desire, sir, you must intend, firmly intend. + +--I intend also. + +--I intend to believe it. I ask nothing better than to oblige my old friend +Ridoux by doing something for you. Sit down. We are in want of priests, +that is to say, intelligent, hard-working, active priests, on whom we can +absolutely rely. Times are becoming difficult. Evil doctrines are +spreading. Faith is passing away. Infamous writers, wretched pamphleteers +are spreading everywhere, at so much a line, the seeds of doubt and +perversity. And to crown the evil, imprudent and maladroit priests are +indulging their vices and creating scandal. But we are not discouraged. Is +the holy arch in danger because a few nails are rusty, because a few cords +are rotten? Other nails and cords are supplied in their place, and the +rottenness is cast away. But we must not hide from ourselves that we are +passing through a melancholy period. This is what priests for the greater +part do not clearly see. They slumber in their priesthood, take their +emoluments, grow fat, go their small way, and believe they have discharged +their duty. That is not the case. When a man has the honour to be a priest, +he must be active. It is necessary, as in the time of the persecutions, to +make proselytes and win souls; to confront the irreligious propaganda with +our propaganda; lampoons, with lampoons; speeches, with sermons; acts, with +acts. In short, we must struggle. Can we remain still and idle, when our +Holy Father is imprisoned in a den of thieves? + +The time has come. We are fighting for our very existence, we must close +the ranks, take count of ourselves, and above all see on what and on whom +we can count. Let us see what we can expect from you? What do you ask? You +wish to come to the town? I warn you that it will be hard, if you intend to +do what I expect of you. + +--The trouble does not frighten me, Monseigneur. + +--You will have a difficult parish. You will have to run foul of a thousand +different interests, and not give the slightest pretext for slander. You +understand me? There are five or six influential Liberals whose wives or +daughters you must win over adroitly, and at any cost--at any cost, you +understand. Do you feel yourself qualified for this work? Are you the man +we need? + +--I will try, Monseigneur. + +--You will try. That is not on answer. It is not enough to try; you most +succeed. We are surrounded with men who commit nothing but follies, while +intending to do well. Hell, you know, is paved with good intentions. + +He looked at Marcel attentively, and the latter asked himself if this were +really the man he had heard, only a few moments before, talking lightly +with a little girl. + +--You have good manners, continued the Bishop; you are intelligent, I know. +You will succeed therefore, if you intend it seriously. Our misfortune is, +that we are encumbered with dull and stupid peasants, whom the Seminary has +been able only partly to refine, and who render us ridiculous. You must +certainly have gone to sleep in your village? + +--No, Monseigneur, I have worked. + +--We shall see that. And what sort of people are they? Do they perform +their religious duties? + +--A good and hard-working population. + +--Do they perform their religious duties? + +--Yes. Monseigneur, I was satisfied with them. + +--What society? + +--Very little. The lawyer, the doctor.... + +--Right-thinking? + +--Tolerably so. + +--And the women? + +--Much the same as all country-folk, ignorant and narrow-minded. + +--No, you were not the man needed there. You would lose your time and your +powers. I will send one of those brutes of whom I have just been speaking. +Well, go; you can tell the Abbé Ridoux that you will have the cure. Come +again to-morrow. I even think it will be useless for you to return to +Althausen. + + + + +LXXXVII. + + +THE SEMINARY. + + "I turned my head and I saw a + number of the dead in living bodies. + These are the worst spectres, because + they must be subdued: you touch them, + they touch you, and, in order to drag + you away to their tomb, they seize + you with an arm of flesh which is no + better than the marble hand of the + Commendatore." + + EUGENE PELLETAN (ÉLISÉE, _Voyage d'un homme + à la recherche de lui-même_). + +Marcel went away disconsolate. So it was done. He was changed, another put +in his place at Althausen. He had hoped for opposition, he had counted on +objections from the Bishop, he thought, in short, that he would remain in +suspense for some weeks, perhaps for some months, during which he would +have the time to look before him and reflect; but no, all at once: "Go and +tell the Abbé Ridoux that you have the cure." Well, and Suzanne? Could he +leave Suzanne in this way? He had, it is true, informed her of his +departure the day before; but had not everything changed since the day +before? Could be abandon thus his heart which he had left behind there? +More than his heart, his whole soul, his life, the maiden who had yielded +herself. + +Strange contradictions. When he had believed his change far distant and +still but slightly probable, he had thought he could leave Suzanne easily, +arrange far away from her for secret interviews, and await events; now that +this change was certain and had just become an accomplished fact, he looked +upon it as a catastrophe. Instead of hastening to announce _the good news_ +to Ridoux, he proceeded to roam through the streets, assailed by his +thoughts. + +"And I shall be obliged to live in this world which I have just caught a +glimpse of, to elbow these men at every hour, to mingle in their intrigues, +to blend myself in their life. That unscrupulous old Comtesse, that +insolent prelate, Gaudinet, Matou, Simonet and the rest, all oozing forth +hypocrisy, intrigue and vice; dreaming of one thing alone, to satisfy their +ambition, their passions, and their appetites. And these are the ministers +of God! Veronica was quite right: + +"'All the same, we are all the same, all.' And I am one of the least bad. I +was blind and idiotic not to have cast my gaze earlier into this filthy +sewer.--Blind, idiotic and deaf." + +He passed near a lofty, gloomy building. It was the Seminary. The desire +came upon him to go in. Some of his old fellow-pupils had remained there, +as masters or professors. But he altered his mind. What was the good? What +would he do? What would he say to them? There was henceforth an abyss +between him and these men who remained encrusted in the vessel of +clericalism, the most uncrossable of all abysses, that which divides the +thoughts. They were perhaps happy. He recalled to mind the long hours he +had passed beneath the Sacred Heart in the little chapel of an evening, +amidst the wax-lights, the incense and the flowers, mingling his voice in +exaltation with the voices of the young Levites, and singing senseless +hymns, with his heart melting with love of God. + +And he began to envy those young fanatics whose blind and unintelligent +faith killed every rising thought, and who were ready to suffer martyrdom +to support the ridiculous beliefs which they had been taught and which they +were called upon to teach. Blind, idiotic and deaf. + +"Why am I not so still!" he said; "I should believe myself the only guilty +one, the only wicked and perverse one among all those apostles; I should +curse my weaknesses and myself; but at least I should have faith, I should +walk onward with a star upon my brow, the star of sublime follies which +gives light and life, whereas I see nought around me but desolation and +death. I should humble myself before the Almighty, and I should cry to him +like the poet: + + "'Oh Lord, oh Lord my God, thou art our Father: + Pity, for thou art kind! pity for thou art great!' + +"And instead of that, I am obliged to humble myself before that Bishop whom +I despise, to endure the scorn of his lacqueys, and the offensive patronage +of his secretary, to have the opportunity of saying: + +"'A little place in your good graces, Monseigneur!' No, a thousand times +no. My village, my poor belfry, my humble parsonage, my liberty, and my +Suzanne!" + +By his dejected look, his uncle and the Comtesse believed he had not +succeeded. + +--Too late! they cried. The cure is given away. + +--Yes, he answered. + +--To whom? To the _Sweet Jesus_, I wager. Ah, the Tartuffe. + +--To me. + +--And that is why you have a funereal expression? + +--Yes, uncle, for I am burying for ever my tranquillity and my happiness. + +--Is it only that? Madame la Comtesse, I present to you the oddest and the +most extraordinary man you have ever met. Judge him yourself. He has just +carried off at the first onset what he was eagerly desiring, and there he +is as cheerful as a flogged donkey. Ah, my dear Madame, how difficult it is +to benefit people in spite of themselves. + +--That is my opinion also, said the Comtesse, looking tenderly with her +little eyes, still brilliant in spite of their long service, at the young +priest, for whom she felt that vague unfruitful passion which old +courtesans have for every young and handsome man; and she made him relate +minutely all the details of the interview. + +--Bravo! bravo, she cried. It is more than I hoped. But do not alarm +yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you. +I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One +of them the other day took it into his head to die _civilly_ and, in spite +of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the +early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary +schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third. + +--How? + +--By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their +children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Curé, which is incumbent upon +you. + +--And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from +the fathers. + +--I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in +question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this +young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with +certain prejudices. + +--Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task +for us women. + + + + +LXXXVIII. + + +THE FAIR ONE. + + "Pretty to paint! as graceful as an + ear of corn, slender and yet robust, + never was seen a morsel of flesh so + delicate, or better rounded. Her hair, + a wonderful fleece, smelt as sweet and + fresh as the grass, and shone red like + the sun." + + LÉON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Boeufs_). + +It was with a great feeling of relief that, in the evening, after supper, +Marcel retired to the room which, in spite of his protests, the Countess +had caused to be made ready for him. + +He had need to be alone. Events had hurried on in such an astounding and +rapid manner, and he had had no time to think about them. + +His resolution was fully taken. He would refuse the new core. The odious +part which he was called upon to play there, decided him. He was about to +shatter his future. It meant a disagreement with his uncle, the hatred of +this influential woman, the formidable persecution of the Bishop; but what +was all that? He saw Suzanne again, amiable, gracious, smiling, looking at +him with her soft, dark eyes; Suzanne approving of his conduct and saying +to him: "You are a man of courage. Let us go away together; cast your frock +into the ditch." + +And he wrote three letters: one to his uncle, the other to the Comtesse, +and the third to the Bishop, entreating them to excuse him, and telling +them that he did not feel qualified to perform his ministry in a large +town. He implored Monseigneur to leave him at Althausen and to think no +more about him. + +But the night brings counsel. And when he woke up the next morning and saw +his three letters on the table, he thought that he could not do a more +awkward thing. + +He threw them in the fire, dressed and went out. The idea came to him of +going to see the parish which was destined for him. He followed the +streets, drawn in a straight line, of that too regular city, and when he +arrived at the corner of the _Rue des Carmes_, he heard his name +pronounced. Be turned round and saw the landlord of the inn where he was +accustomed to stay, when he came to Nancy. + +--What, you are passing before my door without coming in, Monsieur le Curé; +I was expecting you, however. I had prepared your room. + +--You were expecting me, Monsieur Patin? And who told you that I was here? + +--Who told me that? It was a young person who is very pretty, upon my word. +She came to ask for you yesterday evening, and we expected you up to ten +o'clock. + +--Dark? said Marcel much disturbed. + +--No, fair, the prettiest fair complexion which I have ever seen. + +Marcel remembered immediately the little mountebank, whom he had altogether +forgotten, and to whom he had given the address of Monsieur Patin's hotel, +where he had expected to stay. + +--It is a young girl who is recommended to me, he said; I regret that I did +not see her. + +--You are not coming in? + +--No, for perhaps I am going to set out again for Althausen. + +--For Althausen. That is impossible to-day. I have just seen the +_diligence_ go by. Come, you will sleep once more at my house, Monsieur +Marcel; your room is quite ready, and my wife, who has a fancy for you, +will not let you go away. Stay, here she comes; she has recognized your +voice. + +The little Madame Patin, plump, brown, active and pretty, hastened up, +indeed, and compelled Marcel to come in, almost in spite of himself. + +--You shall remain, you shall remain! she said to him, relieving him of his +hat. + +--No, he answered smiling, I shall not remain, and I will tell you the +reason. I came with my uncle, and I have my room at Madame de +Montluisant's. + +Before that declaration Monsieur and Madame Patin bowed. + +--Ah, that is not right, said Madame Patin; Madame de Montluisant is +opposing us, she is drawing our clients to her house.... My dear, have you +told Monsieur Marcel that a young person has come?... + +--Your husband has told me, Madame, and that proves to you that I certainly +had the intention of staying with you, since I showed her your address. It +had escaped my memory, otherwise I should have called to ask you to send +the young person to Madame de Montluisant's. + +--She will certainly come back again, for she seemed very desirous of +seeing you. Must I send her to you at that lady's? + +--No, but tell her to come again this evening late. I have a thousand +things to do, and I can scarcely see any moment but that when I shall be +free. + +That evening at eight o'clock, he was at Monsieur Patin's, where he found a +good fire in a small sitting-room well closed, with the newspapers and a +cup of coffee. The young girl had called again during the day, and would +return. Marcel installed himself comfortably in an arm-chair and waited for +her. + +He had seen the Bishop again, who had flashed before his eyes a future, +full of golden rays. The visit of Ridoux and the Comtesse had preceded his +own, and in the sudden change of manner of the prelate towards him, he +recognized the good offices of his new friend. + +A good dinner had completed the happy day, and life appeared to him, after +all, to have some sweetness. + + + + +LXXXIX. + + +LOVE AGAIN. + + "Oh Folly, which we call love, what + dost thou make of us? Out of free-men + thou dost make us slaves; thou + dost breathe into us all the vices. It + is thou who dost supply the altars of + disloyalty and fear! It is thou who + dost extract from thought the rhetorician's + art, and from enthusiasm a vile + profession. How many young people + have you blighted! all the fairest. Ah, + siren, thy voice is sweet. Thou speakest + to us the language of the gods, but + thou are only an impure beast." + + JEAN LAROQUE (_Niobe_). + +A kind of emotion seized him. He was almost ashamed of it, and tried to +give an account of it to himself. It seemed to him that he was affected as +if at the approach of sin. He restrained his feelings and enquired of +himself what this young girl could want with him. + +Perhaps she was but a common courtesan who, attracted by the handsome +appearance and tender look of the priest, counted on speculating profitably +in a clandestine intrigue. + +Nevertheless, he was not terrified at the prospect, and he recalled +complacently the scene in the open air in the market-place at Althausen. +With his eyes closed, he saw her again playing the castanets, rounding her +hips and shooting forward her little foot, in order to make the enraptured +rustics admire the sculptural beauty of her leg. He saw again that bosom, +free from all covering, which had plunged him into such confusion. + +Ah, if instead of his love for Suzanne, so full of fever and danger, he had +picked up on his way some pretty girl like this Bohemian, who, while +calming his feelings, would have left his heart in peace. + +With a common peasant girl, vigorous and sensual, like this dancer at the +fair, he would have gratified the only low permissible to a priest; for it +was the most unpardonable folly, he recognized now, to surrender his heart. + +The Curé of St. Nicholas was a thousand times right! Let the priest make +use of woman, nothing is more proper, as an instrument, as a pastime, +hygienic and aperient; but let him stop there. + +At certain periods, when the brain is heavy, the digestion is inactive, and +the bowels are confined, when dizziness occurs, when the blood becoming too +plentiful, grows thick and congested in the veins and rises to the head, +then it is that nature needs to accomplish her work. Then one seeks for a +woman, one throws oneself on her who happens to be there, and is willing to +lend herself to this hygienic and benevolent part. Servant or mistress, +girl or wife, lady or work-girl, young or old, courtesan from a +drawing-room or the pavement, one takes her, has one's pleasure of her, and +goes away. + +But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of +our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together, +to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery! + +To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is +permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white +surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet +young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened +eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future +illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your +ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to +yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will +love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing! + +But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards? + +After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these +follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all +these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all +these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom +you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of +eternal love. + +Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy. + +How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and +the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha. + +Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room +when some filthy scene has been enacted. + +The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a +drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the +terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he +was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of +retaliation, shame, trouble and fear. + +Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book: + +"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not +different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the +evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought +for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after, +we shall not know how to endure the idea of it." + +Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door. + + + + +XC. + + +LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX. + + "As soon as she comes + The Hostess looks hard: + --My beauty no ceremony, + The supper is ready; + Come in, come in, my beauty + Come in, and no more noise + With three gallant captains + You shall spend the night." + + (_Popular Songs of France_). + +Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly +and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young +girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an +old band-box. + +But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at +Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the +Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into +a gracious smile. + +She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing +her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not +much choice. + +--Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good +appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best +which you have, but the cheapest. + +--The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A +young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will +want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't +disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows +us to give you meat to eat. + +She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a +dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed +down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe +produce. + +The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without +needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in +the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said: + +--I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has +the little one behaved well? + +--Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty. + +--Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched +from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of +her. + +--Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls +from hell. We, poor women, have not that power. + +--But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything +has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose. + +--Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you. + +And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided +like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice: + +--Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again, +to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh. + +Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously +closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to +herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end." + + + + +XCI. + + +THE CALVES. + + "Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes." + + OVID. + +Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made +her sit down close beside him on the sofa. + +--Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you +satisfied? Have you had a good dinner? + +--Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money. + +--A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to +pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the +expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall +be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that? + +--You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you? + +--She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing +... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one +wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the +little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We +are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like +yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my +little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you. + +--I am very grateful to you.... + +--That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas, +we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and +velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could +eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of? +I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa. + +Zulma let him kiss her again. + + +[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again." + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees.] + +[Illustration] + +--Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued +the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist: +have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a +little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock, +heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of +me who might be your papa. + +--And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma. + +--Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think +then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty +word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head. +Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see. + +Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand. + +--What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves? + +--What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic? + +--I want to see them again, again, again. + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place. + +--No, sir. + +--Ah, you must not say _no_ to me.... I do not like _no_. Let me help you, +my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and +sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it. + +--But I don't want to, I tell you. + +--Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves. + +--You have seen them enough. + +--What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you +refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the +market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me +when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is +very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act. + +--In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume. + +--She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very +easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if +you like, we will both of us put it on. + +--What is it? + +--That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that +which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the +gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well +as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the +costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer +be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough +of these affectations. + +--My name is not Sophie. + +--Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve. +For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little +rogue? + +--Let me alone, I ask you. + +--Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be +quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see +what a fine apple we will eat. + +--Sir, a man of your age! + +--Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you +will see. + +--I don't want to see anything, let me go. + +--Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like +you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes, +yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own +way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied. +My wife does not expect me till to-morrow. + +--Your wife? What, you are married?... + +--Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for +nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick; +into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a +fig-leaf on to you. + +But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and +the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous +slap on the face. + +He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek. + +--She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little +hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay +me for it. + + + + +XCII. + + +THE SCAPULAR + + "And the old bearded fellow rubbed + away, pushed with his hips, embracing + her in front: clasped with his arms + embracing her behind; stuffing at the + chancellery, throwing her gently and + collecting his strength, labouring with + his chest, and even tripping her up: + he made use of all." + + LÉON CLADEL (_Ompdrailles_). + +--I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall +scream if you do not loose me. + +--Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: +here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me. + +--I just laugh at you. You old Punch! + +--Old Punch! Punch! + +--You ought to be ashamed. + +--You insult me; take care. + +--Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to. + +--Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to +whom, you little wretch? + +--To whom it may concern. + +--Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is _whom it may +concern_? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, _whom it may concern_ will +laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, +a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not +know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected +everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more +reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to +pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to +a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen +such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many +affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs? + +--You horrify me. Let me go away. + +He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her +blood: + +--Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, +and on your journey? + +--Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back +again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it. + +--And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You +will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you +of being a thief ... an adventuress. + +--I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money +for the coach-fare. + +--I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have +spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little +good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you +enjoy yourself for nothing? + +--And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the +logic of this objection. + +--Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been +answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received +a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at +the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill? + +Madame Connard appeared at once: + +--What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here? + +--No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere. + +Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle. + +--No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady. + +Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill +amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes. + +--And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear +here, and one does not know what to do for a living. + +The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, +for her eyes were full of tears. + +--Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little +hindrance to your settling that? + +--Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe +I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and +in an hour or two.... + +--Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine +tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing. + +--Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a +knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off +directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice. + +--Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide? + +--I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although +it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest. + +-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a +thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I +will hand you over to the police. + +--Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will +relate what has occurred. + +She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried: + +--Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere +else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was +going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have +been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a +respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was +answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with +him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so +much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want +is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you +little prostitute. + +--Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said +Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better +of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her. + +Madame Connard withdrew complacently. + +--You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the +excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl +with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in +some shameful act. + +--Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel. + +--Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away +to pay the bill. + +--A fig for you and your money. + +--What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never +despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And +then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, +yes, wish you well. + +--I tell you to leave me alone. + +--Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter. + +--I don't want you. Don't touch me.... + +--And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not +let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you +happy. + +--I tell you not to come near me. + +--Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be +all. + +He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had +gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to +the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, +his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a +dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in +disgust. + +--My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you +are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish +miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular! + +When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, +buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity. + + + + +XCIII. + + +FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR. + + "Moderation should preside over + pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures + a refuge against the satiety of our + souls." + + KALVOS DE ZANTE (_Odes nouvelles_). + +Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly. + +--You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red +eyes. + +The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure. + +--Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an +obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern +myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the +Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust? + +And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony. +Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these +fine words, I owe her ten _francs_. + +Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness. + +--Then you have come to ask me for them. + +--Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my +band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten _francs_, but I +don't want to leave it with her. + +--And what will you give me in exchange? + +--Everything you want. + +--That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing. + +--It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and +will love you very much. One may kiss a Curé, may one not? + +Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly. + +--Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied. + +--From nobody? not even from a sister? + +--But you are not my sister. + +--Well, I will be your comrade. + +--No more do they have a comrade. + +--Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one +must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the +blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover. + +--Ha, ha! and who is your lover? + +--A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like +you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man. + +--And for how long has he been your lover? + +--Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fête at +Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus. + +--Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin? + +--Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope? + +--To have lovers. + +--But I have only had one, and that is he. + +--Well, how old were you when you had him? + +--I have never had him. + +--Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen. + +--Yes, sir. + +--Then you began at fourteen. + +--Began what? + +--With your lover. + +--We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted +to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along." + +--But he is not your lover. + +--But he is, because I love him. + +--And you have not had others. + +--No, because I love him. + +--Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are +worth your weight in gold. + +--My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and +I shall be rich. + +--But how shall I know if what you say is true? + +--Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove +it? + +--I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you. + +--It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing. + +Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten _francs_. + +--How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you. + +--You wish to please me? Well, remain good. + +--Only that! And till when? + +--Until I give you permission not to be so any longer. + +--I will certainly. + +She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back +suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the +crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a +gracious kiss to the priest. + +--There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I +not know it sooner? + +He ran to the door. + +--Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have +you a lodging? + +--Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it. + +--This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady, +without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided. +Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in +the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against +you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that +you know me. Now take these two _louis_, my dear child, and buy yourself a +few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come +back here. Monsieur Patin! + +The landlord appeared. + +--Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or +rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by +some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of +luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room +and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again +to-morrow. + +What were Marcel's intentions? + +Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening? + +He who had just poured forth his bitterness upon woman and upon love, had +be come to the conclusion in the presence of this stranger that he could +not do without woman or without love! + +But the other? + +The other was not there, and the absent are in the wrong. + +Could this one make him forget the other? Could a new fancy destroy the +strong love which bound him and was ruining him? Could a love facile and +without risk soothe the hidden mischief and diminish the fury of a +dangerous passion? She had all that was required for that, this little fair +girl with the tempting lips. + +Like Suzanne she was young and charming, like Suzanne she would be loving, +and unlike Suzanne, she would be submissive. + +Her eyes swimming in their azure, her aquiline nose with its mobile +nostrils, her scarlet fleshly lips, her golden hair like ripened corn, her +rosy cheeks in which coursed health and life, the slimness of her waist, +the delicacy and whiteness of her hand; it all said: Love me. + +And she was a fresh woman ... a fresh woman, eternal temptation. + +When he returned to the hotel, he found the Comtesse anxiously waiting for +him. + +With a smile she handed a large packet, sealed with the episcopal arms. + +It was his nomination to the Curé of St. Marie. He would have to take +possession of it immediately. + + + + +XCIV. + + +THE CHANGE. + + "Prayer on that day is said within the gothic church, + The old men mourn beneath the ancient oak. + Resisted are the games but just begun. + The village maidens will no longer dance." + + MME. DE GIRARDIN (_Elgire_). + +The worshippers at Althausen were much surprised the next day to see a +priest whom they did not know, officiating without ceremony in the place of +their Curé. He was stout and plain, with an inflamed face, bloated lips, a +cynical look, and a thundering voice: he said Mass in such a hasty and +indecorous manner that they went away scandalized. The handsome Marcel +certainly was no longer there, with his sweet and unctuous voice, his +evangelic piety, and his eyes which stirred their hearts. + +The report spread through the village that the handsome Curé had gone away, +and all the gossips at bay grouped in the market-place and watched for +Veronica to assail her with questions. But the old maid-servant to her +mortification knew no more about it than the gossips. She ventured to +interrogate her new master, but he slapped her on the back and sent her +away to her kitchen-stove. + +--He is disgusting, this old fellow, she said. For my part I am not going +to remain here. I prefer the Corporal. + +Durand had just sat down at table with his daughter, when Marianne with a +scared air, looked at Suzanne in a mysterious way, and said to the Captain: + +--Do you know? Monsieur le Curé has gone away. + +--Pleasant journey, said Durand. + +--There is a new Curé already in his place. He said Mass this morning. + +--A new Curé, cried Suzanne; then he has gone away not to return again? + +--Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is +discouraging! It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest +has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching +farewells to his flock. For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager +that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded. + +--Oh, father! + +--He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very +quietly with another Curé. + +--Let him go to the devil! + +Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress. She pretended +to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears. +Why this decisive departure? Why had she not received a single warning from +Marcel? No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was +incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a +cruel wound. + +Soon the news arrived. The new Curé announced Marcel's change in the +sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners. Everybody was in +consternation. He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt. + +For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for +Suzanne. The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said +it was necessary to wait. Wait for what? Suzanne waited. + +But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a +start in her entrails. She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel +answered: Wait. + +Wait for what? She waited again. + + + + +XCV. + + +THE CURÉ OF ST. MARIE. + + "The white ground and the gloomy sky + Blended their heads sepulchral; + The rough north winds of winter + Breathed to the heart despair." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poèmes parisiens_). + +Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young +woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped +at the Curé of St. Marie's door. + +She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of +the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, +slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go +in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept +falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, +slowly retraced her step and rang gently. + +The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of +leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she +asked.--"Do not announce me. I am expected." + +The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the +door of which she closed upon her. + +It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends. + +A _prie-Dieu_, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on +shelves painted black, composed all the furniture. + +A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to +the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to +the room. + +The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were +burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from +emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even +to warm her feet, soaked by the rain. + +A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered. + +He had greatly changed during these few months. + +His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous +threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that +anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow. + +At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor. + +--You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle? + +--I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again? + +--Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait. + +--And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know +finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count. +But ... sir.... I am tired: will you allow me to sit down? + +--Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has +filled me with such confusion.... + +He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her. + +--Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed. + +--They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful +of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the +moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the +consequences of your.... + +--Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults. Do not overwhelm me +alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad. But is it really +possible? Can it be true? what, you are.... + +--I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to +give any answer on that subject. I have read and read again your letters +many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a +light, but there was nothing. You have told me to wait; you have tried, +like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen +occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you +would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience. But +the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I +come to ask you: What do you intend to do with me? + +--In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ... Ah, you are more beautiful +than ever ... No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate. + +--You have not believed. No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by +hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number, +and supposed that I lied. + +--Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ... I believed that you wished +to terrify me ... Ah, how lovely you are like this ... Ah, it is a terrible +misfortune. We must guard against it. And your father, does he suspect? + +--Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be +able to hide the truth. + +--It is true then. What is to be done? What is to be done? + +--Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you. I am come to ask +you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you. + +--Count upon me? But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon +me? There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on. I am your +friend, your only friend. Always the same, dear Suzanne. I am ready for +anything, in order to get you out of this scrape. But judge yourself. I am +observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would +ruin me. I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my +enemies. In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar. You see how +careful I have to be of my position. I will do everything, be well assured +of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible. +What do you ask? + +--You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what +infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you--for you well know, and +God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence--but to listen to you +with a too trustful ear. No, I see you do not remember it: you have +forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your +memory. You do not answer? For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely +altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your +sake. But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am +come to tell you this: I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not +dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to +provide me with a husband. But what I want is a father for my child.... + +--Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved +Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of +my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it? I make you +the judge of it yourself. Do I belong to myself? I am the Church's, bound +from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but +the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in +spite of myself. How can I loosen myself from the gear? Can I do it? Can I +defy such a scandal? My honour, my dignity as a man.... + +--Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not +that your honour? And what is your duty? Stay, you are a wretch.... + +As she uttered these words, a young girl's head, fair, charming, rosy +looked inquisitively through the half-open door. Suzanne saw it and grew +pale. Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips. + +--I understand, she said, I understand your hesitation, your honour and +your scruples. Farewell, sir.... + +And she went out, without turning her head, stifling her sobs. + +Marcel followed her with his eyes, and ran to the door: + +--Suzanne, Mademoiselle, to-morrow you shall have an answer. Another +word... + +She made no reply and he heard the street-door close. + +A tear rolled to the edge of his eyelid. + +He rushed to the window to call her back, but a hand laid hold of his and +the fair girl stood before him. + +--Well, Monsieur my uncle, well! And who is that handsome dark girl? + +--Ah, my poor Zulma, do not be jealous of her. + +--I am jealous of everything, and I want to know. + + + + +XCVI. + + +FINIS CORONAT OPUS. + + "No mortal can foresee his fate + Let none despair. Comrades, good night." + + BYRON (_Mazeppa_). + +The following evening, the canal toll-collector on the Malzeville road +discerned a black shadow which, despite the icy rain, remained for a long +time leaning on the parapet of the turn-bridge, then all at once +disappeared. He called for help and, a few minutes afterwards, they drew +out of the water the body of a young girl of remarkable beauty. + +A portion of a letter was found upon her which at first aroused a thousand +comments. + +This is what was written: + +"I have just celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and during the +Elevation, I prayed God to inspire me with a good idea. I likewise asked of +the Queen of Angels what I could do for this unfortunate one. The +All-pitying God and the Mother chaste and pure hearkened to me. Let my +sister in Jesus Christ whose image will never be effaced from the heart of +her spiritual friend, go and knock at the gate of the Convent of Our Lady +of the Seven Sorrows, in the parish of St. Marie; there, the cares which +her interesting condition demand, will be afforded her. It will be easy to +explain her temporary absence, and, in case of need, to obtain the +permission of a parent who wished to place an obstacle in the way of this +pious necessity. Divine Providence will assist in this as it assists all +those who have recourse to it. The ladies of the Seven Sorrows are +informed, and they await the new sheep with mothers' and sisters' hearts. + +"Let it be thus done in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the +Holy Ghost: + +"Jesus, Mary, Joseph." + + +On applying at the Convent of the Seven Sorrows, the good sisters said that +in fact they had received a letter, sealed with the episcopal arms, +announcing the arrival of a young lady. They were unable to say more. + +Monseigneur, when questioned, summoned the Abbé Marcel who gave the +examining magistrate the most satisfactory explanations, acknowledging that +he was the author of the letter, and that she was a young girl whose honour +he desired to save. + +This event did the greatest good to the reputation of the former Curé of +Althausen. His discretion, his wisdom and his virtue were lauded more than +ever. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +Afterword. + + +OTHER WORKS IN ENGLISH +BY HECTOR FRANCE + +MANSOUR'S CHASTISEMENT; +THE ATTACK ON THE BROTHELS; +MUSK, HASHISH AND BLOOD; +THE DAUGHTER OF THE CHRIST; +UNDER THE BURNOUS. + + + + +THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORKS. + + +Hector France alighted upon this planet some fifty years ago and chose his +home in the midst of a family renowned for generations as fighters. From +this preliminary statement we may deduce two facts: firstly, that baby +Hector was not destined by his stern-visaged, paternal sire for any other +than the martial profession, and secondly, that the squealing youngster of +those days is now a man in the prime of life. + +Strongly-built, upright and vigorous, Hector France looks every inch just +what he really is--a Soldier and a Gentleman, as ready to handle the Sword +as to smite smooth-faced Lie and Hypocrisy with the Pen. + +The qualities of his mind are faithfully delineated in his features. He has +the same leonine look that distinguished the famous English iconoclast, +Charles Bradlaugh. The massive brow, the firm, determined jaw, the large, +luminous eyes, the wavy hair and big shoulders would anywhere mark him out +at once, though unknown, as a Philosopher, Fighter, Orator and Leader of +men. The career of the two men also offers points in common. + +If Charles Bradlaugh was a soldier so was Hector France, with the +difference that the latter really did face sabre-flash and cannon-smoke +whereas his English prototype early bought himself out of the Service. Both +men, too, mixed in the game of Politics, only Bradlaugh's luck landed him +at last in Parliament while France led a forlorn hope that ended, after +many a narrow escape for life, in twenty years of weary exile from his +beloved country. Finally both men hold nearly identical opinions with +regard to Religious Questions, only Bradlaugh imagined he had a special +mission to assail the world's historic faiths, and Hector France, like +Ernest Renan, smiles in a curious Oriental way, when these things are +broached, quite content for you to believe anything you please so that you +do not bother him overmuch with your reasons. + +Hector France must not be confounded, as is often done by ignorant persons, +with the gentleman who has elected to call himself "Anatole France", and +who writes under that name. The real patronym of M. "Anatole France" is, I +am informed, Monsieur Chaussepied, which interpreted into English means +"Mr. Shoe-horn". It is unnecessary to state that Hector France is content +with his own name, and would not have changed it even had it been less +noble than it really is, believing with us that a man's work are sufficient +title to nobility, however odd may be the cognomen bequeathed him from +bygone sires. + +The appearance of this book in English will prove a godsend to Protestants +who may see in it only an attack on Catholicism. Let them hug no such +flattering unction to their souls. M. Hector France is no savage iconoclast +gone mad with sectarian hatred. He recognizes the good in all religions as +answering a temporary need in the evolution of Humanity, and for none has +he a more profound respect than the Catholic Church. Indeed the pomp and +magnificence, the architectural grandeur, the vast learning, wealth and +influence of this institution appeal to the imagination of both ignorant +and cultured alike. The aim of the distinguished writer of the "Grip of +Desire" is far removed from that of vulgar and gratuitous image-breaking. +He seeks to show the danger to human character that comes through meddling +with one of the most imperious of natural instincts. If in the +"Chastisement of Mansour" he bodies forth the consequences of unbridled +Libertinism, in the "Grip of Desire" he demonstrates the evils attendant on +a life of forced Celibacy. In the first we have the autocratic Reign of the +Flesh, in the second the Subjection of legitimate Carnal Desire. + +The union of the female to the male is a law of Nature, as solid as the +granite bases of the world. No normally constituted man can disregard that +law without doing violence to himself and to his kind. + +Kant says: "Man and woman constitute, when united, the whole and entire +being, one sex completes the other." + +Schopenhauer asserts: "The sexual impulse is the most complete expression +of the will to live, in other words, it is the concentration of all +volition." And in another passage: "The affirmation of the will to live +concentrates itself in the act of procreation, which is its most positive +expression." Mainländer gives utterance to the opinion when he says: "The +sexual impulse is the centre of gravity for human existence. It alone +secures to the individual the life which he above all desires ... man +devotes himself more seriously to the business of procreation than to any +other; in the achievement of nothing else does he condense and concentrate +the intensity of his will in so remarkable a manner as in the act of +generation." And before all those, Buddha wrote: "Sexual desire is sharper +than the hook with which wild elephants are tamed; hotter than flame; it is +like an arrow that is shot into the heart of man." + +The present work, if it teach anything at all, teaches that Celibacy is a +crime, and the Mother of crime, just as a venomous plant is a producer of +poison. The needs of his organization torment the single man until he robs +from others that which he lacks. Hence Seduction, Rape, Adultery, the +Invasion of trouble into families, and furious Jealousies with all their +prolific brood of Wrong-doing and Woe. + +This is not the place to praise or to blame the book before us. Each man +will judge it according to his individual tastes, temperament and +character. The embryonic, thin-lipped man may consider it bold, far too +outspoken. The full-blooded reader more conversant with the realities of +life, will be inclined to look upon it with larger charity, having regard +to what the Author has _refrained from saying_, rather than to what he has +said. + +"At the outset," says Camille Lemonnier, himself a well-known writer, +"these pages are conspicuously chaste; Temptation takes the form of +Mystical Sensuality, at first beaten back and then surging forwards +victorious; then, as the fire of passion grows more intense, the lamp of +the tabernacle dies gradually out; and Humanity, with the unchaining of +instinct, breaks forth, cries and howls like a mad gorilla from his cage." +Here again we witness the triumph of Eve; entangled in her long, flaxen +tresses she sweeps away the sinner's conscience, and while the Church +closes the door against them both, Nature opens out wide her own with a +kindly, + +"Come in, my Children." +CHARLES CARRINGTON. +PARIS, 1st JUNE, 1898. + + + +[Illustration] + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIP OF DESIRE*** + + +******* This file should be named 10963-8.txt or 10963-8.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/9/6/10963 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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For +example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at: + +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/2/3/10234 + +or filename 24689 would be found at: +https://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/6/8/24689 + +An alternative method of locating eBooks: +https://www.gutenberg.org/GUTINDEX.ALL + +*** END: FULL LICENSE *** diff --git a/old/10963-8.zip b/old/10963-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..84cf0b6 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10963-8.zip diff --git a/old/10963.txt b/old/10963.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f16c423 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/10963.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12271 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Grip of Desire, by Hector France, et al + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Grip of Desire + +Author: Hector France + +Release Date: February 6, 2004 [eBook #10963] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIP OF DESIRE*** + + +This file was produced by Carlo Traverso, Relka Bihari, Andrea Ball, and +the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team from images +generously made available by the Bibliotheque nationale de France +(BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr. + + + +THE GRIP OF DESIRE + +THE STORY OF A PARISH-PRIEST + +TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF HECTOR FRANCE + + + + + + + +[Illustration: Debut d'une serie de documents en couleur.] + + + + Love is a familiar; love is a devil; there is + no evil angel but love. Yet was Samson so + tempted, and he had an excellent strength; + yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a + very good wit. + + _Love's Labour Lost_. + + + +With an engraved portrait of the Author + + + + + +Other Works in English + +By +HECTOR FRANCE + +Mansour's Chastisement, the Loves and +Intrigues of an Arab Don Juan, done into English +by ALFRED ALLINSON, and embellished with Seven +fine Engravings by THEVENIN, after Drawings by +BAZEILHAC. + +Musk, Hashish and Blood, with Twenty-One +Engravings by PAUL AVRIL. (In the Press.) + +The Attack on the Brothels, A Realistic +Account of the Civilizing of "Barbarians". With +Illustrations. (In Hand.) + +The Daughter of the Christ; The most +original and philosophic work of the last twenty +years. This work will be sumptuously illustrated +by leading French Artists. (In Preparation.) + + + +[Illustration: Fin d'une serie de documents en couleur.] + + + +[Illustration: the author.] + + + +[Illustration] + + + +TO THE READER + + The truth, the bitter truth. + + DANTON. + + Oh, sons and brothers, oh, poets + When the thing exists, speak the word. + + V. HUGO. + + + +I do not assert that all the personages in this story are models of virtue. +To some of them has been given a part which severe morality reproves. But I +am a realist and not an idealist, and for that I beg the reader a thousand +pardons. I have tried to paint what I saw and not that of which I dreamed. +If my figures are not chaste, the fault is not mine, but of those who +passed before me and whose features I sketched as my pen ran on. + +You are warned therefore, Madam, that when you open this book, you will not +find a "Treatise on Morality". Here are only the simple and pastoral loves +of a poor and obscure village priest. An idyll in the shade of the +parsonage limes and under the motionless eye of the weather-cock on the +belfry. + +If then you come across any word which offends your chaste ears, any +picture which distresses your modest eye, blame only your own curiosity. + +HECTOR FRANCE. + + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + + Unto the pure all things are pure: + but unto them that are Defiled and + Unbelieving is nothing pure: but even + their mind and conscience is Defiled. + They profess that they know God; + but in Works they Deny Him, being + Abominable and Disobedient, and unto + every good work Reprobate. + + ST. PAUL. + + + +LIST OF CHAPTERS. + + I. The Cure + II. The Confessional + III. The Parsonage + IV. Expectation + V. The Meeting + VI. The Look + VII. The Salute + VIII. The Fever + IX. During Vespers + X. In Parenthesis + XI. The Flesh + XII. The Temptation + XIII. The Resolution + XIV. The Captain + XV. Memories + XVI. The Epaulet + XVII. The Voltairian + XVIII. The Visit + XIX. Hard Words + XX. Kicks + XXI. The Past + XXII. The Servant + XXIII. The Letter + XXIV. The First Meeting + XXV. Love + XXVI. Of Young Girls in General + XXVII. Of Suzanne in Particular + XXVIII. The Shadow. + XXIX. Other Meetings + XXX. Seraphic Love + XXXI. The Virgin + XXXII. The Death's-Head + XXXIII. Frenzy + XXXIV. The Prohibition + XXXV. The Shelter + XXXVI. The Hot Wine + XXXVII. Tete-a-Tete + XXXVIII. The Kiss + XXXIX. The Devil in Petticoats + XL. Little Confessions + XLI. Moral Reflections + XLII. Memory Looking Back + XLIII. Espionage + XLIV. The Garret Window + XLV. Treacherous Manoeuvre + XLVI. The Letter + XLVII. Good News + XLVIII. Reconcilliation + XLIX. Confidences + L. Mammosa Virgo + LI. Chamber Morality + LII. The Posset + LIII. The Leg + LIV. Mater Saeva Cupidunum + LV. In the Foot-Path + LVI. Double Remorse + LVII. The Explosion + LVIII. Provocation + LIX. Acts and Words + LX. Talks + LXI. Le Pere Hyacinthe + LXII. The Happy Cure + LXIII. The Miracles + LXIV. The Two Augurs + LXV. Table-Talk + LXVI. Good Counsel + LXVII. In A Glass + LXVIII. The Rose Chamber + LXIX. The Gust of Wind + LXX. The Ambuscade + LXXI. The Breach + LXXII. The Assault + LXXIII. Audaces Fortuna Juvat + LXXIV. Before Mass + LXXV. During Mass + LXXVI. Awakening + LXXVII. Consolations + LXXVIII. False Alarms + LXXIX. In the _Diligence_ + LXXX. An Old Acquaintance + LXXXI. A Little Confession + LXXXII. The Church-Woman + LXXXIII. Conventicle + LXXXIV. At the Palace + LXXXV. Little Pastimes + LXXXVI. Serious Talk + LXXXVII. The Seminary +LXXXVIII. The Fair One + LXXXIX. Love Again + XC. Le Cygne de la Croix + XCI. The Calves + XCII. The Scapular + XCIII. From the Dark to the Fair + XCIV. The Change + XCV. The Cure of St. Marie + XCVI. Finis Coronet Opus + + + +[Illustration] + + + + +I. + + +THE CURE. + + "I will sing thy praises on the harp, oh + Lord. But, my soul, whence cometh thy + sadness, and wherefore art thou troubled." + + (The _Introito_ of the Mass). + +The Cure of Althausen was reputed to be chaste. Was he so really? To tell +the truth, I never believed him so; at thirty men are not chaste; they may +try to be so; they rarely succeed. However that might be, he was a singular +man. + +He had a profound reverence for common sense, and it was said that he +taught a strange doctrine to his flock; for example, that a day of work was +more pleasing to God than a day of prayer; that the temples were for those +who labour not, and that a good action was well worth a mass. + +He maintained too that we purchase nothing with money in the other world, +and that the coins, so appreciated among ourselves, have no currency beyond +the grave, and a hundred other oddities of this kind, which in the good old +times would have brought him to the stake. The Bishop had severely +reprimanded him for all these heresies; but he seemed to pay no attention +to it. Every Sunday, from the height of his pulpit, he continued to brave +shamelessly the thunders of his Bishop and the thunders of heaven. + +I went one day to hear him. His voice was sweet, persuasive, with a clear +and harmonious tone. He said simply: "Love one another. That is the true +religion of Christ. Love one another! everything is there: religion, +philosophy and morality. Charity, properly understood, that which comes +from the heart, is more pleasing to God than all the prayers. There are +people who in order to pray neglect their home duties, their duties as wife +and as mother. To them, I say of a truth, God remains deaf. He wills, +before aught else, that you should fulfil your duties to your own. Every +prayer which causes another to suffer is an impiety." Such was pretty near +the essence of his sermons: they were short and simple. No great sonorous +words, no pompous digressions, no Latin quotations which no one would have +understood, no declamations on Our Lady of Lourdes or of La Salotte, on the +miracle of Roses or the Immaculate Conception. + +Thus he placed himself on a level with the simple souls who heard him, +addressed himself only to their good sense and to their heart, and did not +waste their time. He thought that after having worked hard throughout the +week, it was well to spend the Sunday in rest and not in fresh fatigue. + +But that which struck me most in him was his intelligent and expressive +countenance, and I was astonished that a man hall-marked with such +originality, should consent to vegetate, obscure and future-less, in the +care of a poor village. + +They said he was chaste. In truth that must be a task more arduous for him +than for any other, for he bore on his face the impress of ardent passions. +A disciple of Lavater would doubtless have sought for and found the secret +of hidden dramas in the fine pale face. From his looks, now full of +feverish ardour, now laden with sweet caresses, like the limpid eyes of a +bride, the desires of the flesh in rebellion against deadly duty, seemed to +burst forth with bold prolific thoughts. + +One saw at times that his thoughts escaped in moments of forgetfulness from +the clerical fetter. + +Wild, wandering and licentious, they plunged with delight into the ocean of +reverie. They left far behind them on the misty shore our conventions, our +prejudices and our follies, and all those toils of spider-web which beset +and catch and destroy so well the silly crowd, and which we call social +rules, opinion and propriety. + +Then the priest was gone; the man alone remained, the man of thirty, robust +and full of life and yearning for all the joys of life. And beneath his +gold-embroidered chasuble, near that altar laden with lustres and with +flowers, amidst the floods of light and the floods of perfume, in that +atmosphere saturated with the intoxicating waves of incense and the breath +of maidens; surrounded by all those women, by all these girls on their +knees before him or hanging on his lips; before all these modest or burning +looks fixed upon his gaze, a strange sensation rose to his brain; the +perspiration stood upon his forehead, he blushed and grew pale by turns; a +shiver ran through his frame, and trying to subdue the ardour of his gaze, +he turned towards the crowd of young girls, and said to them in a trembling +voice: + +--_Dominus vobiscum_. + +--_Et cum spiritu tuo_, answered the choir of maidens. Oh, how willingly +instead of the name of God would he have cast to them his heart. + + + + +II. + + +THE CONFESSIONAL. + + "In the course of the holy missions to + which I have consecrated a great portion + of my life, I have often come across + upright souls, disposed to make great + progress in perfection, if they had found + a skilful director." + + THE REV. FATHER J.B. SCAROMELLI + (_The Spiritual Guide_). + +However, almost in spite of myself, I was interested in this young priest, +and although disposed to believe that he was a knave like the rest, I was +sensible of something in him so upright and so loyal that I was, from the +very first, prejudiced in his favour. + +And besides, these flashes of fiery passion which at times betrayed him, +could they serve as an accusation against him? Could one take offence at +his not having completely stifled at thirty years the fierce passions of +youth and his violent desires? Was it not a proof on the contrary of his +victorious struggles and of his energy? + +And even though he should succumb before the imperious needs of potent +nature, which would be the more culpable, he or the women who surrounded +him, enveloped him with their gaze, encompassed him with their seductions; +he or the husbands and fathers who seemed tacitly to say to him: "You are +young, ardent, fall of passion and vigour, there is my daughter, there is +my wife, I hand them to you, receive their confessions, dive into their +looks, read in their soul, listen month to month to their most secret +confidences, but beware of touching their lips." + +Fools! And when the priest succumbs and their shame is noised abroad, they +make a great uproar and complain to all the echoes, instead of bowing their +head and humbly saying: _mea culpa_. + +What? silly fool, you cast the modesty of your young wife and the virginity +of your daughter as food for that envious celibate, you leave them alone in +the mysterious tete-a-tete of the confessional, with no obstacle between +his burning lust and the object of that lost, between those mouths which +speak so low![1] + +What will stop them? Duty? Virtue? His duty to himself? Laughable +obstacles. Fragile plank on which you place your honour. + +Her own virtue? Trust not to it overmuch, for he will know how to lead her +to the will of his appetite. He will form her in such a way that she will +pass by all the roads by which he will wish to guide her. It is a gate +which he will contrive sooner or later to force, however it may be bolted, +however it may be guarded by those sleepy gaolers which we call Principles. + +The Confessional! Marvellous invention of greedy curiosity, satanic work of +some hoary sinner! Hallowed goad of concupiscence, blessed antechamber +which leads to the alcove, mysterious retreat where the priest sits between +husband and wife, listens to their private talk and stands by, panting at +all their excesses. Refuge more secret than the best padded boudoir. +Formidable entrenchment sacred to all! What jealous lover would dare to +lift that curtain of serge behind which are murmured so many secret +confidences? + +It is there that the artless virgin utters her first confessions; there, +that the plighted maid reveals the beatings of her heart; there, that the +blushing bride unveils the secrets of the nuptial couch. + +He, the man of God, he listens ... he collects all their voluptuous +nothings and out of them creates worlds. Do you see him give ear? His face +has kept its sanctimonious expression, but the fire gleams forth beneath +his drooping eye-lid. He is leaning near, as near as possible to those +stammering lips.... The penitent is silent. What! already? everything said +already? Oh! that is not enough. She has passed too quickly over certain +faults the remembrance of which covers her forehead with a blush. He is not +satisfied. He wishes to know further. He reproves gently, "Why hesitate? +God is full of pity; but in order that the pardon may be complete, the +confession must be complete," and anew he questions, he presses ... his +temples throb, his blood boils, his hands burn, the demon of the flesh +completely embraces him. + +Come, incautious girl, speak, explain, give details, and by the confession +of your pleasant faults, plunge into ecstasy the ruttish confessor. + +[Footnote 1: In the confessionals of the Church of St. Gudule at Brussels +and in those of the majority of Belgian churches an opening may be seen +contrived in the screen, through which it is easy for mouths to meet.] + + + + +III. + + +THE PARSONAGE. + + "The pretty parsonage encircled with verdure, + With its white pigeons cooing on the roof, + Assumes to the sun a saucy air of sanctity + And permits a smell of cooking to go forth." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +The parsonage is seated on the summit of the hill and overlooks a part of +the village and of the plain. The traveller perceives from far its white +outline in the midst of a nest of verdure, and feels delighted at the view. +Nothing more simple than this peaceful house. A single story above the +ground-floor, with four windows from which the panes shine cheerfully in +the first rays of the sun, and upon the red-tiled roof two attics with +pointed gable. The door, which one reaches by a broad stone stair, is +framed by two vines, their vigorous branches stretching up to the side of +the windows, yielding to the hand, when September is come, their velvety, +ruby bunches. Behind the house, a little garden surrounded by a hedge of +green, at once an orchard, flower and kitchen garden. + +In front, two hundred paces away, the old church with its stained walls on +which the ivy clings, and its pointed belfry. The distance between is +partly filled by several rows of lime-trees, which, seen from a distance, +give to the parsonage the calm and cheerful look of those peaceful retreats +where we sometimes dream of burying our existence. "Is not this the +harbour!" says the tempest-beaten way-farer. "Oh! how happy must be the +dweller in this calm abode!" + +He might enter; he was welcome. The door was open to all, and this house, +like that of the wise man, seemed to be of glass. + +And all the women, young or old, knew hour by hour how their Cure spent his +time, and in spite of all the perseverance which, according to principle, +they had applied to discover some mystery in his life or the knot of a +secret intrigue, they acknowledged unanimously that no one could give less +hold for scandal than he. + +Every day, when he had said mass, pruned his trees, watered his flowers, +visited some poor or sick person, he shut himself up with his books and +lived with them till the evening, until his servant came and said to him, +"It is time for supper." Then he rose, ate his supper in silence, after +putting aside the portion for the poor, and then returned to his books. +That was all his life. + +On Sunday, if the weather was fine, he took his breviary, and walked with +slow steps along the high-road. + +The children would stop their games and run forward to meet him in order to +receive a caress from him, while the young girls whispered together and +seemed to avoid him. The bolder ones met his gaze with a blush: perhaps +they too would have liked, just as the little children, to receive a caress +from the handsome Cure of Althausen. But he passed on without ever +stopping, answering their timid salutations with an almost frigid gravity. + +He acted wisely. He was full of distrust of himself, and kept himself in +prudent reserve in face of the enemy. For he knew full well that the enemy +was there, in these sweet woman's eyes and those smiles which wished him +welcome. + +Then the pagan intoxications of the Catholic rites were no more surrounding +him to over-excite him and betray the trouble of his heart and the straying +of his thoughts, and if he felt affected before the smiles of these +marriageable girls, he armed himself with force sufficient to thrust back +carefully to his inmost being his boldness and his desires. + +It was no more the ardent passionate man who disclosed himself sometimes in +rapid moments of forgetfulness, it was the priest austere and calm, the +functionary salaried by the State to teach the religion of the State. + + + + +IV. + + +EXPECTATION. + + "And the days and the hours glided on, + and withdrawn within itself, affected + by sorrows and joys unknown, the soul + stretched its mysterious wing over a + new life soon to dawn." + + LAMENNAIS (_Une voix de prison_). + +One of his greatest pleasures was to plunge into the woods which surround +the village. He sought silence and solitude there, and when he heard the +steps of a keeper or of some pedestrian, or even the happy voices of young +couples calling one another, he concealed himself behind the masses of +foliage, and hid himself with a kind of shame like a criminal. He wished to +be alone, completely alone, so as to dream at his ease. Then he stretched +himself in the sun on the warm grass, opened his breviary, the discreet +confidant of all wandering thoughts, the screen for the priest's looks and +thoughts, and listened to the insects' hum. + +He followed the goings and comings of an ant or the capricious flight of a +bumble-bee; then with his eyes lost in space, immersed in the profundity +of nature, he dreamed.... + +One could have seen by his smile that he was wandering in spirit in the +laughing and limit-less garden of hope, pausing here and there on rosy +illusions and fair chimeras like a butterfly on flowers. + +They were delicious hours which he passed thus, full of forgetfulness and +indolence. He enjoyed the present moment, the present, poor, humble and +obscure, but which held neither disquietude nor care. + +Sometimes regrets for a past of which no one was aware came and knocked at +the door of his dreams, but he drove them for away, saying like Werther: + +"The past is past." + +The hand of time revolved without his giving heed, and often night +surprised him in his fantastic reveries. The good country-folk bad been +sorely puzzled by these solitary walks in the depths of the woods. + +They talked at first of some scandalous intrigue, and the Cure had no +difficulty in discovering that he was followed and watched by rigid +parishioners, anxious about his morality and his virtue. More than once +through the foliage he believed he saw vigilant sentinels who watched him +carefully. + +Lost labour! Never did those who tried with such unwearied perseverance to +detect his secret amours, have the pleasure of beholding _that mistress_ +whom they would have been so happy to cover with shame and scorn. + +They were obliged to renounce it, for his mistress then was that admirable +fairy, invisible and dumb to the common herd, who displays her beauties to +the gaze of a chosen race alone, as she murmurs her divine and chaste +sonnets in their ear. + +It was nature all radiant, which caressed his brow with the breeze, which +sang by his ear with the mysterious harmony of the woods, which gladdened +his sight with the flower of the fields, the verdant meadow, the golden +harvest. His loves were the hollow path which is lost in the mountain, the +old willow which leans over the edge of the pool, the sparrow which +chatters among the leaves, the splendours of the starry sky, the magic +mirages of the evening. + +They were all the melodies which poets have made to vibrate on the strings +of lyres, and in those moments of delicious ecstasy he forgot the +vexations, the littlenesses and the miseries of the world, and if anyone +had asked him what was the aim of his life, he would have replied like +Anaxagoras: + +"To love Nature, and to contemplate the sky." + +But among his uncouth surroundings, who would have been capable of +understanding these sweet pleasures and that over-excitement of soul and +brain, by means of which he sought to benumb his senses and to change the +current of his heart, that heart which like the body has its imperious +needs. + +He had reached that fatal epoch when man experiences an insatiable hunger +for love, and for want of a woman will nourish some monstrous fantasy, or +even, like the prisoner of Saintine, become enamoured of a flower. + + + + +V. + + +THE MEETING. + + "Skilled physicians have remarked + that an emanation of infinitely projectile + forces continually takes place from the + eyes of impassioned persons, of lovers + or of lascivious women, which communicates + insensibly to those who listen to or behold + them, the same agitation by which they are + affected." + + RESTIF DE LA BRETONNE (_Le Paysan perverte_). + +One afternoon, while returning to the village, the Cure chanced to meet a +young girl who was unknown to him. She was but poorly dressed, and her +shoes were white with dust; but youth and gaiety shone forth beneath the +glow of her cheeks, her blue eye sparkled under the dark arch of her +eyebrows, and the voluptuous opulence of her shape made one forget the +poverty of her dress. From her straw hat with its faded ribbons escaped +heavy tresses which shone like gold. + +Bending over his breviary, the Cure passed, casting a sidelong look, one of +those priestly looks which see without being seen; but the stranger +compelled him to raise his head. She had stood still and was fixing on him +smiling a bright and confident look. + +On seeing this, the Cure stood still also. + +Certainly, in the white flock of his congregation he counted just as lovely +creatures every Sunday, he encountered just as provoking smiles. +Nevertheless, he was troubled; he felt a secret flame course through his +veins; a kind of charm emanated front this girl. He remembered reading that +magnetic currents flow forth from certain women which inflame the senses, +and he took a step backwards; but the charm operated in spite of himself, +his eyes remained fixed on the seductive outlines of the figure of the +unknown. She enquired of him politely the way to the _Mairie_. In pointing +it out to her the Cure perhaps displayed more earnestness than was +necessary, he even took a few steps with her as far as the entrance to the +village, then he returned home, thinking of this pretty girl. + +During supper his servant told him that some mountebanks had arrived in the +village, and that they were going to give a performance the same evening in +the market-place. In fact a drum was heard beating the call, and the hoarse +voice of the clown announcing "a grand acrobatic spectacle, accompanied +with dances and followed by a pantomime." + +Involuntarily the Cure's thought turned to the stranger; he went upstairs +into his study and behind his half-closed shutters he could take part in +the spectacle. + +As he expected, the pretty girl was there, and seen from this distance in +the night, half-lighted by a few smoky lamps, with her little bodice of +velvet, her gauze skirt spangled with gold, her flesh-coloured tights, she +was really charming. At that moment she was dancing, with wonderful +lightness and grace, some lascivious fandango, while she accompanied +herself with the castanets. + +She was smiling at the crowd, delighting in the effect which she knew how +to produce with her sparkling eye and her white teeth and her rosy lips, +and the Cure was intoxicated by that smile. Then he cast his eyes over the +rough crowd, and ha was grieved at so much cost for such an audience: +_Margaritas ante porcos_, he murmured, _Margaritas ante porcos_. + +In order to admire her better, he had taken a field-glass and lost none of +her gestures. + +Her bosom was boldly bared, and he feasted his eyes upon the sweet furrow +of her breasts, he followed the delicious outline of her leg, and found his +heart melting before the undulating movements of her graceful bust and her +sturdy hips. + +He abruptly left the window, took up a book at random and tried to read. + +But this was in vain; his eyes only were reading, his thoughts were +elsewhere; they were in the market-place which was in frolic with the +dancer. + +He wished to stop this libertine thought; he read aloud: "The fall is great +after great efforts. The soul risen so high in heroism and holiness falls +very heavily to the earth.... Sick and embittered it plunges into evil with +a savage hunger, as though to avenge itself for having believed." + +At another time, he would have said: "It is a warning." But he saw not the +warning, he only saw the dancer, and he murmured: "How beautiful is she!" + +He took the hundred paces round his table; but his body only was there, his +thoughts always were hovering on the market-place round the spangled +petticoat. + +He returned to the window. All was over; the lamps were put out, the crowd +was slowly dispersing; five or six inquisitive ones were standing round the +heavy carriage of the company, from which some gleam of light escaped. + +He remained a long time leaning on his elbow at his window, looking at +the stars and listening mechanically to all the noises outside. The +market-place became empty. Only the stamping of the horses was to be heard +fastened near by, in the thick shade of the old lime-trees. A slender +thread of light again filtered up to hint. + + + + +VI. + + +THE LOOK. + + "His pupils glowed in the dim twilight, + like burning coals." + + LEON CLAUDEL (_Les Va-nu-pieds_). + +It was like a lover attracting him, a magic thread which fastened yonder +was unwinding itself to his eye. He could not withdraw it thence, and armed +with his glass he tried to reach the bottom of the mysterious light. Two or +three times he saw a figure which he thought he recognized, pass and repass +in the lighted square. + +Then the devil tempted him, like Jesus on the mountain. He did not show him +the kingdoms of the earth, but he gave him a glimpse of the mountebank +undressed. "Go not there," his good angel cried to him. But the Cure turned +a deaf ear; he went down noiselessly from his room and ventured into the +market-place. + +In order to approach the carriage, he displayed all the strategy of a +skilful general; he first walked the length of the parsonage, then crossed +the market-place, then little by little, artfully, disappeared beneath the +lime-trees. + +[PLATE I: THE LOOK. No one could have detected him plunging his burning +gaze into the depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of +her tights, appeared to him half-naked.] + +[Illustration] + +The house on wheels was only a few paces away, silent, motionless, crammed +up. Within those ten feet of planks was perceptible an excess of lives, +passions, miseries, joys, of comedies and dramas; quite a world in +miniature. + +Breathings and rustlings issued now and then from this living coffin. It +wan the heavy slumber of fatigue, of fever, or of drink. + +One window was lighted still, and the half-drawn curtain allowed a room to +be seen the size of a sentry-box. + +He passed slowly by, and gave a look. + +A strange emotion seized him: he would have wished not to have seen, and he +felt full of a delicious trouble at having seen. + +He looked round him with alarm; he was quite alone. No one had detected +him, no one could have detected him, plunging his burning gaze into the +depth of the little room where the fair dancer, stripped of her tights, +appeared to him half-naked and dazzling like a goddess of Rubens. + + + + +VII. + + +THE SALUTE. + + "She is fair, she is white, and her golden hair + Sweetly frames her rosy face: + The limpid look of her azure eyes + Beguiles near as much as her half-closed lip." + + N. CHANNARD (_Poesies inedites_). + +The next day, from break of dawn, the strolling players were already making +their preparations for departure. + +He saw the fair dancer again. + +No longer had she on her gauze dress with golden spangles, nor the tights +which displayed her shape, nor her glittering diadem, nor the imitation +pearls in her hair. She had resumed her poor dress of printed cotton, her +darned stockings and her coarse shoes; but there was still her blue eye +with its strange light, her pleasant face, her silky hair falling in thick +tresses on her sunburnt neck, and beneath her cotton bodice the figure of +an empress was outlined with the same opulence. + +A knot of women was there, laughing and talking scandal. What were these +stupid peasants laughing at? + +At length the heavy vehicle began to move, drawn by two broken-winded +horses. + +The fair girl is at the little window and watches, inquisitive and smiling, +the silly scoffing crowd. + +"Pass on, daughter of Bohemia, and despise these men who jest at your +poverty, these women who cast a look of scorn and hate. They scorn and hate +you, because they have not your splendid hair, nor the brightness of your +eyes, nor your white teeth, nor your fresh smile, nor your suppleness, +grace and vigour, nor your bewitching shape; despise them in your turn, but +envy them not, them who despise and envy you." + +Thus the Cure murmured to himself as the carriage was passing by. + +She is there still at her little window, like a youthfull picture by +Greuze. She lifts her eyes and recognizes the priest, and bows with that +smile which has already so affected him. What grace in that simple gesture! +What promises in those gentle eyes! In the midst of the hostile scornful +looks of that foolish crowd she has met a friendly face; she has read +sympathy and perhaps a secret admiration on the intelligent countenance of +the priest. + +The Cure replied to her salute, and for a long while his gaze pursued the +carriage. + +Meanwhile the good ladies whispered among themselves, and said to one +another with a scandalized air: "Did you see? He bowed to the mountebank!" + + + + +VIII. + + +THE FEVER. + + "Who has not had those troubled + nights, when the storm rages within, + when the soul, miserably oppressed + with shameful desires, floats in the + mud of a swamp?" + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +He was quite aware of his imprudence, but was unable to withdraw his eyes +from the road, and his thoughts still followed the carriage long after it +had disappeared behind the tall poplars. It seemed to him that it was a +portion of himself which was going away for ever. + +What! was the madman then beginning to cast his heart thus on the roads, +and could he feel smitten by this creature whom he had scarcely met? + +No, it was not she whom he loved, but she had just made the over-full cup +run over. She or another, it was indifferent to him. His altered feelings +of desire needed at length to drink freely. He was thirsty, what signified +to him the vessel? + +Hitherto he had only felt that ordinary confusion which the chaste man +experiences in presence of the woman, for hitherto his sight bad only +paused complacently upon pretty fresh faces, and if his thought wandered +beyond, he drove it back with care to his very inmost being; but now that +he had seen the naked breast of a pretty girl, that he had relished it with +his gaze, embraced it with his desire, that he had yielded to a fatal +forgetfulness, his flesh, so long subdued and humiliated, profited by that +moment of error, and subdued him in its turn. + +A kind of frenzy had taken possession of his being in a moment, and in the +sleepless night which he had just passed, he had given himself up to an +absolute orgy in his over-excited imagination. + +That wandering girl who had just disappeared, had carried away his modesty. + +He felt his heart beating for her; but he felt that his heart was beating +for all alike; girls or women, he wanted them all, he defiled them all with +his thoughts. + +And so, after ten years of struggles, the virtue of the Cure of Althausen +dissolved one evening before the naked breast of a rope-dancer, like snow +before the sun. + +That day was a Sunday, and, as he did not come downstairs, his servant came +to warn him that the time for Mass was drawing near. + +She stood struck with the strange look on his countenance, at the fatigue +displayed on his features, and anxiously enquired of him the cause. + +The Cure assured her that she was mistaken, that he bad never felt better; +but at the same time he gave a glance at his mirror. + +He was frightened at his face and he remained a long time thoughtful, +contemplating the gloomy fire of his own look. + +That sinister countenance seemed to him to presage some approaching +calamity. + +Thus, there are men whom fate has marked on the forehead with a fatal +stamp. The mysterious sign is not displayed at every time and before all; +but at certain epochs of life, when the unknown breath caresses the +predestinated or cursed head, the mark all at once appeals, like a tawny +light in the depth of night. + +A curse! Fatality has moulded that man's brain, it has left its potent +impress on his skull. + +--With what seal then am I marked? he cried. Is it that of reprobation +which God has stamped upon my face? + +No, simpleton that thou art, it is the phosphorus of thy brain, which +catches fire from time to time. + + + + +IX. + + +DURING VESPERS. + + "There is a beautiful girl of sixteen, + white as milk, rosy as a rose-bud, fresh + as a spring morning,--and chaste as + Vesta." + + A. DELVAU (_Le Fumier d'Ennius_). + +He went up into the pulpit, and preached a sermon on this text: "Blessed +are the pure in heart." He had prepared it the day before, previous to the +arrival of that enchanting player, and his thoughts had been since then too +occupied with very different subjects for him to search for another theme. + +Bitter mockery! What could he say to these good people about hearts pure +and chaste? He tried, all the same, and said some excellent things. He +spoke above all about temptation, which, following the expression of a +Father of the Church, "is only, to commence with, an ant which tickles, and +finishes by becoming a devouring lion." + +"Alas," he said, "how many, without meaning it, have been thus devoured, +beginning perhaps with this pious individual." + +His sermon took great effect. An old woman wept, and several members of the +congregation appeared to sigh and think that it was a long time since they +had been devoured thus. + +He had an inclination to laugh, as he came down from the pulpit, at the +words which he had just uttered on purity of heart, and he wondered that he +had been able to bring so much conviction and warmth to bear upon a subject +to which he was henceforth completely a stranger. + +His own scepticism terrified him, and he saw that he had taken a long step +into evil Nevertheless he did concern himself at that, and from his place +near the pulpit he turned his impassioned gaze with more assurance on the +group of young girls. + +Passion is a brutal level which equalizes us all. There remained in him +nothing more of the priest, there only remained the man full of desires, +and he flung his desires in riot upon that gyneceum which he thought +belonged to him. + +In certain village churches, all the young girls are placed apart, near the +choir, sometimes even in the choir itself, under the eyes of the priest, as +if they wished to leave the most convenient choice to that never satiated +Priapus. + +The handsome Cure of Althausen made his choice therefore at his ease and +without the least shame. + +This one was fair and pale, that other dark and high in colour; this one +was thin and delicate, that one fat and plump; this one was prettier, that +other more graceful. He knew not upon which to stop. He would have wished +for them all, for they all had that provoking beauty which pleases the +devil so much: exuberant youth. + +And he could not grow weary of contemplating all these fresh faces; his +look, more than once, encountered sweet looks, and then he experienced a +delicious shock which stirred his heart. + +It was not only the faces which excited his longings. In spite of himself, +the opulent breast of the fair player entered his imagination and his +thoughts seemed to search each one's neckerchief, seeking this powerful +nourishment for his appetite. He bad tried to drive away these abominable +desires, but it was in vain: the forbidden fruit was there and something +seemed to tell him that he had only to stretch out his hand to seize it. + +As he tried to escape from this diabolical hallucination, he remarked +all at once in the gallery set apart for the wives of the principal +inhabitants, a young girl, a stranger, whose beauty struck him. + +She was pale and dark, and her full lips, of a brilliant red, were lightly +pencilled with a black down. + +Her deep, burning eyes darted flames, and were fixed on the priest with a +persistency which made him blush. + +The erotic fever which had possessed him disappeared at once. He was +ashamed of himself and of his secret thoughts, for it seemed to him that +this stranger read to the bottom of his soul. + +This flaming look which he had caught sight of, weighed upon him like +remorse. + +In the evening, at the _Salut_ he saw again the same face and the same +burning eyes, fastened on his own; but be thought he discovered that there +was nothing terrible about them, and that what in his trouble he had taken +for inquisition and wrath, might in reality be nothing but tenderness and +sweetness. + +He made skilful enquiries regarding the stranger; she was Mademoiselle +Suzanne Durand, who had just completed her education at Saint-Denis, the +daughter of Captain Durand, "a bad parishioner," his servant told him, "who +paid little regard to the service and treated the priests as humbugs." + + + + +X. + + +IN PARENTHESIS. + + "Is it meet for you to be among such + vicious people? Envy, anger and + avarice reign among some; modesty + is banished among others; these + abandon themselves to intemperance + and sloth, and the pride of these + rises to insolence. It is all over; + I will dwell no longer among the + seven deadly sins." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +I must take my courage with both hands to continue to unfold before you the +events however simple of this simple tale. Already I hear the eternal flock +of hypocrites and fools protesting and crying out at outraged morality. I +know them, these indignant voices of the defenders of morality. They arise +every time that we unveil the vilenesses, that we expose the gangrenes of +our institutions; corrupt magistracy, vicious clergy, rotten army; +tottering tripod which holds up that worm-eaten scaffolding which is called +_social order_. + +But the sages of the present day and a great number of those of former +times have always made me laugh, particularly where beneath the mask of the +venerable philosopher or the hood of the austere monk, I discovered the +grin of the rogue. + +I shall stop my ears then to their clamours and I shall continue the task I +have undertaken. + +Nevertheless, some sincere persons may object: "What sort then is this +cynical priest which you display to us? Is there nothing then remaining to +him, and in default of modesty and morality, in default of his energy, +which has foundered thus all at once, could he not still lay hold of the +wrecks of faith?" + +Faith? It had fled away long ago, since the day when he had laid aside his +dress of catechumen, and, initiated in the secrets of the sanctuary, he had +laid hand on the priestly jugglings. + +Then he had been filled with an infinite sorrow. But he had prudently +repressed it deep within, and in this centre of devout hypocrisy and holy +intrigue, he had covered himself again, like all the rest, with a varnish +of sanctity. + +Faith! What priest is he who, amidst the religious pageants, the public +falsehoods and the private apostacies, the burlesque scenes behind the +stage preceding the solemn performance, what priest is he who has preserved +his faith? + +What priest is he, upright and wishing to remain upright--there are such +lost in obscure positions--who has not said quietly to himself, in his +inmost being, all alone with his conscience, what the Cure of Althausen +often repeated to himself: + +"Faith, bitter mockery! to believe by order, without examination and +without reply! + +"Annihilation of the individual, murder of the thought, criminal denial of +the intelligence, the most sublime of man's gifts! + +"Oh miseries of the soul! filth of the body! vileness of the spirit! +unfathomable depths of human folly! What am I and what are we, and whom do +we wish to deceive? + +"What are we, we who say to others, 'Be just, humble, chaste, pitiful? Have +faith.' Oh! priests, my brethren, and you, my masters, you have tried to +close my soul as we close a book, to extinguish my thought like a too +lively flame and to bend my rebellious reason; but my soul unfolds in spite +of you; the book swollen with doubts, bursts under the clasp, my thought +rekindles at the first spark, and my reason rises to its full height to +protest from the deeps of darkness where you would bury it. + +"For I have followed you step by step in the tortuous ways of your dark +lives. I have listened to your words and I have seen your deeds, and the +deeds gave the lie to your words. + +"Then I said to myself: Perhaps we are living in an evil period. The curse +is upon this age. And I have sought to relieve my thoughts in less gloomy +pictures. I have ransacked history to find there the golden age of +Catholicism. But the pages of Catholic history are stained with mire and +blood. The dealers of the temple, more powerful than Christ, have in their +turn driven him out of the sanctuary. Humanity, imprisoned in the round of +hypocritical conventions and nefarious laws, revolves unceasingly on +itself, the eternal Ixion fastened to the eternal wheel. + +"Whither are we going? Whither are we going in the ocean of social +tempests, of political knaveries, of religious falsehoods? Centuries pass, +empires fall, nations disappear, religions, at first blazing torches, then +smoky harmful lamps, die out one by one, generations succeed generations +with hands stretched out towards the future whence the new light must +spring, and the future, gloomy gulf, will swallow up all, men and things, +worlds and gods. + +"I have ransacked history and I have discovered that yesterday as to-day, +there were among those men who call themselves shepherds of souls, pride, +falsehood, injustice, thirst of riches, hatred and luxury, but neither +belief, nor truth, nor faith." + +Do not cry out, saintly souls, virtuous prelates, gentle apostles, frank +and rosy curates, but let him among you who is without any of his sins, +rise up and cast the first stone at the Cure of Althausen. + + + + +XI. + + +THE FLESH. + + "The man tries in vain, he must yield to his nature: + A woman excites him untying her girdle." + + VICTOR HUGO. + +Eight days had passed away. + +Eight days, during which he had tried with supreme efforts to silence his +senses, and to chain down his wild thoughts. + +He had become calmer and more master of himself. + +The species of vertigo which had seized him is an accident frequent enough +among young priests, who in spite of all the seductions which surround them +and the occasions of falling, wish to remain steadfast in duty. + +"For we do not deny ourselves the inclinations of nature with impunity, it +is an age at which the physical delights of love become necessary to every +well organized being, and it is never but at the expense of health, and of +the repose of the whole life, that we can he faithful to the vows of +perpetual chastity."[1] + +The crisis, according to the temperament of the _subject_, is more or less +violent, and occurs again several times, until he finally yields to the +temptation, or again until madness seizes him. + +Then everybody is terrified to learn one day in the _Gazette des Tribunaux_ +the horrible details of some crime so abominable that one would believe it +sprung from the horrors of a nightmare. + +Let them not be astonished! the wretch who has committed it was in reality +overcome by hallucination. In the struggles of the will against the +appetites, the reason expires. + +Madness has clasped the brain, too feeble to strive against the flesh in +revolt, and the latter has avenged itself as the brute avenge itself by the +act of a brute. + +"The torch of reason completely extinguished, the victim of senseless vows +has brought the piece to an end by a catastrophe which alarms modesty, +astonishes nature and disconcerts religion."[2] + +Meanwhile, I repeat, the Cure seemed calmer: to the crisis had succeeded a +kind of depression and languor. + +He resumed his studies with more eagerness, and only went out in order to +go from the parsonage to the church, conscientiously occupying himself in +his profession. + +His senses were slumbering again. + +But the mischievous devil was at his heels and did not lose sight of him. + +The old serpent, says the apostle, finds the means of tempting by the very +virtues which we possess, even to making them the occasions of sin to us; +how would he not tempt us when it is sin itself which dwells in our heart? + +[Footnote 1: _Dictionnaire des Sciences Medicales_. Vol. VI.] + +[Footnote 2: The inconveniences of compulsory chastity are more or less +grave according to different cases: with youthful subjects, vigorous, and +fed on succulent foods, mental derangement under the most horrible forms, +such as Satyriasis, Priapism, Erotomania, Nymphomania and even death may +quickly result from it. Instances are numerous. (Sciences medicales).] + + + + +XII. + + +THE TEMPTATION. + + "Alas! to return alone to our deserted home + With no open window to herald our approach, + If, when from the horizon we behold our roof, + We cannot say, 'My return gladdens my home'." + + LAMARTINE (_Jocelin_). + +It was at Sunday's Mass, in the sanctuary itself, that he waited for his +prey. The priest had scarcely reached the steps of the altar, his hands +laden with the holy vessels, when, lifting his eyes to the gallery, he +encountered the look he dreaded. + +Suzanne Durand was there, fixing on him her eyes, filled with magnetic +force. + +He returned once again full of trouble. + +His servant, surprised at his agitation, overwhelmed him with inquisitive +questions; he escaped from her and hastened towards the woods. He cast +himself on the moss at the foot of an old oak and began to reflect. The +dark eyes followed him everywhere. + +"Whither am I going?" he said to himself. "Why does the sight of this young +girl agitate my heart in this way?" And he examined his heart and found it +saturated with bitterness, disgust, weariness and regret, and in the midst +of all that, something unknown was springing up. It was like a germ of hope +which all at once had risen out of nothingness, a fleeting light which +flickered in the dense gloom of his life. + +He heard the sound of a voice at some distance, a fresh, gay, melodious +voice, to which a deeper note was answering. Spring, youth and love were +mingling their accents together. Between the foliage he saw them slowly +passing. They did not see him. Absorbed in the contemplation of themselves, +arm in arm, with joined hands, their faces together, they passed along with +bright looks, and open hearts, rejoicing in the seventh heaven. + +Now and again they stopped, and he all in play, took hold of her thick knot +of hair, drew her head backwards and gave her a long kiss on the lips. He +did not tire of it, but she pushed him back with all her strength, putting +her hand on his mouth and saying to him, "That's enough, naughty boy, +that's enough." The Cure knew them well. She was the best and prettiest +girl in his congregation, and he, the happy rogue, sang in the choir. And +he began to envy the happiness of this rustic; he would have wished to be +for a moment this rude ignorant peasant, and who knows, for a moment? why +not always? Would he not be happier going each morning to till the fruitful +soil, to sow the furrow, and then to cut the sheaves of the golden harvest, +than to vegetate as he was, casting his sterile grain upon arid souls. + +After the hard toil of the day, when he returned in the evening to his roof +of thatch, he would meet with a smile of welcome, the smile of a loved +wife, which would compensate him for his fatigues. + +He followed them with his eyes, full of envy and bitterness at heart, and +when they had buried themselves behind the young underwood, when he no +longer heard the sound of steps, or fresh bursts of laughter, he rose and +sadly resumed his way to the village. + +Evening had come. The twilight was stretching its dark veil over all. The +peasants dressed in their Sunday clothes were chatting on their door-steps +while they waited for supper. Near the inns there rose the confused sound +of gamblers' voices and drunkards' songs; but here and there through the +windows he saw the bright fire of vine-twigs blazing merrily on the hearth, +while the mother or the eldest daughter poured the steaming soup into the +large blue-flowered plates ranged on the white wood table. + +He saw it all, and he walked with slow steps to his solitary abode. + +He thought of his life wasted, of the years of his prime which were passing +away, without leaving any more traces than the skimming of the swallow's +wing leaves upon the verdant brook. + +Oh! the fleeting time which carries all away, the hour which glides away +dull and empty, the barren youth which flies, and the white hairs which +come with disillusion, discouragement and despair. "Stay, stay, oh youth; +stay but another day!" + +But what matters his youth to him? What joys has it brought him; what +pleasures has he tasted? has he breathed the burning breath of life, of +that fair life at twenty which unfolds like a ripe pomegranate, and casts +to the warm sun its treasures and its perfumes? + + + + +XIII. + + +THE RESOLUTION. + + "My life was blighted, my universe + was changed; I had entangled myself + without knowing it in an inextricable + drama. I must get out of it at any + cost, and I had no way of unravelling + it. I resolved by all means to find one." + + J. JANIN (_L'Ans morte_). + +He sat by his desolate hearth and began to think with terror of the eternal +solitude of that hearth. Alone! always alone! Already he had said to +himself very often that he had chosen the wrong road, that this arid and +desolate path was not the one needful to his ardent soul, that the hopes +with which he had formerly been deluded, were falsehoods in reality, and +that the God whom they had made him believe that he loved with such ardour, +left his soul empty and barren. + +To love God! The love of God! High-sounding, hollow words which enable +hypocrites to take advantage of the common people; fantastic passion +kindled in the heart of fools for the amazement of the simple! + +Ah! how willingly would he have replaced the worn-out vision of this +chimerical phantom with the likeness of some young girl, with sweet look +and smile, full of promise. + +And the burning memory of the wanton player came and blended with the fresh +and radiant memory of the charming pupil of Saint-Denis. + +"But why, priest, dost thou permit thy fevered guilty imagination to wander +thus? Pursue thy course, pursue it without stopping, without looking back; +henceforth it is too late to retrace thy path; anyhow be chaste, be chaste +under pain of shame and infamy. + +"Thou must not be chaste in view of recompense like a slave, thou must be +chaste without expectance."[1] + +He took up a book, his sovereign remedy in hours of temptation. It was the +life of St. Antony, written by his companion, St. Athanasius. + +"The demons presented to his mind thoughts of impurity, but Antony repulsed +them by prayer. The devil excited his senses, but Antony blushed with +shame, as though the fault were his own, and strengthened his body by +faith, by prayer and by vigil. The devil, seeing himself vanquished thus, +took the shape of a young and lovely woman and imitated the most lascivious +actions in order to beguile him, but Antony raising his thoughts towards +heaven and considering the loftiness and excellence of the soul which is +given to us, extinguished these burning coals by which the devil hoped to +inflame his heart through this deception, and drove away the devilish +creature." + +Marcel shrugged his shoulders and closed the book. How many times already +he had tried all those means without success. + +He leant his burning forehead on his hands and, in self-contemplation, +tried to see to the bottom of his soul. + +Chaste! always chaste! What! Was the flower of his youth wasted away thus, +in incessant, barren struggles? If only peace of heart, and a quiet +conscience remained to him; if quietude sat by his hearth, as his masters +many a time had promised him! But no, alone with himself, he felt himself +to be with an enemy. + +For many years, it had been so, and a lying voice had cried to him without +ceasing: "Wait for happiness, for sweet pure joys, wait for it till +to-morrow: to-morrow all this fury will have passed away, these raging +blasts which rise to thy brain will have vanished; thy vanquished senses +will leave thee in peace, and calm and strong, thou shalt rejoice over an +untroubled conscience and over the satisfaction of duty fulfilled." + +And he had waited in vain. Now he had reached ripe age, and the future is +visible ever more gloomy; to-morrow has come, as sad, as empty, and as +desolate as yesterday. + +He was tired at last of waiting, patiently, humbly, resigned like the beast +of burden which awaits the slaughterhouse. Beasts of burden! Are we not +that, all we who with brow bent under humiliation, injustice, thankless +toil; with the heart embittered by tedious deception and tedious despair, +miseries of heart and miseries of body, wait, wait ever, wait vainly for a +more brilliant sun to shine at last, until at the end of the day there +rises before us the only guest we have never expected, on whom we counted +not,--the solution of the great problem, the radical cure for all our +ills--DEATH. + +Death, which with its brutal hand, seizes us at the moment when perhaps at +last we are going to rest ourselves and rejoice. + +No, that shall not be. He will not continue to vegetate without happiness +in these dull, common-place surroundings; to walk at random in this road +bristling with thorns; to pursue his disheartening career, enclosed by +miserable vices. + +Nothing around him but stupid, vulgar prosiness, foolish moral +annihilation. No poetry, no golden ray, no rainbow! Everything most low, +unsightly, pitiful. Such was his lot as priest. + +Complaints of the soul, wandering flashes of the imagination, criminal +aspirations of the heart, sinful desires ... these ... that was all. + +Was this then life? + +Was it for this that God had created him, that his mother had drawn him +painfully forth from her entrails, that nature had one day counted one +intelligent being the more? + +Ah! he felt full well it was not so. He felt full well it was not so by his +thirst for emotions and enjoyment, by his altered lips, by his aspirations +for an unknown world. He was in haste to strip off for once at least this +old man's shell which enveloped him, this black, hideous, hardened covering +of the bad priest, beneath which he felt his vitality, his youth, his +strength, his heart of thirty, bounding, boiling, roaring, like burning +lava. + +The next day be remembered that though it was nearly six months since he +had taken possession of his cure, his pastoral visits were not yet +completed. + +In fact, he had gone everywhere, even to Captain Durand's. Only, he had +found the door closed and, after the information he received, he had fully +resolved not to go there again. + +[Footnote 1: The Antigone of Soto.] + + + + +XIV. + + +THE CAPTAIN. + + "The disposition of a man of sixty + is nearly always the happy or sad + reflection of his life. Young people + are such as Nature has made them; + old men have been fashioned by the + often awkward hands of society." + + ED. ABOUT (_Trente et Quarante_). + +The old Captain was in fact a bad parishioner, as his servant had told him, +and had only one good quality in the eyes of that careful housekeeper, +"that he was always shining like a new halfpenny." + +Durand, in fact, was what is called in a regiment "a smart soldier," which +means to say "a clean soldier." And still, one of his most important +occupations was to brush his things. The son of peasants, without +patronage, fortune or backstairs influence, he had raised himself, a rare +and difficult thing nowadays; therefore he was proud of himself, and would +say to anyone who would listen to him: "I am the son of my own deeds." + +He had been one of those serious-minded officers of whom Jules Noriac +speaks, who instead of dividing their many spare hours between the goddess +of play and the goddess of the bar, employ themselves in regimental +reforms. + +The dimensions of a spur-rowel, the length and thickness of a +trouser-strap, the improvement of a whitening for belts which does not +fall off, were questions which had more importance and interest for him +than a question of State. + +The slave of his duties, he was excessively severe in the service, and this +stiffness and severity he had brought, it was said, into his household. + +With these military qualities; passive obedience, scrupulous cleanliness +and the vulgar courage necessary for a son of Mars, Durand, with a good +reputation and full of zeal, had had when very young, a rapid advance. At +one moment he had foreseen a brilliant future, but his ambitious hopes had +been quickly deceived. He saw the Baron de Chipotier, the Comte de +Boisflottant, and the son of Pillardin, the lucky millionaire, successively +come into the regiment, and these sprigs of lofty lineage, full of +brilliancy and loquacity, naturally eclipsed the modest qualities of the +obscure upstart soldier. Spending their life in cafes, overwhelmed with +debt, loved by the women, they laughed among themselves at all the +_minutiae_ of the service, which they treated as beneath their notice, +ridiculed their superiors, and especially the serious-minded officers. +Everything was forgiven them, they were rich. Durand was filled with +indignation; he saw everything he had respected become an object of sarcasm +to these young men, and his most cherished convictions turned into +ridicule. He was like those devout persons who, when they hear an unseemly +oath or an impious word, tremble and pray heaven not to cast its avenging +lightning; he asked himself if social order was not overthrown, if the army +was not marching to its ruin. He began to talk of his apprehensions, of +this pitiable state of things, and they laughed in his face. But when these +frivolous, turbulent, incapable officers became his chiefs, chiefs over +him, the studious, model officer, the upright man, the slave to the +regulations, he began to mistrust everything, society, France, the empire, +the justice of God, and himself. It was from this period that the crabbed +character dated, by which he was known. + +He passed a long season thus, full of anger and jealousy: then the time for +his retirement arrived, that time to which all the forgotten, the obscure, +the pariahs of the army look forward during long years, and which casts +them forth into the social world, ignorant and strangers. + +Then he had retired to his own village, dividing his time between the +tending of his garden, and the cares which were occasioned him by his +daughter Suzanne. + + + + +XV. + + +MEMORIES. + + "Often risen from humble origin, he + has gained the respect of all and the + public esteem; but this cannot prevent + his having a restless spirit; he misses + the duty which has called him for + so long at the appointed hour. Around + him are scattered the memorials of + his regiment, his eye catches them + and a mist comes over it." + + ERNEST BILLAUDEL (_Les Hommes d'epee_). + +He was up by dawn, and the villagers on their way to their fields sometimes +stopped to cast an inquisitive look over his garden palings. They saw +him dressed in a linen jacket, with the glorious ribbon adorning his +button-hole, weeding his flower-garden, turning up his walks, pruning his +trees, clearing his flowers of caterpillars, watering his borders, with +great drops of sweat pouring down, bending over his labour like a negro +under the lash. + +"What a pity!" they said, "for a rich man to give himself so much trouble! +If it only repaid him!" And they shouted to him: "Good-morning, Captain +Durand, how are you to-day?"--"Pretty well, thank you," replied Durand, in +a peevish tone.--"Still warm to-day, Captain; but you had it warmer in +Africa, didn't you?" At the word Africa, the old soldier's eyes brightened, +his forehead lost its wrinkles, and a smile came to his lips. All his past +rose before him. Africa, the Bedouins, the gunshots, the razzias, the bare +desert, the fresh oases, the life in camp, the glasses of absinthe, the +days of rain and sun, the ostrich chases, the watch for the jackal and the +races over the plain. All this, helter-skelter, in crowds, crossing, +following, multiplying, like the sheaves of sparks which burst forth from a +rocket. + +Ah! Ah! that was the happy time. And then he would stop and forget his +work, his flowers, his grafts, and his espaliers; he would forget the +peasants who were there, laughing quietly and nudging one another, and +saying: "The old man is gone in the head." + +For they understood nothing of the tear, which all at once trickled from +the corner of his eye-lid, a bitter drop which overflowed from the too full +cup of his heart. + +Ah! youth has but one time, and they do well, who when the sun gilds their +brow, cast their sap to its warm caresses. The winter, gloomy shadow, will +come but too soon to freeze their slowly opened buds, leaving only a trunk, +dry and bare. + +Then, when nothing more than a few warm cinders remain at the bottom of the +human engine, we try to warm ourselves again at this cold hearth, and to +search among those dying sparks which we call memories. + +And these memories of a time for ever fled, these lights which gladden or +stir again your old heart sad and cold, these are the simple and fruitful +beliefs, the transports of the soul, the insane devotions, the ardent +passions, and all those orgies of heart and sense, all those frenzies of +imagination, and all those follies of youth, which cause the wise to cry +out so loudly, and which are the only feast-days of life. + +Hasten then, young man, hasten; take the good which comes to thee, and be +not decoyed by idle fancies; wait not till to-morrow to be glad. To-morrow +is the age of ripeness, of the falling fruit, the wrinkled brow, the faded +flower; it is the vanished locks; it is the blood which grows cold, the +smile which comes not back; it is in fine the worm of deceptions, which is +ever growing larger and gnawing what may be left of thy heart. + + + + +XVI. + + +THE EPAULET. + + "Really, yes! I love my calling. This + active adventurous life is amusing, + do you see? there is something as + regards discipline itself which has its + charm; it is wholesome and relieves + the spirit to have one's life ordered in + advance with no possible dispute, and + consequently with no irresolution or + regret. Thence comes lightness of + heart and gaiety. We know what we + must do, we do it, and we are content." + + EMILE AUGIER et JULES SANDEAU (_Le Gendre de M. Poirier_). + +And Durand threw down his rake or his spade. + +--Well! here you are already, cried the old housekeeper; breakfast is not +ready. + +--My paper? he said shortly. + +Sometimes the paper had not yet arrived; then he sat down near the window +and watched impatiently for the carrier. There he is, coming out of the +next street. He goes down with all haste to open the door himself, and take +the precious _Moniteur_. + +For it is the _Moniteur de l'Armee_! and he unfolds it with the respect +which we owe to holy things, and he reads it all religiously from the first +article to the everlasting advertisement of _Rob Boyreau Laffecteur_. He +reads it all, not because he is studying tactics or has need of Rob, but +because he has set himself the task of reading it all. His servant brings +him his morning coffee and brandy, and he believes himself still at father +Etienne's or mother Gaspard's, at the garrison cafe; this makes him quite +sprightly. + + "Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + Another glass! + Come, mother Gaspard, + It is not late, + To midnight it wants a quarter!" + +But it is not the long, tedious military articles which first attract his +eye, nor the ministerial decrees, nor the studies on the sabretache, nor +the biographies of celebrated skin breeches, nor the improvement of gaiter +buttons, nor the changes of police caps; PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES, that is +what he wants. + +PROMOTIONS AND CHANGES! divine rubrics which have caused so many hearts to +beat. + +You all recollect it, my old brothers in arms, who have waited long, like +me. Years and years have passed. At length the hour is come and the +newspaper which is going to transform your life. That folded paper gleams +with all the fires of hope, it glitters like a sun, for it contains the +magic word which out of nothing is going to make you everything, to draw +you out of the obscure ranks to place you in the brilliant phalanx, which, +from a passive despised instrument, is going to create you an active and +respected head. + +How you are dazzled as you open it; with what palpitations and haste you +look for the blessed page, skipping the regiments, glancing over the ranks, +flying over the names in order to arrive at your own. Ah! you know well +where it ought to be; it is among the last; but what does it matter, it is +here above all that the last can arrive first. + +Here it is! here it is at last! What intoxication! young and old, we all +were twenty once. + +And meanwhile.... + +And meanwhile, the best days of your youth are lost in barren, vulgar, +common-place, at times repulsive occupations. Your spirit is extinguished, +your responsibility as an intelligent man is destroyed at settled hours by +the sound of the bugle or of the trumpet, those flourishes of gilded +servitude; and beneath the heavy hammer of passive obedience your temples +are already growing grey; you have wrinkles on your forehead and on your +heart, for you have reached that part of the cup of life, at which one +drinks little else than bitterness ... But you forget all that; a new life +full of enchantment is beginning. You are an officer! an officer! Ah! those +who have never borne the harness, do not know what fairy-land that magic +word contains. But you--you know it, and you took at your name, you spell +each letter of it and you say: "At last! It is I, it is really I! +Sub-lieutenant! I am sub-lieutenant!" + +Thus, ten to fifteen years of struggles, tribulation, obstacles, +humiliations, devotion, dangers, in order to reach the salary of a grocer's +clerk! + +But the old Captain, what was he looking for in the columns of the Service +newspaper? + +He had nothing to expect. No new promotion could swell his aged breast. He +had completed his career. Like a rejected charger whose ear has been slit, +or whose right flank has been branded, he had been laid aside for ever. +Henceforth he had nothing else to do but to plant his cabbages, until his +legs were seized by anchylosis, absolutely forgotten. + +And so with all those who go away. + +Amidst the thousand incidents of military life, so filled in its leisure +and so empty in its employments, has anyone the time to give a thought to +the absent one who must return no more? His place is taken; a new face is +seated there where we used to see him, and his is no longer familiar to us. +A few years hence and his name will be known no more. The army is for the +young! + +But does he forget? Does a man forget his youth, his glory, his dearest +memories, his whole life? Retired into some country nook, completely buried +in an obscure market-town, or become the modest citizen of some provincial +city, the old officer follows afar off with solicitude and envy the +different fortunes of his brothers in arms, living ever in thought amidst +that forgetful and ungrateful family which he loves as much as his own--the +Regiment. + +And that is why you, brave veterans, understand it well, that is why +Captain Durand used to read the _Moniteur_. + + + + +XVII. + + +THE VOLTAIRIAN. + + "For them religion is the most skillful + of juggling, the most favourable veil, + the most respectable disguise under + which man can conceal himself to lie + and deceive." + + BARNUM (_Les Blagues de l'Univers_). + +But, as I have said, he was a bad parishioner, a bunch of tare in the field +of God, a scabby sheep in the flock of the Lord. + +Taking no heed of his religious duties, reading the _Siecle_, speaking evil +of priests and refusing the blessed bread, he was the scandal of the godly +and not one of them in the village augured any good of him. + +Never did a publican from Belleville or a novice of freemasonry proclaim +with so much boldness his contempt for the things which everybody +venerates. He did not uncover himself in presence of funerals, saying he +did not want to bow to the dead; he called the church the priests' bank, +the altar a parade of mountebanks, the confessional the antechamber to the +brothel. + +"That man will perish on the scaffold!" the former Cure of the village +cried out one day in righteous indignation. + +How had he come by this hatred, vigorous as that which Alcestis demands +from virtuous souls against hypocrites and evil-doers? What had the +_black-coats_ done to him? He did not say, and perhaps he would have been +embarrassed to say. There are certain natures which will love at any price, +there are others on the contrary which need to hate. He was doubtless one +of the latter, and he discharged all his excess of gall on the servants of +Jesus. + +"They are criminals," he cried, "all without exception, from the first to +the last. Hypocrisy engenders wickedness. It is a sore which spreads and +becomes leprosy. Everything which touches it catches it. Those who +associate with hypocrites become hypocrites, and then scoundrels, slowly +but surely by infection. That is the logic of the scab. It is not necessary +to dress up in a black gown and to swallow God in public to make a perfect +priestling, it is enough to rub against the priest's cap. Look at the +sacristans, the beadles, the lackeys of the Bishop's palace, the hirers of +chairs, the choir-men, the sellers of tapers, the tradesmen by appointment +to the religious houses, the beggar who stretches out his hand to you at +the door, and the man who hands you the holy-water sprinkler, have they not +all the same hypocritical face, the same cunning, devoutly sanctimonious +look? Well! scratch the skins of the godly and you will find the hide of +the scoundrel." + +An honourable man and brutally frank like many old soldiers he had kept in +private life the tone and ways of barracks and camps. As he said himself, +he did not mince the truth to anybody, and he repeated readily, without +understanding it, the saying of Gonsalvo of Cordova, the great captain, +"_The cloth of honour should be coarsely woven_." + +When one evening, on returning home, he found the card of the Cure, he +nearly fell backwards. + +--What, he has had the audacity to come to my house, this holy water +merchant. They have not told him then what I am! + +--Good heavens, I cried, my dear Captain, what has this poor man done to +you? + +--To me! nothing at all. I don't know him. He is part of the holy +priesthood; that is enough for me. He is a scoundrel like the rest. + +--But it is not enough to call a man scoundrel, you must prove that he is. + +--Don't trouble me about your proofs. Do you suppose I am going to rummage +into this gentleman's private life and see what passes in his alcove? No, +indeed, I have no desire to do so, and I leave that care to my cook. + +--Come, Captain, you admit that this is to vilify a man on rather slender +grounds. There are fagots and fagots, and so there are Cures and Cures. +This one, I assure you, is an excellent fellow. + +--It may be so, but as I have no desire to make his acquaintance, I laugh +at his good qualities. + +--Everybody is not of your opinion, and it appears that all the women are +distracted about him. + +--Another reason why I detest him; women usually place their affections +very badly. + +--And he turns the heads of all the girls. + +--That is good! Oh, the good Cure. He reminds me of the one at Djidjelly +when I was a non-commissioned officer, the greatest girl-hunter that I have +ever known. The Kabyles used to call him _Bou-Zeb_, which means capable of +the thirteenth labour of Hercules, and they held him in high esteem, but +when he went near their tents they used to make all the women go inside. +Ah! that was a famous Cure! I wish that ours resembled him, and that he +would get a child out of all the girls, and that he would make cuckolds of +all the husbands. + +--Why so? + +--To teach these idiots to let their wives and their daughters be idle and +dance attendance at the churches, and relate all the details of their +household and their little sins to these bullies, as to their grand-dad. + +--I grant there is some danger when the confidant is a handsome bachelor. + +--There is no need to be handsome, sir. With the women, the cassock gives +charms to the ugliest. I have known a sweet and lovely creature become mad +after one of these rogues who had a head like a pitchfork. He did with her +what he wished. He made her devout, shrewish, and the worst of whores. Yes, +yes, they say that the red breeches get over the women, but the black gown +bewitches them. Explain that if you can. They want to know what is +underneath that wicked cassock. Something strange, mysterious, monstrous +attracts them. Women love enormities, and besides it must be said, +especially and above all, forbidden fruit. + +The Captain had mounted his favourite hobby, I could only let him go on. + +--They are vice incarnate, and know how to employ every means to seduce. +Religion, the confessional, the bible, the Mass, Vespers, the New +Testament, all the holy business is an auxiliary for them. For instance, +conceive anything more disgusting than that pardon promised beforehand to +guilty women. Play the whore all your life, deceive your husband, have +fifty lovers, provided that at the end you lament your faults, God will +have only tenderness for you, and will receive you with open arms. I should +like to know if by chance their Jesus had taken a wife, what would have +been his opinion then of the woman taken in adultery; but he remained +single and consequently incompetent to decide upon that delicate matter. +All that, you see, is an encouragement to debauchery and a stimulant to +lewdness. A devout woman, when she is young and pretty, is on a slope which +leads quite straight to Monsieur le Cure's bed. + + + + +XVIII. + + +THE VISIT. + + "Stupefied, the pedant closed his + mouth, and opened his eyes." + + LEON CLADEL (Titi Foyssac IV). + +If there are any beings as blind as the husbands, they are certainly the +fathers; with the latter, as with the former, blindness reaches its utmost +limits. Since Moliere no one laughs at them any more, and I don't know why, +for they always deserve to be laughed at, while all the sarcasms have +fallen on the head of the unhappy husbands. + +Folly and injustice! Conjugal love is as respectable as paternal affection. +Love is as good as affection, and what the heart chooses is quite as good +as what the blood gives you. + +Why then do they complain if it is papa who is deceived, and laugh if it is +a husband. Exactly the contrary ought to occur. Paternal love is egotistic. +It is for the most part vanity and self-love. The father looks for his own +likeness in his offspring, and if he believes himself to be an eagle, his +son naturally must be an eaglet. Most frequently he is only a foolish +gosling, but the father insists on finding on him an eagle's plumes. If +then he is deceived in his hopes, which are only a deduction from his own +infatuation, it is certainly permissible to laugh at it. + +While the husband.... + +This is what I observed to Durand, which put him in a great passion. + +--Because my daughter has gone to Mass? And you say: "fathers are blind." +Here is a self-contradictory individual. One can see plainly that you are +not a father, or you would alter your theories. Hang it! You can't say I am +enchanted at it, but you must put yourself in a man's place. She is a +child, who leaves school, mark that well, where she was obliged, compelled +to perform her religious duties, and one does not break off in a couple of +days the habits of ten years like that. Give her time to reach it. I reason +with her; hang it, I can't do everything in a day. When she goes from time +to time to Mass, on Sunday, it does not follow that she is becoming +religious. I am a free-thinker, but I am a father also, and what would you +have a father do when two pretty arms take hold of your neck and a sweet +little coaxing voice whispers to you, "Let me go there, my darling papa." +Hang it, one is not made of wood, after all! + +--Neither is the Cure made of wood. + +--You make one shiver. Can my daughter have anything in common with your +peasants' Cure? I say again that it is purely for diversion that she goes +to Mass. And I understand it. Where can she show her new dress? And what +place is more favourable for this little display than going into and coming +out of church? + +--Then the Church is a spectacle like another. There are chants, music, +tapers, perfumes, flowers, the half-light which comes through the coloured +windows. + +--Without speaking of the fellows covered with gold-tinsel who repeat in +unknown language the pater-nosters to which no one listens. It is enough to +make one burst with laughing, and, if I had not my cabbages to plant, I +would go myself now and again and entertain myself at these masquerades +which are as good as the theatres at the fair, and to complete the +resemblance, it only costs a couple of sous. + +--But the principal person of the troop attracts the looks, and the danger +is there. + +--Your priestling is young then? + +--And vigorous. Strong appetites. When I see him rambling in the village, I +begin to say: "Good people, the cock is loose, take care of your hens." It +is like your Cure of Djidjelly. + +--I am easy on that ground. The black cock will not come and rub his wings +here. He knows now that he has mistaken the door; they have informed him +regarding me, and he will not be so rude as to come again. + +But just at that moment the servant came into the room quite scared, and +said: + +--Here is Monsieur le Cure. + +--Who? what? said Durand; and turning towards me, Shall I receive him? +Well, we shall have a laugh! + +He was still undecided, when Marcel glided into the room. + + + + +XIX. + + +HARD WORDS. + + "I will speak, Madame, with the liberty + of a soldier who knows but ill how to + varnish the truth." + + RACINE (_Britannicus_). + +The old soldier, upright, with his hand leaning on the back of his +arm-chair, let the priest come forward with all the agreeableness of a +mastiff which is making ready to bite. + +The latter bowed gravely, and, although he felt himself to be in hostile +quarters, took the seat offered him with an easy air. + +Meanwhile his bearing and pleasant look produced their usual effect. + +Imbued with the theories of the army, which of all surroundings is that in +which one judges most by the appearance, where a good carriage is the first +condition of success, where in fact they salute the stripes and not the +man, the Captain was, in presence of this handsome young fellow, recalled +to less aggressive sentiments. + +--Hang it! he said to himself, what a splendid cuirassier this fellow would +have made! What devil of an idea has shoved him into a cassock? + +War being the most sublime of arts, as Maurice de Saxe remarked, there are +few old officers who understand how a man can choose another profession by +inclination. + +--I come, Monsieur le Capitaine, said Marcel, to pay you my visit as +pastor, although perhaps a little late. But you are aware doubtless that I +have had the honour of knocking once already at your door. + +--You should not have troubled yourself, my dear sir, and you should adhere +to that; I belong so little to the holy flock. + +--I owe myself to all, said Marcel smiling, to the bad sheep--I mean to the +wandering sheep, just as to the good ones; to watch over the one, to bring +back and cure the others. + +--Oh! Oh! Well, sir shepherd, you are losing your time finely, for I am a +worn-out goat. + +--There will be more joys in heaven over one sinner that repenteth.... + +--That is the story of the 99 just persons that you are going to tell us; +we know it, and, let me tell you, it is not encouraging for the 99 just +persons. + +The Cure, seeing himself on dangerous ground, hastened to leap elsewhere. + +--This is a charming little house, Captain; it is a sweet retreat after +toilsome and glorious years, for you have had numerous campaigns, have you +not? + +--Fifteen years in Africa, thirty-two campaigns, thirty years' service, two +wounds, one of them received at Rome when we fought for that old bully Pius +IX. + +Marcel had gone astray again; he quickly seized hold of the wounds. + +--Ah! two wounds! And are they still painful? + +--Sometimes, when the weather is stormy. And yours? + +--Mine, Captain! but I have none. I have not had like you the honour of +shedding any blood for our Holy Father. + +--A pretty cuckoo. It doesn't matter, you may have got a wound somewhere +else. + +--Where? enquired Marcel simply. + +--How do I know? We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of +it. + +--Like all accidents. + +--Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a +famous accident. He was a right worthy apostle. He wanted to teach the +catechism to the daughter of our cantiniere, a bud of sixteen, and the +little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her +hatch. Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief. +Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as +snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise. A pretty Italian +gave him his reckoning. _Quinte_, _quatorze_ and the _point_. Game +finished. He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face. That was the best +action of his life. Well, old boy, what do you say to that? + +--I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his +countenance. + +--You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I +will be clearer. I see what you want--the dots on the i's. + +Marcel rose up alarmed. + +--No, no, cried Durand. Don't get up. Don't go away. Since you are here, we +must talk a little. Stay, it will not be long. It is the story of a cousin +of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife. Another of your confraternity. He +was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don't know what rank in your +regiment. At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see. Under pretence of +relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits. You can think if that +suited me, who already adored the cassock! Besides, on principle, I +detested cousins. It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid +it like the plague. Monsieur le Cure, if you have a pretty servant, beware +of cousins. I only say that. My wife used to say to me: "What has this poor +boy done to you that you receive him so badly? Are you jealous of him? Ah! +I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot +endure my poor relations." So to have peace I tolerated my cousin. He, +convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little +presents. There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit +of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from +Jerusalem. Nothing wrong so far. My wife availed herself of the concert +tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into +the garden. But soon his gifts changed their character. He brought us some +hairs of St. Pancratius, a tooth of St. Alacoque, a rag which had wiped +something or other off St. Anastasius or St. Cunegunda. My wife clasped her +hands, was in ecstasy and transported with joy, and I went and brought up +my dinner. I foresaw the time when he would bring us extraordinary things; +a louse of St. Labre, a testicle of St. Origen, the coccyx of St. Antony, +the parts of St. Gudule or the prepuce of Jesus Christ. + +The Cure rose again. + +--I see that my presence is _de trop_ here, Captain; pardon my having +disturbed you. + +--Not at all. Good Lord. Not at all. Sit down. It gives me extraordinary +pleasure to talk to you. Besides, I have not finished the story of my +cousin. Sit down, I pray you; I resume. + +He had given a very pretty engraving, a reproduction of a picture by +somebody, _Jesus and the woman taken in adultery_. My wife had had it +framed very carefully, and had hung it up in our bedroom: a bad sign. That +seemed to say to me, "See, my friend, imitate Jesus." One day returning +home very quietly, I surprised both of them, squeezed one against the +other, holding each others hand, looking at the picture with emotion. I +took the little cousin by the shoulders, and I threw him out of doors. I +never saw him again. Do you understand the moral? + +--Yes, Captain, I understand, said Marcel rising again, and this time fully +decided to go away. But the door opened, and Suzanne showed herself on the +threshold. + + + + +XX. + + +KICKS. + + "I should have wished, mischievously, + to put him in the wrong, and that a + thoughtless or insulting word on his + part, should serve as a justification for + the insult which I meditated." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Servitude et Grandeur militaires_). + +She had on her school-girl dress of black, which made the whiteness of her +complexion more dazzling, and imparted something grave and serious to her +beauty. + +She was hardly eighteen, and already by the harmonious outlines of her +bust, by the undulating movements of her hips and above all by the flash of +her great dark eyes, one foresaw in this young girl, still a child to-day, +the woman of to-morrow: a daughter of Eve of our modern civilization; +forward, precocious, charming. + +She was one of those the sight alone of whom is the most radiant and the +most dangerous of spectacles, and who, like others, distilling holiness and +blessings from heaven, shed around them a perfume of love. + +The bright fire of their heart shines out in their look; it reveals itself +in the sound of their voice, in their gestures and in their walk. +Everything in them is soft, trembling, passionate. Sweet creatures who see +only one goal in life, love, and, when the goal is missed, death. + +There are women who are but half women. They are quickly recognized; vulgar +and awkward, they hide under their ungraceful petticoats the instincts of +man, and masculinity is displayed up to their corsage. They form the +fantastical cohort of learned women, of the disciples of Stuart Mill and +rivals of Miss Taylor, hybrid natures which may possess a heart of gold and +a manly soul, but are incapable of being the joy of the hearth. + +Others are women to the tips of their rosy nails, to the root of their +abundant hair; women above all by their faults, that is to say their +weaknesses, and this weakness is one of their attractions. Impressionable +and easily led, they become, according to the surroundings which hold them +and the destiny which urges them, heroines or saints, courtesans or nuns, +but invariably martyrs of that blind despot, their heart. + +They are Magdalene or St. Theresa, Madame de Guyon or Heloise, the nun in +love with Jesus or the light girl in love with the passer-by. + +In a second the priest had understood this sweet nature, or rather he had +felt it, and his quivering nostrils inhaled the keen perfume of pleasure, +while his look was lost in ecstasy. It was but a flash, but if beneath the +watchful eye of the Captain it appeared impossible, the young girl could +read the dumb language which every woman understands. + +She came forward, blushing. + +--This is my daughter, said the Captain. + +--I believe, said the Cure, with a bow, that I have had the pleasure of +seeing Mademoiselle several times already in our modest church. + +--And you concluded therefore that my daughter was going to increase the +blessed flock. Don't be misled, comrade. + +Suzanne cast a look of reproach upon her father. + +--What! said Marcel, hurt, must not Mademoiselle follow her religion? work +out her salvation? + +--Her salvation? There is a word which always makes me laugh. It reminds me +of my Colonel's wife who, when her husband gave orders for a review and +parade for Sunday, said, "My dear, you want then to deprive the poor +soldiers of the holy Mass, ought they not to work out their salvation?" A +magnificent creature, sir, but too much inclined to the cassock. + +Her husband, however, had nothing to complain of, for one fine morning he +picked up the stars of his epaulets in some sacristy or other. What have +you come for, my child? + +--Nothing, papa. I knew Monsieur le Cure was there and I came in. + +--I was having a little edifying conversation with Monsieur, and you have +interrupted us, but we can talk of something else: You hold the first rank +now, gentlemen, continued the Captain, I must do you that justice; and as +times go, it is better to be the son of a bishop than of a general. I +myself, if I had only had some high influential canon for my father, should +have reached the highest offices. Come, you seem to me to be a good fellow, +and I want to give you a word of advice. If papa is a bishop, make use of +him, and don't stagnate in this village, you will get no good there: I tell +you so on my word of honour! I suppose that with you, promotion is as it is +with us? + +"The cup of humiliation is full," said Marcel to himself. Nevertheless, he +answered, I don't understand exactly what you mean by that. + +--I mean by that that promotion is a lottery from which they begin by +withdrawing all the big numbers to distribute them to Monsieur Cretinard +whose papa is a millionaire, to Monsieur Tartuffe whose papa is a Jesuit, +or to a Marquis de Carabas whose mamma has the good graces of my Lord the +Bishop, and they make the poor devils draw from the rest. It is so in the +army--and with you? + +--Among the clergy, sir, promotion is generally given to merit. + +--I don't believe it; for if it were so, you would be a bishop at least. +Don't blush, it is the general report. + +--Captain.... + +--No false modesty. I hear your virtues praised everywhere. There is a +chorus of praises from every quarter. My friend here was just declaring to +me that all the women are wild about you. + +--Sir ... cried the Cure, blushing up to his ears, and not daring to raise +his eyes to Suzanne, who sat in a corner, convulsively turning over the +leaves of an album. + +--Don't protest, we know that true merit is modest; besides, I was by way +of asking myself, if I should not beg you to complete my daughter's +education. + +--You are making pleasant jokes, Captain, and I ask your pardon for not +being able to rise to the level of these witticisms. I see that my visit +has been unseasonable. It only remains for me to make my excuses and to say +to Mademoiselle, how pained I am to have made her acquaintance under such +unfavourable auspices, but I hope.... + +--Stop that, Monsieur le Cure, interrupted Durand in a curt tone. + +Marcel made a low bow, but as he withdraw, he caught an appealing look from +Suzanne. + + + + +XXI. + + +THE PAST. + + "Look not upon the past with grief, it + will not come back; wisely improve + the present, it is thine; and go onwards + fearlessly and with a strong heart + towards the mysterious future." + + LONGFELLOW (_Hyperion_). + +Marcel returned home exceedingly indignant. Although he had not expected an +over-cordial reception from the old Captain, whose irascible character and +surly ways were known to all, he did not think that he would have carried +so far his disregard of the most elementary propriety. + +"It serves me right," he said to himself, "what business had I there? +Nevertheless, on reflection, I have lost nothing. My reception by this old +dotard has taken away for ever my wish to go back there: and who knows what +might have happened, if I had had free admission to that house, if I had +met a friendly face and a kindly welcome? Oh, fool! I have found all that +in the sweet look of his adorable daughter, that appealing look which +seemed to implore my indulgence and pardon for the malevolent words of that +ill-bred soldier. Come, think no more of it, drive back to the lowest +depths those foolish thoughts which excite the brain. All that he does, God +does well. I was on the brink of the abyss; one step more and I should have +rolled to the bottom. Let me stop then, there is still time. Let me forget, +forget. Forget! better still, I will write and ask to be changed. Could I +forget her if I were to meet again that burning look, which pursues me to +the steps of the altar, and troubles me to the bottom of my soul?" + +He wrote in fact and began his letter ten times afresh. What could he say? +What reason could he bring? He had filled this cure for scarcely six +months. What pretext could he raise before his superiors? And how would any +complaint from him be received at the Palace? + +Night came. He felt himself oppressed by a vague and indefinable grief. + +Then little by little the present vanished. His infancy rose up before him. +He saw it again as in a glass, smiling, simple, pure; and he forgot himself +in these sweet memories. + +In proportion as we advance in life, we are attached to the things of the +past. It clothes itself then with those brilliant colours with which we +love to invest what we have lost. Youthful years, bright with poetry and +sunlight, come and gild the gloomy and prosaic nooks of ripened age, the +twilight of the eternal night. + +The young man full of illusions and dreams pursues his road without casting +a look backwards. What matters, indeed, the past to him? He expects nothing +but from the future. Proud at having escaped from infancy, at arriving at +the age of man, at flying on his wings, he pities the years when he was +small and weak, ignorant and credulous. + +But when he has met with obstacles and ruts on that road which appeared to +him so wide and so fair, when he has torn his heart with the first briars +of life, when his thought has ripened beneath the sun of passions, and his +soul, stripped of its illusions, feels all chilly and bare amidst the ice +of reality, then he returns to the joys of infancy, he warms himself again +with the memory of his mother, and sits once again in the pleasant corner +of the family fire-side, on the little stool of his childhood. + +Marcel saw himself again at the little seminary of Pont-a-Mousson, on the +benches, all blackened with ink, of the school-room, studying with ardour +the _Epitome_ or the _De Viris_ beneath the paternal eye of Father Martin, +a father aged 24, a deacon with curly hair, as timid as a maid. Then he ran +in the long corridors, or in the great square court lined with galleries +shaded by the chapel. He remembered his joy when he had slipped on some +excuse into the Seniors' garden: "Ah! there is little Marcel, come here, +you brat!" And everyone wished to give him a caress. + +Then, the first time when he was called to the honour of serving the Mass. +He had thought of it a week beforehand, full of emotion and fear. At length +the day has come. He is dressed in the white surplice, wearing on his head +the red cap. He would have wished the whole world to see him; but the +pupils alone were present, and that diminished his happiness. + +Father Barbelin, the censor, a severe but just man, officiated. He trembled +in every limb, as he responded the sacramental verses to this formidable +functionary. That was a great business; his little comrades called him in a +whisper from behind: Marcel! Marcel! and laughed and nudged each other, +while the elder ones, their nose in their book, with sanctimonious face and +ecstatic look were wrapt in God. + +Then his success, his entrance to the great seminary at Nancy, his first +sermon in the chapel. His voice trembled at the commencement, but little by +little, growing stronger, taking courage, inspired by the sacred text, he +forgot everything, and the Superior, old Father Richard, who watched him +with his little bright cunning eyes, and the unmoved professors, and his +watchful fellow-students, jeering and scoffing at first, then at last +astonished and jealous. "There is the stuff of an orator in him," the +Professor of Sacred Eloquence had said, "we must push this lad forward." +"He is full of talent and virtue," the Superior had replied, "he will get +on. He is our chosen vessel." And the same day he had dined at the master's +table, and they had spoken of him to Monseigneur. He had in fact been +pushed forward ... and with his talents, his learning, his virtues and his +eloquence, he had come to teaching the catechism to the little peasants of +Althausen! + +Althausen! That was the blow of the hammer which recalled him to reality. +He found himself again the poor village Cure, and he began to laugh. + +"Poor fool!" he cried, "I shall never be but a common imbecile! Is not my +way all traced out? I must continue my career, and let myself go with the +current of life. Is it then so hard? Why delude myself with phantoms? I +will try to slay the muttering passions, to drive away the fits of ambition +which rise to my brain; and perhaps by dint of subduing all that is +rebellious in me, I shall come to follow piously the line marked out by my +superiors. I will watch patiently amidst my flock, by the corner of my +fire, among the Fathers and my weariness. + +"Weariness, that cold demon with the gloomy eye, but I will remain chaste +... and after a life filled with little nothingnesses and little works I +shall pass away in peace in the bosom of the Lord. And there is my life. +Nothing else to choose. No turning aside to the right or to the left. I +must remain a martyr, a martyr to my duty, or an apostate, and infamous +renegade. The triumph or the shame!" + +And, as he just uttered these words with bitterness, a soft voice answered +like an echo: + +--The shame? + +The Cure started and raised his head. His lamp was out, and the dying +embers on the hearth cast only a feeble light into the room. + +He distinguished, however, a few steps from him the outline of a woman's +form. + +--Who is there? he cried with a sort of terror. + +The shadowy outline stood forth more clearly. + +He recognized his servant. + +--Why the shame? she said. + + + + +XXII. + + +THE SERVANT. + + "I have already said that dame + Jacinthe although little superannuated, + had still kept her bloom. It is true that + she spared nothing to preserve it: + besides taking a clyster every day, she + swallowed some excellent jelly during + the day and on going to bed." + + LE SAGE (_Gil-Blas_). + +She looked at him fixedly with burning, feverish eyes. + +She was a lusty lass, already arrived at the age of discretion, as Le Sage +says, that is to say, she had passed her fortieth year, the canonical +period for the servants of Cures, but was fair and fresh still, in spite of +some wrinkles and her hair growing gray. She possessed that modest and +appetizing plumpness, somewhat rare among mature virgins, the sign of a +quiet conscience, a good digestion and feelings satisfied. + +What pious souls call holiness exuded from every pore: cast-down eyes, +chaste deportment, gentle movements. She did not walk, she glided over the +ground as if she already felt the wings of seraphim hanging on her +shoulders; she did not speak, she murmured unctuous words with a soft, low, +mysterious voice like a prayer. When she said: "Would Monsieur le Cure he +pleased to come to breakfast? Perhaps Monsieur le Cure could eat a boiled +egg?" or "Ah! the sermon which Monsieur le Cure has been pleased to give +has gone to my heart!" it was in the same tone as she would say: "_Lamb of +God which takest away the sins of the world_...." and one was tempted to +answer: _Kyrie eleison_. + +And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long, +silent look. + +She said so well: "my duty," "I wish to do my duty," that one felt filled +with admiration for this holy maid. + +Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently +penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold. + +Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by +her austere deportment and her substantial charms. More than one buxom +village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the +gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon +this delicate subject with her. + +But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body +and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune +of her pastor. + +She approached the hearth with slow steps, blew on the embers, relighted +the lamp, and placing it so as to throw the light on her master's face, she +said to him anxiously: + +--You are in pain, are you not? + +--You were there then? said the Cure dissatisfied. + +--Yes, she answered him with the affectionate tone of a mother, I was +there, pardon me; I was going to bed, and I heard you talking aloud, there +was no light; I feared you were ill, and I ventured to come in. + +--And you have heard? + +--I have heard that you were not happy, that is all. + +--No one is happy in this world, Veronica. + +--Yes, we are so only in the other, I know that. And yet happiness is so +easy. + +The Cure put his head between his hands without replying. + +The servant went on: + +--Can it be that I, your servant, a poor ignorant village girl, should say +that to you, Monsieur le Cure? + +--What, Veronica? + +--But what matters our condition on earth? We are in a state of transition. +Holy Mary, she too, was a poor servant and now she is far above a queen. + +--Without doubt, said the Cure. + +--We must then despise nobody. Under the most humble appearance, God often +conceals his most faithful servants. + +--Most certainly. But what are you driving at? + +--At this, Monsieur le Cure; that we must be good and indulgent to +everybody: that the great sometimes have need of the little, and that when +we are able to render a service to our neighbour we must do it without +hesitation. + +--It is Jesus who commands it, Veronica. But explain yourself, I pray. + +--Well! yes, I will speak, she replied, for I am pained to see you thus, +and the more so as it is certainly allowed me to tell you so, me who am +destined, please God, to live with you. I have only known you since you +were our Cure, but you have been so good to me that I love you like ... a +sister. I was all alone here, like a poor forsaken creature, after the +death of my old master, the Abbe Fortin--may God keep his soul,--and you +consented to keep me when taking the parsonage. It is good of you, for you +might have brought with you your former servant, or again some niece, as +many do. + +--I have no niece, Veronica. + +--A niece, or a sister, or a relation. After all you have kept me, although +you could have found a better than myself. Oh, very easily, I know ... and +I thank you from the bottom of my heart, yes, from the bottom of my heart. +But could you have found one more devoted, more discreet? I believe not; as +much, perhaps; but more, I believe not. Ah! I tell you here, Monsieur le +Cure, you can do everything you want, nobody shall ever know anything of +it. + +The Cure looked at his servant with amazement. + +--What do you mean by that, Veronica? he asked in a stern voice. + +--Oh! nothing, I mean nothing. I mean that you can have entire confidence +in your poor servant. + +--I thank you, Veronica, but I don't know what you mean. + +--I explain myself badly doubtless, Monsieur le Cure. Ah! pardon me, I was +forgetting ... here, there is a letter which I have just found and which +has been slipped under the door at night. + +He looked at the address. It was an elegant and bold hand, the hand of a +woman. + + + + +XXIII. + + +THE LETTER + + "The beauty then, to end this war, + Offers but a single way which we can hardly guess." + + R. IMBERT (_Nouvelles_). + +A sweet perfume was exhaled from it. + +He opened it with a trembling hand. + +That strange intuition of the heart which is named presentiment, told him +that it came from Suzanne. + +Pale with emotion he read: + + +"MONSIEUR L'ABBE, + +"I do not wish the day to pass without coming to ask your pardon for my +father's conduct towards you, and assure you that he does not think a +single one of his wicked words. + +"Do not keep, I pray, an evil memory of me, and believe that I should he +grieved if a single doubt were to remain in your mind as to the sympathy +and respect which you inspire in + +"Suzanne Durand. + +"P.S. I have much need of your counsels." + + +Marcel, full of a delicious trouble, read and re-read this letter. He did +not take careful note of his sensations, but he felt an ineffable joy +overflow his heart, and at the same time a vague anxiety. + +His servant's voice recalled Him to himself. + +--Doubtless it is a sick person who asks for religious aid, she said. + +Was there a slight irony in that question? + +The priest thought he saw it. He called out sharply: + +--You are still there, Veronica? Who has called you? I don't want you any +longer. + +--Pardon me, Monsieuur le Cure, she answered humbly and softly, I was +waiting.... I thought that perhaps you were going out _to visit this sick +person_ and that then I could be useful to you in some way. + +--You cannot be useful to me in any way, Veronica, But truly you astonish +me. What have you then to say to me? Come, explain yourself at once. + +--No, Monsieur le Cure, there is midnight striking. It is time to repose, I +wish you good-night, sir. + +--Good-night, Veronica. + +"What a strange woman," said Marcel to himself, "what can she want with me. +One would say that she had a secret to confide to me and that she does not +dare.... Could she have any suspicion? No, it is impossible. How could she +know what I want to hide from myself. She has caught two or three words +perhaps; but what could she understand, and what have I let drop to +compromise me? She has evidently heard others, for she was here before me, +and these old walls have been witnesses, I am sure, of many groanings of +the soul.... Let us be cautious, nevertheless, and repress within ourselves +the thoughts which would come forth. A wise precept. It was a precept of my +master of rhetoric. Yes, let us be cautious; in spite of this woman's +appearance of devotion, who would trust to such marks of affection? The +servant's enemy is his master; and I clearly see that independently of my +dignity, I must not make the least false step; what torments I should +reserve to myself for the future. + +"And this letter of Suzanne, the adorable and lovely Suzanne! What an +emotion suddenly seized me at the sight of that unknown handwriting, which +I had a presentiment was here. Oh! what a strange mystery is man's heart. +I, a priest, with a nature said to be energetic and strong. I trembled and +was affected like a child, because it has pleased a little school-girl to +write me a couple of lines in order to excuse her father's rudeness. What +is more natural than such conduct? Is it not the act of a well-bred girl? +And yet already my foolish brain is beating the country and travelling into +the land of fancies ... of abominable fancies. + +"She asks me for counsel; doubtless I will give it her. Is it not my duty +and business as priest? but where, but when can I see her?..." + +And he went very thoughtfully to bed, with his head full of dreams. + + + + +XXIV. + + +THE FIRST MEETING. + + "Ah! let him, my child, + Ah! let him proceed. + When I was a Curate + I did much the same." + + ANONYMOUS (_Le chant du Cure_). + +The first person he saw the next day at morning Mass was Suzanne Durand. +She had not yet come to these low Masses, which are affected usually by the +devout, because the church is then more empty, and they feel themselves +more alone with God or with the priest; therefore the Cure was deeply +affected by this pious eagerness. + +It is doubtful whether, on that day, his prayers reached the throne of the +Eternal, for he brought but little fervour to the holy sacrifice. + +A good woman who had given twenty sous to buy a place in the firmament for +her defunct spouse, was quite scandalized to remark that the Cure was +eating in a heedless manner the wafer which, for nearly 2000 years, serves +as a lodging for Christ. + +His words rose with the incense to the arches of the old church, but his +soul remained below, fluttering round that fair young girl, as if to +envelop her with embraces. + +When he had dismissed the faithful with the sacramental words _Ite missa +est_, he felt a momentary confusion and he felt his knees tremble. He was +afraid of himself, for he saw the Captain's daughter rise from her seat and +slowly make her way to the confessional. + +What! It was perfectly true then, she had asked for his counsel, and while +he, the priest, was hesitating and seeking where he could converse with her +without exposing himself to the brutal invective of the father or the +senseless scandals of the village, this simple girl had found, without any +aid from him, the safest spot, the sanctuary of which he had inwardly +dreamed. + +He was then about to listen all alone to the divine accents of that +charming mouth; to see her kneeling before him, her face wreathed with a +modest blush,--before him who had wished to kiss her foot-prints. + +Oh, God supreme! who could depict his transports, his emotion, the thrill +which ran through all his frame. She, she so near to him, so near that her +sweet breath caresses his face like a breeze come from heaven. + +He felt wild with joy. But she also is affected, she also trembles, and +beneath her palpitating breast, he seems to hear the beatings of her heart. +What passed? What avowal did this maiden of ardent feeling make to this +hot-passioned man? There is one of those mysteries which remain for ever +buried between priest and woman, between penitent and confessor. What they +said to one another no one knows, but from that confessional into which he +entered pensive, wavering, it is true, but still contending, he went out +with his face radiant, and his heart intoxicated with love. + + + + +XXV. + + +LOVE. + + "All loves around us: all around is heard, + Hard by the warbler's quivering kiss, + That voiceless song of flowers, which the lark, + by love distracted, to his mate translates." + + EMILE DARIO (_Sonnets_). + +He returned to the parsonage with a light step, hearing the birds singing +in the lime-trees the same joyous song which his own heart was singing. He +breakfasted with a good appetite, smiled at his servant, and gave pleasant +answers to her questions. + +It seemed to him that a new world was opening. New ideas sprang up in him, +and he discovered sensations till then unknown. + +He felt better; life smiled upon him, and all the things of life. + +The past had altogether vanished; the present was radiant, the future was +laden with rosy dreams. + +That same morning he had risen as usual, with no settled wish, aimless and +hopeless. Till then, he had acted like a machine, hardly knowing whither he +went, following his road by chance, walking onwards in the line which had +been traced out for him, with no relish, full of weariness and sadness. + +What was he expecting then? Nothing. He was clinging to the fragments of +his beliefs, he remained hanging there, not daring to stir, to think, or to +turn, for fear of rolling to the bottom of some unknown abyss. But suddenly +everything is changed, everything is transformed, everything takes another +aspect. The whole world is illumined. Religion, dogma, mysteries, altar, +priest, what is all that? God even. He thinks no more of him. + +A woman's look has obliterated all. + +A woman's voice has murmured in his ear and he perceives that he is young, +that he is strong, that he has a heart, and that all cries to him at once: +Love! Love! + +Oh! what a wonderful thing love is! What frenzy, what delirium, what +madness! Sublime madness, ravishing delirium, delicious frenzy. + +First and last mystery of nature, first and last voice of the universe. + +It is thou, oh God, who givest life to all, who dost animate all, who art +the principle of all. Thou art Alpha and Omega; thou art the potent arm +which has caused the worlds to rise, which has re-united the scattered +forces of matter, which has made order out of chaos. + +And there are found men, creatures, works of love like everything which +moves, breathes, buds, shoots forth, there are found creatures who have +dared to say: Love is evil. + +They have sworn to renounce love. They have spat in thy face, fruitful, +creative Divinity, they have denied thee on their impure altars. + +But it is their God who is evil, as Proudhon said, that senseless and +ludicrous God who delights in grotesque saturnalia, in ridiculous prayers, +in shameful mummeries, in vows contrary to nature. + +Marcel felt himself transformed. + +A new feeling was born in him and plunged him into ineffable delight. + +Nevertheless, as I have said, he experienced a vague fear; he had had a +glimpse of the unknown, and he was one of those delicate and timid souls +with their thoughts in some way turned upon themselves, which are terrified +at the unknown. + +Seized with a restless apprehension and with a mysterious trouble, he felt +the hour coming which was about to change his life. + + + + +XXVI. + + +OF YOUNG GIRLS IN GENERAL. + + "You tell me, Madame, that this description + is neither in the taste of Ovid + nor that of Quinault. I agree, my + dear, but I am not in a humour to + say soft things." + + VOLTAIRE (_Dict. Phil._). + +The great fault, in my opinion, both of the writer and of the poet, is to +idealize woman too much, and especially the young girl. + +On the stage just as in the novel, the heroines are placed on a sort of +pedestal where they receive haughtily the incense and homage of poor +mankind. + +They are perfect beings, of superior essence, gifted with all the beauties +and all the virtues, whose white robes of innocence never receive, amidst +all the impurities, of our social state, the slightest splash. + +Why then raise thus upon a pedestal of Parian marble these statues of clay? +Why place reverentially beneath a tabernacle of gold these pasteboard +divinities? + +Good Heavens! women are women, that is to say: the females of man, nothing +more. They are above all what men make them, and as we are generally +vicious and spoilt, since from the most tender age we take care to defile +ourselves in the street, in the workshop or on the school-benches; as the +atmosphere we breathe is corrupt, we have no claim to believe that our +wives, our sisters and our daughters can remain unspotted by our touch, and +that this same atmosphere which they breathe, will purify itself in passing +through their chaste nostrils. + +If then the woman is not worse than we, as some assert, assuredly she is no +better. + +And how could they be better, who are our pupils, and when the share we +have given them in society is so slight and so strangely ordered that, if +they cannot by means of supreme efforts expand and grow in it morally and +intellectually, every latitude is allowed them on the other hand to corrupt +themselves in it beyond measure, and to fall lower than the man into the +lowest depths. + +"Fools!" said Machiavelli, "you sow hemlock and pretend you see ears of +corn growing ripe." + +Why then idealize and make a divinity of this creature, when we know that +the education she ordinarily receives, takes away from her, little by +little, all which remains attractive, divine and ideal! + +Certainly a chaste and simple young girl, fair and fresh as a spring +morning, sweet as the perfume of the violet, and whose mind and body alike +are as pure as the petals of a half-opened lily, is the most heavenly and +the most adorable thing in the world. + +But, outside the pages of your novel, how many of them have you met in the +world? + +I have often heard the modest virtues of the middle classes extolled, and +it is from such surroundings that the novelist of to-day most frequently +draws his feminine ideal. It is among the middle classes indeed that all +the qualifications seem to unite at first. It is the intermediate +condition, the most happy of all, as the excellent Monsieur Daru said in +1820, since it is only disinherited of the highest favours of fortune, and +the social and intellectual advantages of it are accessible to a reasonable +ambition. + +But they evidently benefit very little by their advantages, for I, and you +also, have always found them coquettish, ignorant, frivolous and vain, +bringing up their children very badly, but in revenge, generally deceiving +their husbands very well. + +"In middle-class households, bickering; among fashionable people, adultery. +In fashionable middle-class households, either one or the other and +sometimes both."[1] + +And how could it be otherwise? + +The daughters of devout and consequently narrow-minded and ignorant +mothers, of sceptical and libertine fathers, they spend five or six years +at school, where they consummate the loss of what may have escaped the +baneful example of their family. + +They have taken from their mother foolish vanity, ridiculous prejudices, +the art of lying; from their father scepticism and an elastic conscience; +perhaps they will preserve their virtue and modesty? The pernicious +contacts of the school soon carry them away. + +They still have a blush on their face, a down-cast eye, a timid bearing. +But their affected timidity is the token of their knowledge of _good and +evil_; like Eve, if they have not yet tasted of the forbidden fruit, they +burn to taste it, for their thought is sullied, their imagination is +vagrant and at the bottom of their soul there is a germ of corruption. + +They leave the boarding-school _virgins_, but chaste, never. + +Let us then represent the world as it la, women such as they are, and not +such as they ought to be; let us call things by their names, and when there +is moral deformity somewhere, let us show that deformity. + +When we make wonders of the heroines of a novel, possessing the charms of +the _three Graces_ and the virtues of the seven sages of Greece, who when +they fall, fall in spite of themselves, impelled by a fatal concurrence of +circumstances, but with so much candour and innocence, that we cannot do +otherwise than pardon their fall and even fail to comprehend that they have +fallen, we are completely amazed when we descend from this imaginary world +to enter the world of reality. + +The idealization of woman has therefore, besides other faults, that of +causing as to take a dislike to our ordinary companions. How, indeed, after +being present at the devotion of Sophonisba, at the suicide of the chaste +Lucretia, at the display of the virtues of Mademoiselle Agnes, and at that +of the form of Venus at the bath, can we contemplate with ravished eye the +wife no less plain than lawful, who is sitting with sullen air at our +fire-side, who has no other care than that of her person, no other moral +capital than a round enough sum of prejudices and follies, and whose +charms, finally, resemble more those of a Hottentot Venus than those of +Venus Aphrodite. + +The picture of virtues is an excellent thing, but still it is necessary +that these virtues should exist. We must not enunciate an idea simply +because it is moral, but because it is true. _Amicus Plato, sed magis amica +veritas_. + +That is why I shall not depict the little person, whom I am going to make +better known to you, as a model of virtue. She is an inquisitive girl, she +is vehement, she has been brought up in an atmosphere where depravity is +more generally inhaled than holiness. I should then be badly advised in +presenting you with an angel of candour and wisdom. + +An angel! She is at that age indeed, at which foolish men call women +angels. + + "Before they are wed, they are angels so gentle, + But quickly they change to vulgarian scolds, + She-demons who truly make hell of their homes." + +[Footnote 1: H. Taine (Notes sur Paris).] + + + + +XXVII. + + +OF SUZANNE IN PARTICULAR. + + "An exalted, romantic imagination of + vivid dreams, peopled with sumptuous + hotels, with smart equipages, fetes, + balls, rubies, gold and azure. This is + what I have most surely gathered at + this school and is called: a brilliant + education." + + V. SARDOU (_Maison Neuve_). + +But she was a ravishing demon, this child, and more than one saint might +have damned himself for her black eyes, those deep limpid eyes which let +one read to her soul. And there one paused perfectly fascinated, for this +fresh resplendent soul displayed in large characters the radiant word, +Love. + +Have you never read this word in a maiden's two eyes? Seek in your memory +and seek the fairest, and you will have the delightful portrait of Suzanne. + +I am unable to say, however, that she was a perfect girl. What girl is +perfect here below? She had left school, and it would have been a miracle +if she were, and we know that away from Lourdes, God works no more +miracles. + +She had even many faults: those of her age doubled by those which education +gives to girls. Many a time, when opening the holy Bible, the only book +capable of cheering me in the hours of sadness, I have come across these +words of Ezekiel, + +"They are proud, full of appetites, abounding in idleness." + +It is of the daughters of Sodom that the holy prophet is complaining! What +would he say to-day to _the young ladies_ of our modern Sodoms? + +But if the little Suzanne had all the darling faults of forward flowers +forced in the warm soil of our enervating education, and our decayed +civilization, she was better than many plainer ones, and I do not think +that the sum total of her errors could weigh heavy on her conscience. +Perhaps she was culpable in thought; but if the imagination was sick, the +heart was good and sound. She had not sinned, but she said to herself, that +sinning would be sweet! + +Well! there is no great crime there. Does not every woman love instinctive +pleasure? Among them there are few stoics. They who are so, are so by +compulsion, and so they cannot make a virtue of it. Suzanne loved pleasure +then, and she loved it the more because she only knew it by hear-say. + +The education of Saint-Denis had contributed no little to develop her +natural disposition. + +Everything has been said about the _House of the Legion of Honour_, about +its curious system of education with regard to young girls, nearly all of +them poor, and brought up as if, when they left school, they would find an +income of L2,000 a year. + +It is known that in this establishment intended for the daughters of +officers _with no fortune_, everything is taught except that which is most +necessary for a woman to know. They leave having a barren, superficial +education, principally composed of words, and in which consequently, to the +exclusion of the intelligence and the heart, the memory plays the principal +part; none of the childish rules of ceremonial are spared them, none of the +frivolous accomplishments indispensable for access to a world which, for +the greater part, they will never be invited to see; and they return to +their father's humble roof, dreaming of balls, fetes, equipages, hotels, +drawing-rooms, the only surroundings in which they could profitably display +the useless accomplishments with which they have been endowed, but also +perfectly incapable of darning their stockings or of boiling an egg. + +And so they soon blush at their father's obscure condition and evince a +mortal disgust of the modest joys of the poor fire-side. + +"Heavens! how little it all is!" Such was the first word which escaped her +when she returned to her father's house. + +She had grown, and everything she saw on her return had shrank; her father +like the rest, perhaps more than the rest. She loved him all the same, but +she could not help finding him common. + +She, the dainty young lady, brought up with the daughters of +country-gentlemen and generals, she said to herself that she was only the +daughter of an obscure captain, and it humiliated her. Ah! if her haughty +friends with whom she had exchanged confidences and dreams, had seen her +coming down the sumptuous stairs of her castles in Spain to go and live in +a poor village, while her father perspired over his cabbage-planting. + +Her dreams! You know them well, and have also told them in quiet at the age +when you know how to form them: + +At the age when you cease to be called a little girl, when the dress-maker +has just lengthened your dress, when your father's friends are no longer +familiar, but say with a smile: _Mademoiselle_. + +At the age, when you feel the attraction of the unknown redouble its power, +when for the first time you feel a conscious blush at the look of a man. + +At the age when the likeness of the young cousin you saw yesterday, appears +all at once on the page of your history or grammar, and strange to say, +pursues you at your games; when the noisy games of your companions weary +you, and you betake yourself to solitude in order to screen your thoughts. + +And solitude, a bad adviser, takes possession of your thoughts, isolates +them from the rest of the real world, in order to immerse them in imaginary +worlds, and then agitates, reflects, whirls, polishes all that marvellous +enchanted universe in which the daughters of Eve wander with each wild +license, whom the base-born sons of Adam approach only a single step. + +But when that step is taken, the enchanted world vanishes. The scaffolding +cracks and falls down. Palaces, geail, heroes and bounteous fairies +disappear pell-mell into the lowest depth. The old farce of humanity, the +comedy of love is played out. + +Ah! how ugly it all is then! Under the smoky lamp of reality you vaguely +distinguish the battered grotesque shapes, rising in the ruins. + +Suzanne therefore, like all her young friends, like you, Mademoiselle, and +also like you formerly, Madame, had commenced her little romance, had +sketched her little plot. She had loved, oh truly loved, with a love +necessarily confined to the platonic state, the handsome young men with +tasty cravats, whom she had seen on days when she walked out. What +delightful chapters were sketched upon their brown or fair heads! Oh! when +would she be free? When would she cease to have the ever-open eye of an +inquisitive under-mistress upon her slightest gesture? + +And then the day of liberty had come, and under the breath of that liberty, +so eagerly and impatiently expected, the chapters she had begun were +blotted out, and so was the handsome head of a cherub or an Amadis in a +sublieutenant's cap or in a chimney-pot. + +Fallen from these enervating heights of fictitious passions and +hair-dressers' scents into the prosaic but generous and brave arms of +paternal lore, on the breast of true and mighty nature, she had forgotten +for a moment her dreams. + +She lavished on her father all the treasures of affection which her heart +contained, and treated him with all manner of solicitude and caresses; and +the old soldier before this youthful future which shone before him, himself +forgot his dreams of the past. + + + + +XXVIII. + + +THE SHADOW. + + "Troubled by a vague emotion, I said + to myself, I wanted to be loved, and + I looked around me; I saw no one + who inspired me with love, no one + who appeared to me capable of feeling it." + + BENJAMIN CONSTANT (_Adolphe_). + +But what is the liberty that a well-behaved girl can enjoy? She had run +like a wild thing in the meadows, letting her hair fly in the wind, and +elated by the kisses of the breeze. She had relished the long mornings of +idleness in bed, recollecting, in order to double her enjoyment, that at +that very moment the friends she had left at school, were turning pale +beneath the smoky lamps of the school-room; and in the evening she read the +delightful novels of Droz by her lamp, and thought with pleasure that her +same friends had been in bed for a long while. Then she closed her book, +and reflected again and said with a yawn: "They are asleep, poor little +things, and I am awake, I am free to be awake." + +And she wrote long letters to them in which she told them, how happy she +was, assuming a charming air of superiority, treating them as children who +knew nothing yet of life. But she thought that she knew nothing more of it +herself, and yearned to be instructed. + +She felt that there was something wanting, and that her father's affection +was not enough to fill her heart. + +She had looked well about her, but she had found only what was commonplace. +No more young clerks with curled hair, who darted inflammatory looks at the +women from behind the shop-windows, no Saint-Cyrion with delicate +moustache, no doctors of twenty-five or poets of eighteen. Besides her +father and the notabilities of the village, middle-aged dignitaries, +nothing but peasants only. + +She held the belief which all girls hold; a nice little belief very +convenient and very simple: the sweet Jesus, the Paschal Lamb, and the +Immaculate Conception. Around this trio gravitated all the rest, but +graceful and light as the mists which float at sun-rise. + +Therefore the Captain had not thought it his duty to disappoint his +daughter, when she said to him one Sunday morning, "My darling papa, I am +going to Mass." He let her go, grumbling; and she noticed Marcel. + +The fine figure of the priest struck her; she was touched by the sound of +his voice, and while she fixed her gaze upon him, she encountered his, and +their eyes fell. + +In the days when she took her walks at Saint-Denis, and saw for the first +time that she was admired by some handsome young men, she had not +experienced a more delicious emotion. + +She was astonished and almost ashamed at it, and nevertheless she returned +for Vespers on purpose to see the Cure. She soon gained the certainty that +she had attracted his attention, and she was flattered at it. What! she, a +little school-girl, was she distracting from his prayers, at the very foot +of the altar, a minister of the altar? She felt herself rise in importance. +But her natural modesty made her reflect directly: "Has he looked at me +because I am a stranger, or because I am pretty?" + +She was almost afraid that it was not this latter reason; Marcel's eyes +reassured her. + +Nevertheless, the first impulse of self-love satisfied, what did it concern +her? How did this priest's admiration affect her? Is a priest a man? It +must be no more thought of. But she could not prevent herself from thinking +of him, being pleased at his finding her pretty. Others, doubtless, had +found her pretty before he did; perhaps had told her so in a whisper, but +was that the same thing? + +The silent admiration of this grave personage, clothed in a sacred +character, raised her all at once in her own eyes more than a thousand warm +glances or timid declarations from insignificant and common-place youths. +Besides, he was young, he was handsome, and his position, his studies +placed him far above the ignorant and common people, whom she elbowed since +her return. + +At night, the pale fine countenance of the Cure of Althausen crossed her +dreams several times; she was not disturbed at it, but she said to herself +that she would like to have a closer acquaintance with this shepherd of +men, who had made so deep an impression on her. + +She was affected by his grave voice, soft and sad, more than by his look, +and, with a school-girl's simplicity, she asked herself, if a heart could +not beat beneath that black robe. + +The visit of Marcel filled her with a strange trouble, and she hesitated a +long time before showing herself to him. Then the bitter raillery of her +father tortured her heart and wounded her in her delicate maidenly +sentiments. She suffered more than he from the insults which he received, +and she vowed to herself to have them forgiven. + + + + +XXIX. + + +OTHER MEETINGS. + + "There was no seduction on her part + or on mine: love simply came, and I + was her lover before I had even thought + that I could become so." + + MAXIME DU CAMP (_Memoires d'un suicide_). + +They saw one another again very soon: sometimes on the road which leads to +the little chapel of Saint Anne, sometimes behind the village gardens, +other times on the high-road lined with poplars. From the furthest point at +which he caught sight of her dress or her large straw-hat, trimmed with red +ribbon, he trembled and became pale. + +The first time he quickened his pace as he passed her, as though he were +afraid of being retained by a force stronger than his own will, or perhaps +from fear of ridicule, and he bowed to her as one bows to a queen. + +She returned his bow graciously, and that was all. He had his sum of +happiness for the rest of the day. + +The second time they met, they had both thought so much of one another that +they accosted one another like old acquaintances. The heart of each had +broken the ice and made all the advances before they had taken the first +steps. The young girl had read in the priest's eyes the wish to accost her, +and he saw that he would be welcome. + +Was anything more necessary? Therefore, mutually content, when they +separated, they each had the desire to see the other again. + +It was very often then that they saw one another; but especially at the +morning Masses; then, when he turned towards the nave, and raising his look +towards the gallery encountered hers, he asked no other joy from heaven. + + + + +XXX. + + +SERAPHIC LOVE. + + "How many times does it not occur + to me to blush at my tastes? to hide + them from myself? to feign with myself + that I have them not? to find some + covering for them beneath which I + conceal them, in order to play a part + a little less foolish in my own conscience?" + + JULES SIMON (_Le Devoir_). + +But one day the Cure awoke full of dismay. The first intoxication had +slightly dissipated, he had taken time to look closely within himself, and +when he sought to analyze in cool blood this new and ravishing sensation, +he saw the abyss beneath his feet. + +"What! he said to himself, whither am I going? What am I doing? I, a +priest, a minister of the altar, I should be at that point a slave of sin; +I shall continue to cast myself from darkness to darkness until the +definite and final fall. Oh! Lord, stop me, come to my aid; suffer not this +shame and this crime." + +But he altered his mind. When the devil has succeeded in bringing a soul to +sin, there is no artifice he does not use to blind him beforehand, and to +turn away his thought from everything capable of making him see the unhappy +state in which he is. That is what the Church teaches. + +Soon he viewed this passion under a new aspect, and he asked himself why he +had not the right to love. Had not all the saints loved? Had not St. Jerome +loved St. Paula? Had not Francis de Sales loved Madame de Chantal? Had not +Fenelon loved Madame Guyon? St. Theresa, her spiritual director, and +Venillot, his cook? + +Were there not two kinds of love? The ethereal, ideal, chaste, seraphic +love, the love of the creature grateful for the perfect work of the +creator; platonic love, free from all impurity, allowed to the virtuous +confessor for his virtuous penitent, the love of the wise man in fact; +or--the other. Then with that art of the rhetorician which sacred +scholasticism teaches to every Levite, he said to himself, "Yes, I can +love, for it is the spotless love of the angels." + +But his conscience protested and cried to him: "It is the other!" + + + + +XXXI. + + +THE VIRGIN. + + "In whatever place I was, whatever + occupation I imposed on myself, I + could not think of women, the sight + of a woman made me tremble. How + many times have I risen at night, + bathed in sweat, to fasten my mouth + on our ramparts, feeling myself ready + to suffocate." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siecle_). + +It was the other. He was soon obliged to confess this to himself; for +slumber abandoned his couch. + +In vain in the day-time he wearied his body under the labour which kills +thought. He sought to fly from the seductive image. He did not go out, for +fear of seeing her. He rushed upon every hard and unfruitful labour that he +could find. He rooted up his trees in order to re-plant them elsewhere; dug +useless banks in his garden; changed his library from its place, and +carried one after another his enormous folios to the upper story. He would +have liked to go upon the road, sit at the bottom of some ditch, and take +the stone-breaker's hammer. + +But the thought which he silenced by day, took its revenge by night. How +many times, during the long silent hours, his servant heard him get up all +at once and march with long steps in his room, as if he had to accomplish +some terrible vow. + +It was the devil, whispering low mysterious words in his ear, while his +impetuous desires constrained him with all the power of his vitality. He +walked like a madman from his bed to his window, which he dared not open. +He had often formerly, leant his elbows there during the hours of +sleeplessness, and breathed with delight the keen freshness of the valley. +But now he dared no longer; warm vapours rose up to him and completed the +conflagration of his senses. Nature was re-awakening from the long slumber +of winter, and already setting to work, was accomplishing from every +quarter the mysterious work of love. And within and without he felt its +formidable power growing and enveloping him. + +Nameless thoughts tumultuously invaded his sick brain and ruled there as +despots. They attached themselves to him like an implacable furious old +woman, who attaches herself the more closely to her young lover, the more +she feels he is going to escape her. + +He saw again in continual hallucinations, sometimes the lascivious player +as she had appeared to him near her little white bed, sometimes the fresh +face of the religious school-girl who smiled to him from the height of the +gallery. At other times he saw them both together, and each of them called +him and said to him: Come, come. + +Oh! why all these obstacles, these doors, these walls, these prejudices and +that formidable barrier which he dared not pass, duty. + +It seemed to him that a burning lava was escaping from his heart, running +into his veins and devouring him. His limbs were heavy and bruised; his +head was on fire like his heart, and his thoughts were enveloped in mire. +Often with his eye fixed on space, he contemplated some phantom visible to +himself alone; then big tears rolled slowly on his cheeks and fell one by +one on his bare chest, and he felt that they relieved him. + +He had placed a statue of the Virgin at the foot of his bed: the one which +has a heart in flames and open arms. He looked on it as he went to sleep +and prayed the Mother, eternally chaste, to watch over his dreams. + +But many times in his delirium he saw the Virgin come to life and take the +well-known face of her from whom he sought to flee, and come and find him +in his couch. And he woke with a start full of terror of himself at the +moment when, in his impious sacrilege, he felt the chaste bosom of the +Mother of God quiver beneath his kisses. + +Then he opened his scared eyes and perceived before him the sweet form +which stretched its plaster arms to him in the shadow, and full of agony he +cried: + +"_Mater inviolata, ora pro nobis_!" + +But once he thought he heard a voice which answered: + +"_Christe, audi nos_." + + + + + +XXXII. + + +THE DEATH'S-HEAD. + + "God is my witness that I did then + everything in the world to divert myself + and to heal myself." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siecle_). + +One night he went out by stealth, crossed the market-place, and descended +the hill. He had the look of a man who was hiding himself, and he went back +several times, as if he was afraid of being followed. He reached the +cemetery, took a key from his pocket, cautiously opened the gate and closed +it behind him. At the bottom of the principal path there was a little +chapel which served for an ossuary. In it was a hideous accumulation of the +remains of several generations. The cemetery was becoming too full and it +had been necessary to make room. Here as elsewhere the cry was: "Room for +the young." And it is only justice. What would become of as if all the old +remained? There is overcrowding under ground as there is above. "Keep off! +Keep off!" Therefore their ancestors' bones were in the way, and they had +cast them into this retreat to wait for the common grave. But the common +grave is again a place which must be taken, and the recent gluttonous dead +want everything. "Keep off! Keep off!" Let us not say anything ourselves, +perhaps they will dispute with us the corner of ground which should shelter +our bones! + +Marcel went into the gloomy chapel; he lighted a dark lantern and began to +search among the pile. + +Then he returned to the parsonage like a thief, afraid of being caught, and +shut himself up in his room. + +He had a parcel under his arm; he opened it and, carefully placing its +contents on the table, he sat down in front of it and contemplated it for a +long time. + + + + +XXXIII. + + +FRENZY. + + "Abstinence has its deadly exhaustions." + + BALZAC (_Le Lys dans la Vallee_). + +A few days before, the gravedigger, while digging up the whitened bones of +the ancient dead, had broken up with his pick-axe a mouldering coffin, and +a head rolled to his feet It was of later date, for the lower jaw was still +fastened to it and it had not the calcareous colour of bones buried long +ago. It was the more horrible. + +The gravedigger threw it into his wheel-barrow with its neighbour's +shin-bones, and carried it to the common heap. It was this _thing_ that the +Cure of Althausen had coveted and stolen. + +He had then placed it on his table and contemplated it in silence. The top +of the skull was polished and blunt, the front narrow, the bones small and +apparently not having attained their full development. It was therefore a +youthful head, the head of an adolescent cut down at the moment, when life +completely unfolds itself to hope; while the elliptical shape of the lower +maxillary, the small and similarly-shaped teeth, the slight separation of +the nasal bones, a few long hairs still adhering to the occiput, clearly +indicated its feminine origin. + +"A young girl!" murmured Marcel, "a young girl! beautiful perhaps; loved +without doubt ... and there is what remains. Ah! if he who was pleased to +kiss your lips, could see your dreadful laugh." + +And, after he had meditated a long while, he went to his bed, took the +plaster virgin from its pedestal, and taking in his two hands the skull, he +put it in its place between the serge curtains. + +And when the fever seized him, when he was burning with all the flames +which the fiery _simoom_ of passion breathed on him, and he felt the frenzy +taking possession of his pillow, he turned towards the wall and looked at +this new companion. Sometimes a moon-beam came and lighted up the hideous +skull and played in the gloomy cavities of its sightless eyes. The head +then seemed to become animate and its bare teeth gave an infernal grin. + +This was his remedy for love. + +But we grow used to everything. Custom destroys sensations. Death and its +mysteries, the horrible, and all its threatening shapes soon present +nothing to our eyes but worn-out pictures. He accustomed himself to +contemplate without emotion this lugubrious ruin. As before, the frenzy +seized him and shook him before the skull. It did more. It clothed it again +with flesh. It planted long hairs upon that shining, yellow forehead. It +placed in the hollow orbits large eyes full of love; it hid the wasted +cartillages under quivering nostrils, and upon that horrible jaw it laid +rosy lips and a sweet mouth, like a maiden's first kiss. And it is thus +that it appeared to him in the shadow, wrapped in the curtains of his bed, +like a modest girl who hides herself from sight. + +"Oh! sweet phantom, return to life," he said. "Take again thy body adorned +with its graces and with its charms; come, clothed in thy sixteen years." + +And he stretched his arms towards the enchanting vision, while the +death's-head, with its bare jaw, gave its eternal grin. + +He woke and found himself kneeling near his bed, facing the wreck of +humanity. + +Horror soiled him. His empty room was filled with spectres. He saw +hell-hags with death's-heads sporting and swarming on his bed. At the same +time, little sharp, hasty, shrill knocks shook his window. + +Fall of terror he ran to open it. A gust of wind, mingled with rain and +hail, heat against his face. He was ashamed of his fears and leant his head +out to catch the beneficent shower. His brain cooled and his blood grew +calm. + +He was there for a few minutes, when all at once, under the trees in the +market-place, he thought he distinguished two motionless shadows. He +thought for an instant that his hallucination lasted still, but soon the +shadows drew near. They seemed to walk carefully under the young foliage of +the limes in order to avoid the rain, and in one of them he recognized +distinctly Suzanne. + + + + +XXXIV. + + +THE PROHIBITION. + + "Do you know any means of making + a woman do that which she has decided + that she will not do?" + + ERNEST FEYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +That same day, after supper, the Captain had entered the drawing-room where +Suzanne was playing the _Requiem_ of Mozart. + +--So you are playing Church airs now? he said to her. + +--Don't you like this piece, father? + +--Not at all. + +--Perhaps, said Suzanne smiling, because it is a Mass. + +--My dear child, do you want me to tell you what you are with all your +Masses? + +--What? + +--Where did you go this morning? + +--At what time? + +--At the time when you went out. + +--I only went out to go to Mass. + +--And the day before yesterday? + +--Why this questioning, dearest papa? + +--Ah! dearest papa, dearest papa. There is no dearest papa here, I want to +know the truth. + +--But what truth? I have nothing wrong to hide from you. I went to Mass. Is +that forbidden? + +--To Mass! Good Heavens! To Mass! That is most decidedly making up your +mind to disobey me! + +--But papa, you have not forbidden it to me. + +--Not in so many words, it is true; because I counted on your reason and +good sense. Have I not spoken loudly enough my way of thinking on this +subject? + +--But, papa, your way of thinking is completely contrary to that which I +have been taught. You ought to have said when you sent me to Saint-Denis: +"You are not to teach my daughter any religion." They have taught me +religion, what is more natural than for me to follow it. + +--And what has your religion in common with your Mass? If you want to pray +to God, can you not pray to him at home? + +--Am I not a Catholic before all? + +It was the first time that Suzanne had spoken to her father in this firm +and decided tone. Nothing more was wanted to irritate the irascible +soldier: + +--Ah! I know the hidden and villainous insinuation! he cried, Catholic +before all! It is that indeed. Before being daughter! before being wife! +before being mother! the Church, the priest first; the rest only comes +after. The Mass, the Church! the Church, the Mass! With that they cover +every vileness. Well, do you want me to tell you what I think of women who +frequent churches? They are either lazy, or hypocrites, or idiots, or +finally hussies in love with the Cure. There are no others. In which +category do you want to be placed, my daughter? + +--And all that because I discharge my religious duties! + +--You have spoken to that Cure? I see it. Where have you spoken to him? + +--I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not +given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe. + +--So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in +secret. + +--I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I +was accustomed to do at school. + +--Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal, +after what I have told you concerning all his like! + +--All priests are not alike. + +--Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the +model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know +that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model +of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me +say too much. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from +my daughter? + +--You have every right, father. + +--Well, I forbid you for the future to put your foot inside the church. + +--In truth, father, would not one say that you were talking of some +ill-reputed place? + +--Worse than that. Those who enter a place of ill-repute, know beforehand +where they go and to what they expose themselves, which the little fools +who frequent churches never know. + +Suzanne made no reply and went down into the garden. + +The old governess who bad brought her up and who loved her tenderly, came +to meet her. + +--Your father is after the Cures again. What can these poor people of God +have done to the man? + +They walked a long time round the kitchen-garden, then they sat down under +an arbour of honeysuckle. + +--What time is it, Marianne? the young girl said all at once, fixing her +eyes on the window of her father's room. + +--It is late, my child, it is ten o'clock at least; everybody in the +village has gone to bed. Come, your father has finished his newspaper, +there is no longer any light in his room; he has just blown out his lamp. +Let us go in. + +They were near the little back-gate which led out to the meadows. Suzanne +opened it cautiously: "No, let us go out," she said. + + + + +XXXV. + + +THE SHELTER. + + "Is it a chance? No. And besides; + chance, what is it after all but the + effect of a cause which escapes us?" + + ERCHMAN-CHATRIAN (_Contes fantastiques_). + +As soon as Marcel had recognized Suzanne, he did not take time to reflect, +and say to himself: + +"What is it you are going to do, idiot?" He ran downstairs, stumbling like +a drunken man, and gently opened the door. What did he intend? He did not +know. Was he going to call these women? He did not know. He opened his +door, that was all, and his thought went no further. + +The same morning at church, he had seen Suzanne, and said to himself, "I +will not look at her." He did not look at her. He kept his eyes lowered +when he turned towards the nave, but he could have said how many times +Suzanne lifted hers, if she were joyous or sad, and if she had a red ribbon +or a blue ribbon at her neck. + +Oh! the eternal contradiction of mankind. He had not wanted to look at her +by day, and here he is throwing himself in her path in the middle of the +night. + +The steps approached and his heart beat with violence; he was so agitated +that, at the moment when the two women passed before his door to reach the +lane which led to the bottom of the hill, he could hardly articulate in a +hesitating voice: + +"Mademoiselle Durand." + +They uttered a cry. + +--It is I, he said coming forward. Is it possible? You here at such an hour +and in the rain? + +--I had gone out with my maid, said Suzanne, and the rain has surprised us. + +--Do not go farther. Shelter yourselves under my door. It is an April +shower; it will soon have passed. + +At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne's +hand. Never had he felt such boldness. + +--I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a +refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof. + +Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs +and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the +first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind. + +The Cure shut the door again and, passing near the two women, drawn up +against the wall, he brushed against the young girl's damp dress with his +hand. + +--But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be +wise to remain in this cold passage. Should I dare to ask you to go +upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire? + +His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near +hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne's. He seized it +therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: "Go up, I pray, go up," +he said. + +She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was +his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his +dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a +cheerful flame lighted up the hearth. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +THE HOT WINE. + + "I looked at her; she tried to show + nothing of what she felt in her heart. + She held herself straight, like an + oarsman who feels that the current is + carrying him away, and her nostrils + quivered." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Contes flamands et wallons_). + +Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of +the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while +Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast +around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on +the ground, was drawing up the fire. + +--Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close, +Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don't you find it +so? + +He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this +blazing fire. + +Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one +of the fire-dogs. The priest's eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line, +the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of +her dress. + +--I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at +such an hour. + +--Ought not the priest's house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour? +It is open to the poor man who passes by; it is open sometimes to the +vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter +against the storm? + +--It is true, it is the house of God, said Marianne. The young girl looked +at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no +longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained +standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran +through her frame. + +Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety. + +--Are you in pain? he said. + +She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed +her and answered with a kind of hesitation: + +--No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself +here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of +me? + +--But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here +because Monsieur le Cure has had the goodness to bring us in. Don't you +hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we +are at Monsieur le Cure's. + +--Reassure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because +you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the +good Marianne has just said, in the house of God, and I will say in my +turn, beneath the eye of God. These are very great words about so small a +matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a +cold already. + +He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to +be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant. + +Marianne opposed this with all her power. + +--Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady, +she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica! +what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right. + +--Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is +necessary. + +They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to +disturb Veronica's slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of +dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes. + +--Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne +alone. + +He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of +the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly +remounted the stair-case. + + + + +XXXVI. + + +TETE-A-TETE. + + "'Tis yours to use aright the hour + Which destiny may leave you, + To drain the cup of oldest wine, + And pluck the morning's roses." + + A. BUSQUET (_La poesie des heures_). + +He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to +commit a crime. + +He passed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What! +Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his +own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was +it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he +remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of +seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her +charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing +through her fingers. + +He sprang towards her. + +--Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these +tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to +you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them. + +--You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes. + +--I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things; +he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not +hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend. + +He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent; +he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which +raged in his own heart. + +At length he broke the silence. + +--Mademoiselle, dear young lady, he said with his most insinuating voice, +do you lack confidence then in me? Ah! I see but too well, your father's +prejudices have left their marks. + +--Do not believe it, she cried eagerly, do not believe it. + +--Thank you, dear young lady. I should so much wish to have your +confidence. And in whom could you better repose it? What others could +receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings? Ah, +that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account +that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those +who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the +afflicted. Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is +the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness. +Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our +arms to you, to me, who now say to you: "Open your heart to me, confide +to me your troubles. However sick your soul may be, mine will understand +it." + +The priest's voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne's +heart. She cast on him a look full of compassion: You are unhappy, she +asked. + +--Do not say that, do not say that! Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but +now I am so no longer. Are you not there? Has not your presence caused all +the dark clouds to fly away? No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a +blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of +his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my +hearth! + +--Happiness! I bring happiness to you! But who am I? a little girl just out +of school, who knows nothing of life. + +--And that is what makes you more charming. You are a rose which the breath +of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched. Life! dear child, do not +seek to know it too soon. It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best +are those who have suffered most deception and weeping. + +--But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows.... + +--Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know +all that passes at the bottom of a man's heart. + +Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the +difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you +cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can +open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no +loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your +intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all +families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and +no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have +no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our +weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I +mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little +disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ... +speak. + +--Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I +used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go +out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my +father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don't +believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my +father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met +you. + +Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl's hand, but he quickly dropped +it, fearing she might observe his agitation. + +--Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my +companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the +under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I +must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner +then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me +here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties. +That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this +evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I +grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my +life. + +She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence. +Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without +comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him, +but he only thought of one thing. She had said: "Your looks avoided mine." + +When she had finished speaking, he was surprised to hear her no longer and +listened afresh. + +--I have spoken with open heart to my confessor, said Suzanne timidly, +astonished at this silence. + +--To the confessor! no, no, dear child; to the friend, to the friend, is it +not? Do you want him? Will you trust yourself to me? Will you let yourself +be guided by me? I will bring you by a way from which I will remove all the +thorns. + +--But my father? + +This was like the blow from a club to Marcel. + +--Your father! Ah, yes! your father! Well, but what are we going to do? + +--I have just asked you. + +--It is written in the Gospel: "No one can serve two masters at the same +time." You have a master who is God. Your father places himself between God +and your duty. You must choose. + +Suzanne did not reply. + +--Consult your conscience, my child. What says your conscience? + +--My conscience says nothing to me. + +Marcel thought perhaps he had gone a little too far, he added: + +--You must decide nevertheless. It is also written, "Render unto Caesar the +things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." + +--How am I to unite the respect and submission which I owe to my father +with my duties as a Christian? That, repeated Suzanne, is what I wanted to +ask you. + +--And we will solve the problem, dear child. Yes, we will come forth from +this evil pass, to our advantage and to our glory. Nothing happens but by +the will of God, and it is He, doubt it not, who has guided you into my +path in order that I may take care of your young and beautiful soul. The +ancients were in the habit of marking their happy days; I count already two +days in my life which I shall never obliterate from my memory, two days +marked in the golden book of my remembrances. The one is that on which I +saw you for the first time. You were in the gallery of our church. The +light was streaming behind you through the painted windows and surrounded +you with a halo. I said to myself: "Is it not one of the virgins detached +from the window?" The other is to-day.--Do you believe in presentiments, +Mademoiselle? + +--Sometimes. + +--Well! I had a presentiment as it were of this visit. Yes, shall I dare to +tell you so? The whole day I have been wild with joy! I had an intuition of +an approaching happiness, a very rare event with me, Mademoiselle. + +--Of what happiness? + +--Why of this, of this which I enjoy at this moment; this of seeing you +sitting at my hearth, in front of me, near to me, this of hearing your +sweet voice, and reading your pure eyes. But what am I saying? Pardon me, +Mademoiselle. See how happiness make us egotistic! I talk to you about +myself, while it is about you that we ought to occupy ourselves, of you, +and of your future. + +And he looked at her with such glowing eyes, that she was a little +frightened. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +THE KISS. + + "That strange kiss makes me shudder + still." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Premieres poesies_). + +--Are you not cold? said Marcel; and he stooped down to draw up the fire. + +But on sitting down again it happened that his seat was quite close to that +of Suzanne, so close that their knees were touching, and that he had only +to make a slight movement to take one of her hands. + +--Dear, dear child. + +And he began to talk to her of God in his unctuous voice. He talked to her +also of her duties as a Christian, and of the probable struggles she would +have to undergo. He talked to her again of the purity of her heart and +compared her to the angels. + +And while he talked, he began to fondle this little soft white hand, +lifting delicately the slender fingers with their rosy nails, drawing over +the soft and satiny tips his brown and muscular fingers. + +Soon his warm hand became burning. Magnetic influences were evolved. +Invisible sparks broke forth suddenly at the contact of these two +epidermises, ran through his veins, inflamed his heart and set his brain +a-blaze. + +[PLATE II: THE KISS. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent +over it, and pressed it to his lips.] + +[Illustration] + +He lost his presence of mind, his will wavered and sank in the molten lava +of his desires; he lost perception of his surroundings, of all those +formidable things which until then had bound him with the strong bands of +moral authority; he thought no longer of anything, he paused no longer at +anything, he saw nothing but this fair young girl whom he coveted, who was +alone with him, her hand in his, sitting by his fire-side, in the silence +and the mystery of the night. His clasp became convulsive. Under the fire +of his burning gaze Suzanne raised her head, and a second time fell back in +dismay. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent over it, and +pressed it to his lips. + +The door opened wide. + +--Don't get impatient, said Marianne, there is the hot wine. I have been a +long time, but the wood was green. Are you better? + +But Suzanne, trembling all over, remained silent. + + + + +XXXIX. + + +THE DEVIL IN PETTICOATS. + + "I know an infallible means of + drawing you back from the precipice + on which you stand." + + CHARLES (_Des Illustres Francaises_). + +--Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all +loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base +Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My +priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my +iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer +master of myself. + +Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of +my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!... It must have happened. +Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is +the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to +subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God. +They tried at the seminary by means of _nenuphar_ and _infusions of nitre_ +to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain +efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain +you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God +to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all +your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in +its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not +recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling +into an abyss of iniquity. + +Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me? +How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written +there?... She, she, what will she think of me?... To kiss her hand, her +soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going? +I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me. + +So spoke the Cure, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his +conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent +rapture. + +--Yes, it is shame, it is shame. + +--Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice. + +Marcel turned round, terror-struck. + +His servant was behind him. + +She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange, +green eyes. + +--Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that +pretty young lady will hold her tongue. + +She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the +priest's heart like a steel blade. + +Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a +passion. + +--You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then? +What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening +then at the doors? + +--That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously. + +--What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it? + +--There are many others who ought to blush and yet don't blush. + +--What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want? + +--Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn. + +--What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Cure, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so. + +--You are, at the very least, most indiscreet. + +--Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a +witness of what passed. + +--Eh! what has passed then? + +--Sir, don't question me, she said in a pitying tone, _I have heard and +seen_. + +--You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen +then, wretched woman? + +And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon +the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door. + +--Please, Monsieur le Cure, she implored, don't hurt me. + +These words recalled the priest to himself. + +--No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I +flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am +calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me. + +--I will do so. Ah! you frighten me.... + +--It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion? + +--It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very +peaceably, like the _other_, it is so nice. + +--Please, enough of that subject. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Cure, it is just about that I want to speak to you. + +--Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable +indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any +more. + +--A momentary error, which would have led you to some pretty things, +Monsieur le Cure. Good God! if Marianne had not arrived in time, who knows +what might have happened. + +--It is not for you to blame me, Veronica. There is only God who is without +sin. + +--I know that well. Therefore, I have not said that to you in order to +blame you. Quite the contrary, I was astonished that with a temperament ... +as strong as yours, you have remained free from fault till to-day. + +--And, please God, I will always remain so. + +--Oh! God does not ask for impossibilities, as my old master, Monsieur le +Cure Fortin, used to say: he was a good-natured man. He often repeated to +me: "You see, Veronica, provided appearances are saved, everything is +saved. God is content, he asks for no more." + +--What, the Abbe Fortin said that? + +--Yes, and many other things too. He was so honest, so delicate a man--not +more than you, however, Monsieur le Cure--but he understood his case better +than any other. He said again: "Beware of bad example, keep yourself from +scandal. Dirty linen should be washed at home." Good rules, are they not, +Monsieur Marcel? + +--Certainly. + +--He knew so well how to compassionate human infirmities. Ah! when nature +speaks, she speaks very loudly. + +--Do you know anything about it, Veronica? + +--Who does not know it? I can certainly acknowledge that to you, since you +are my Cure and my confessor. + +--That is true, Veronica. + +--And to whom should a poor servant acknowledge her secret thoughts, if not +to her Cure and her confessor? He is her only friend in this world, is he +not? + +The Cure did not reply. He considered the strange shape the conversation +was taking, and cast a look of defiance at the woman. + +--You do not answer, sir, she said. You do not look upon me as your friend, +that is wrong. Is it because I have surprised your secrets? + +--I have no secrets. + +--Yes?.... Suzanne? + +--Enough on that subject. Do not revive my shame, since you call yourself +my friend. + +--Oh! sir, it is precisely for that, it is because I do not want you to +distress yourself about so little. Listen to me, sir, I am older than you, +and although I am not so learned, I have the experience which, as they say, +is not picked up in books: well, this experience has taught me many things +which perhaps you do not suspect. + +--Explain yourself. + +--I would have explained already, if you had wished it. The other evening +you were quite sad, sitting by that fireless grate; you were thinking of I +don't know what, but certainly it was not of anything very lively, so much +so that it went to my heart. I suspected what was vexing you; I wanted to +speak to you, but you repulsed me almost brutally. Nevertheless, if you had +listened to me that day, what has just happened might not have occurred. + +--I don't understand you. + +--I will make myself understood ... if you allow me. + + + + +XL. + + +LITTLE CONFESSIONS. + + "To relate one's misfortunes often + alleviates them." + + CORNEILLE (_Polyeucte_). + +The Cure laid his forehead between his hands, and rested his elbows on his +knees, a common attitude among confessors. + +--I am listening to you, he said. + +--I said to you, Monsieur le Cure, do not despair. You will excuse a poor +servant's boldness, but it is the friendship I have for you which has urged +me; nothing else, believe me; I am an honest girl, entirely devoted to my +masters. You are the fourth, Monsieur le Cure, yes, the fourth master. +Well! the three others have never had to complain about me a single moment +for indiscretion, or for idleness, or for want of attention, or for +anything, in fact, for anything. Never a harsh word. "You have done well, +Veronica; that's quite right, Veronica; do as you think proper, Veronica; +your advice is excellent, Veronica." Those are all the rough words which +have been said to me, Monsieur Marcel. Therefore, I repeat, really it went +to my heart to hear you speaking harshly sometimes to me, and to see that +you did not appear satisfied with me. I had not been accustomed to that. + +And the servant, picking up the corner of her apron, burst into tears. + +--Why! Veronica, are you mad? Why do you cry so? Who has made you suppose +that I was not satisfied with you? I may have spoken harshly to you, it is +possible; but it was in a moment of excitement or of impatience, which I +regret. You well know that I am not ill-natured. + +--Oh, no, sir, that is just what grieves me. You are so kind to everybody. +You are only severe to me. + +--You are wrong again, Veronica. I may have felt hurt at your indiscretion, +but that is all. Put yourself in my place, and you will allow that it is +humiliating for a priest.... + +--Do not speak of that again, Monsieur le Cure. You are very wrong to +disturb yourself about it, and if you had had confidence in me before, I +should have told you that all have acted like you, all have gone through +that, all, all. + +--What do you mean? + +--I mean that young and old have fallen into the same fault.... If we can +call it a fault, as Monsieur Fortin used to say. And the old still more +than the young. After that, perhaps you will say to me that it is the place +which is wicked. + +--Be silent, Veronica. What you say is very wrong, for if I perfectly +understand you, you are bringing an infamous accusation against my +predecessors. Perhaps you think to palliate my fault thus in my own eyes. I +thank you for the intention, but it is an improper course, and the reproach +which you try to cast upon the worthy priests who have succeeded one +another in this parish, takes away none of my remorse. + +--Monsieur Fortin had not so many scruples. He was, however, a most +respectable man, and one who never dared to look a young girl in her face, +he was so bashful. "Well," he often used to say, "God has well done all +that he has done, and He is too wise to be angry when we make use of His +benefits!" + +--That is rather an elastic morality. + +--It was Monsieur Fortin who taught me that. After all, that is perhaps +morality in word, you are ... morality in deed. + +--Veronica, you are strangely misusing the rights which I have allowed you +to take. + +--Do not put yourself in a rage, Monsieur le Cure, if I talk to you so. I +wanted to persuade you thoroughly that you can rely upon me in everything, +that I can keep a secret, though you sometimes call me a tattler, and that +I am not, after all, such a worthless girl as you believe. We like, when +the moment has come to get ourselves appreciated, to profit by it to our +utmost. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, I hardly know what you want to arrive at; but I +wish to speak frankly to you, since you have behaved frankly towards me. I +recognize all the wisdom of your proceeding, although you will agree it has +something offensive and humiliating for me, but after all, it is preferable +that you should come and tell me this to my face, than that you should go +and chatter in the village and tattle without my knowledge. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Cure, Veronica is not capable of that. + +--Therefore, since you have discovered ... discovered a secret which would +ruin me, what do you calculate on making from this secret, and what do you +demand? + +--I, Monsieur le Cure, cried the servant, I demand nothing ... oh! nothing. + +--You are hesitating. Yes, you want something. Come, it is you now who hang +your head and blush, while it is I who am the culprit.... Come, place +yourself there, close to me. + +--Oh! Monsieur le Cure, I shall never presume. + +--Presume then to-day. Have you not told me that you were my friend?... +Yes. Well then, place yourself there. Tell me, Veronica, what is your age? + +--Mine, Monsieur le Cure. What a question! I am not too old; come, not so +old as you think. I am forty. + +--Forty! why you are still of an age to get married. + +--I quite think so. + +--And you have never intended to do so? + +--To get married? Oh, upon my word, if I had wanted to do so, I should not +have waited until now. + +--I believe you, Veronica. You could have done very well before now. But +you may have changed your ideas. Our characters, our tastes change with +time, and a thing displeases us to-day, which will please us to-morrow. +There are often, it is true, certain considerations which stop us and make +us reflect. Perhaps you have not a round enough sum. With a little money, +at your age, you could still make an excellent match. + +--And even without money, Monsieur le Cure. If I were willing, somebody has +been pestering me for a long time for that. + +--And you are not willing. The person doubtless does not suit you? + +--Oh, I have my choice. + +--Well and good. We cannot use too much reflection upon a matter of this +importance. I am not rich, Veronica, but I should like to help you and to +increase, if it be possible, your little savings, your dowry in fact. + +--You are very good, sir, but I do not wish to get married. + +--Why so? + +--It depends on tastes, you know.... You are in a great hurry then to get +rid of me, Monsieur le Cure. + +--Not at all: do not believe it. + +--Come, come, Monsieur le Cure. I see your intentions. You say to yourself: +"she holds a secret which may prove troublesome to me; with a little money +I will put a padlock on her tongue, I will get her married, and by this +means she will trouble me no more." Is it a bad guess? + +--You have not guessed it the least in world, Veronica. + +--Oh, it is! But it is a bad calculation, and for two reasons. In the first +place, if I marry, your secret is more in danger than if I remain single. +You know that a woman ought not to hide anything from her husband. + +--There are certain things.... + +--No, nothing at all: no secret, or mystery. The husband ought to see all, +to know all, to be acquainted with all that concerns his wife. Ah! I know +how to live, though I am an old maid. + +--You are a pearl, Veronica. + +--You want to make fun of me; but others have said that to me before you, +and they were talking seriously. On the other hand, she continued, if you +keep me, you need not fear my slandering you, since I am in your hands and +the day you hear any rumour, you can turn me away. + +--Your argument is just, and believe me that my words had but a single +object, not that of separating myself from you, but of being useful to you. +Since you are desirous of remaining with me, at which I am happy, let us +therefore try to live on good terms, and do you for your part forget my +weaknesses; I for mine will forget your inquisitiveness; and let us talk no +more about them. + +--Oh yes, we will talk again. + +--I consent to it. Let us therefore make peace, and give me your hand. + +--Here it is, Monsieur le Cure. + +--Ah, Veronica. _Errare humanum est_. + +--Yes, I know, Monsieur Fortin often repeated it. That means to say that +the devil is sly, and the flesh is weak. + +--It is something like that. So then I trust to your honesty. + +--You can do so without fear. + +--To your discretion. + +--You can do so with all confidence. + +--To your friendship for me. Have you really a little, Veronica? + +--I have, sir, said the servant, affected. You ask me that: what must I +then do to convince you? + +--Be discreet, that is all. + +--Oh! you might require more than that. But could I also, in my turn, ask +something of you? + +--Ask on. + +--It will be perhaps very hard for you. + +--Speak freely. What do you want? Are you not mistress here? Is not +everything at your disposal? + +--Oh, no. + +--No! You surprise me. Have I hurt you without knowing it? I do not +remember it, I assure you. Tell me then, that I may atone for my fault. + +--I hardly know how to tell you. + +--Is it then very serious? + +--Not precisely, but.... + +--You are putting me on thorns. What is it then? + +--Oh, nothing. + +--What nothing? Do you wish to vex me, Veronica. + +--I don't intend it; it is far from that. + +--Speak then. + +--Well no, I will say no more. You will guess it perhaps. But meanwhile.... + +--Meanwhile.... + +--It is quite understood between us that you will never see that little +hussy again. + +--What hussy? + +--That little hussy, who was here just now. + +--Oh, Veronica! Veronica! + +--It is for your interests, Monsieur le Cure, in short ... the proprieties. + +--My dignity is as dear to me as it is to you, my daughter, be answered +sharply. + +--Good-night, Monsieur le Cure; take counsel with your pillow. + + + + +XLI. + + +MORAL REFLECTIONS. + + "Ah, poor grandmamma, what grand-dam's tales + You used to sing to me in praise of virtue; + Everywhere have I asked: 'What is this stranger?' + They laughed at me and said, 'Whence hast thou come?'" + + G. MELOTTE (_Les Temps nouveaux_). + +The Cure of Althausen had no need of reflection to understand the kind of +shameful bargain which his servant had allowed him to catch a glimpse of. + +The lustful look of the woman had spoken too clearly, and when he had taken +her hand, he had felt it burn and tremble in his. + +Then certain circumstances, certain facts to which he had not attended at +first, came back to his memory. + +Two or three times, Veronica, on frivolous pretexts had entered his bedroom +at night; and each time, he remembered well, she was in somewhat indecent +undress, which contrasted strangely with her ordinarily severe appearance. + +He recalled to himself all the stories of Cures' servants who shared their +masters' bed. Stories told in a whisper at certain _general repasts_, when +the priests of the district met together at the senior's house to observe +the feast of some saint or other--the great Saint Priapus perhaps--and +where lively talk and sprightly stories ran merrily round the table. + +And what he had taken for jokes in bad taste, and refused to believe till +now, he began to understand. + +For he could no longer doubt that he had set his servant's passions aflame, +and he must either expose himself to her venomous tongue and incur the +shame and scandal, or else appease the erotic rage of this kitchen +Messalina. + +He tried to drive away this horrible thought, to believe that he had been +mistaken, to persuade himself that he was the dope of erroneous +appearances; he wished to convince himself that he had been the victim of +errors engendered by his own depravity, that he judged according to his +secret sentiments; his efforts were vain; the woman's feverish eyes, her +restless solicitude, her jealous rage, her incessant watching, the evidence +in short was there which contradicted all his hopes to the contrary. + +And then, the latest confessions regarding his predecessors: "All have +acted like you, all," possessed his mind. Like him! What had they done? +They also had attempted then to seduce young girls, and perhaps had +consummated their infernal design. What? respectable priests, ministers of +the Gospel, pastors of God's flock! Was it possible? But was not he a +respectable priest and respected by all, a minister of God, a leader of the +holy flock, a pastor of men, and yet.... + +How then? where is virtue? + +"Virtue," answered that voice which we have within ourselves, that voice +odious to hypocrites and deceivers, which the Church calls the Devil's +voice, and which is the voice of reason. Virtue? Of which do you speak, +fool? Without counting the _three theological_, there are fifty thousand +kinds of virtues. It is like happiness, institutions, reputations, +religions, morals, principles: Truth on this side the mount, error on that. + +There are as many kinds of virtues as there are different peoples. History +swarms with virtuous people who have been so in their own way. Socrates was +virtuous, and yet what strange familiarities he allowed himself with the +young Alcibiades. The virtuous Brutus virtuously assassinated his father. +The virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary had herself whipped by her confessor, the +virtuous Conrad, and the virtuous Janicot doted on virtuous little boys; +and finally Monseigneur is virtuous, but his old lady friends look down and +smile when he talks of virtue. + +See this priest of austere countenance and whitened hair. He too, during +long years, has believed in that virtue which forms his torment. Candid and +trustful, he felt the fervency of religion fill his heart from his youth. +He had faith, he was filled with the spirit of charity and love. He said +like the apostle: _Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est_. And he believed +that God was with him, and that alone with God he was peacefully pursuing +his road. But he had counted without that troublesome guest who comes and +places himself as a third between the creature and the Creator, and who, +more powerful than the God of legend, quickly banishes him, for he is the +principle of life and the other is the principle of death; it is the +fruitful love and the other is the wasting barren love; it is present and +active, while the other is inert, dumb and in the clouds of your sickly +brain. + +"It is in vain that in his successive halts from parish to parish, he has +resisted the thousand seductions which surround the priest, from the timid +gaze of the simple school-girl, smitten with a holy love for the young +curate, to the veiled smile of the languishing woman. In vain will he +attempt, like Fenelon formerly, to put the warmth of his heart and the +incitements of the flesh upon the wrong scent by carrying on a platonic +love with some chosen souls; what is the result in the end of his efforts +and his struggles? Now he is old; ought he not to be appeased? No, weighty +and imperious matter has regained the upper hand. He loves no longer, he is +not able to love any longer, but the fury urges him on. He seduces his +cook, or dishonours his niece." + +And yet those most courageous natures exist, for they have resisted to the +end. We blame them, we are wrong. Who would have been capable of such +efforts and sacrifices? Who would sustain during ten, fifteen, twenty +years, similar straggles between the imperious requirements of nature and +the miserable duties of convention? They, therefore, who see their hair +fall before their virtue are very rare. + +The crowd of priests strike themselves against the obstacles of the road +from the first steps, they tear their catechumen's robe with the white +thorns of May, and when they have arrived at the end of their career, they +have stopped many a time under some mysterious thicket, unknown by the +vulgar, relishing the forbidden fruit. + +Let us leave them in peace. It is not I who will disturb their sweet +tete-a-tete. + + + + +XLII. + + +MEMORY LOOKING BACK. + + "Man can do nothing against Destiny. + We go, time flies, and that which must + arrive, arrives." + + LEON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Baufs_). + +Marcel was one of those energetic natures who believe that struggle is one +of the conditions of life. He had valiantly accepted the task which was +incumbent upon him. + +But there are hours of discouragement and exhaustion, in which the boldest +and the strongest succumb, and he had reached one of those hours. + +And then, it is so difficult to struggle without ceasing, especially when +we catch no glimpse of calmer days. Weariness quickly comes and we sink +down on the road. + +Then a friendly hand should be stretched towards us, should lift us up and +say to us "Courage." But Marcel could not lean on any friendly hand. + +He had no one to whom he could confide his struggles, his vexations, and +the apprehension of his coming weaknesses. + +Although his life as priest had been spotless up to then, his brethren held +aloof from him, for there was a bad mark against him at the Bishop's +Palace. It had been attached at the commencement of his career. He was one +of those catechumens on whom from the very first the most brilliant hopes +are founded. Knowledge, intelligence, respectful obedience, appearance of +piety, sympathetic face, everything was present in him. + +The Bishop, a frivolous old man, a great lover of little girls, who +combined the sinecure of his bishopric with that of almoner to a +second-hand empress, whose name will remain celebrated in the annals of +devout gallantry or of gallant devotion, the Bishop, a worthy pastor for +such a sheep, passed the greater portion of his time in the intrigues of +petticoats and sacristies, and left to the young secretary the care of +matters spiritual. + +It was he who, like Gil-Blas, composed the mandates and sometimes the +sermons of Monseigneur. + +This confidence did not fail to arouse secret storms in the episcopal +guest-chamber. + +A Grand-Vicar, jealous of the influence which the young Abbe was assuming +over his master's mind, had resolved upon his dismissal and fall. + +With a church-man's tortuous diplomacy, he pried into the young man's +heart, as yet fresh and inexperienced. + +He insinuated himself into the most hidden recesses of his conscience, +seized, so to say, in their flight the timid fleeting transports of his +thought, of his vigorous imagination, and soon discovered with secret +satisfaction that he was straying from the ancient path of orthodoxy. + +Marcel, indeed, belonged to that younger generation of the clergy which +believes that everything which alienates the Church from new ideas, brings +it nearer to its ruin. And the day when the foolish Pius IX presumed to +proclaim and define, to the great joy of free-thinkers and the enemies of +Catholicism, the ridiculous dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the +presence of two hundred dumb complaisant prelates, on that day he +experienced profound grief. According to his ideas this was the severest +blow which had been inflicted on the foundations of the Church for +centuries. + +He had studied theology deeply, but he had not confined himself to the +letter; he believed he saw something beyond. + +--The letter killeth, he said, the spirit giveth life. + +--The spirit giveth life when it is wholesome and pure, the Grand-Vicar +answered him with a smile, but is it healthy in a young man who believes +himself to be wiser than his elders? + +Marcel then without mistrust and urged by questions, developed his +theories. He believed in the absolute equality of men before God, in the +transmutation of souls: and the resurrection of the flesh seemed to him +the utmost absurdity. He quite thought that there were future rewards and +penalties, but he had too much faith in the goodness of God to suppose +that the expiation could be eternal. He allied himself in that to the +Universalists, who were, he said, the most reasonable sect of American +Protestantism. + +--Reasonable! reasonable! repeated the Grand-Vicar scoffingly; in truth, my +poor friend, you make me doubt your reason. Can there be anything +reasonable in the turpitude of heresy? + +Then he hurried to find the Bishop: + +--I have emptied our young man's bag, he said to him. Do you know, +Monseigneur, what there was at the bottom? + +--Oh, oh. Has he been inclined to debauchery? He is so young. + +--Would to heaven it were only that, Monseigneur. But it is a hundred times +worse. + +--What do you tell me? Must I fear then for all my little sheep? We must +look after him then. + +--I repeat, Monseigneur, that that would be nothing.... It is the +abomination of abomination, a whole world of turpitude, heresies in embryo. + +--Heresies! Oh, oh! That is serious. + +--Heresies which would make the cursed shades of John Huss, Wickliffe, +Luther and Calvin himself tremble, if they appeared again. + +--What do you say? + +--I tell you, Monseigneur, that you have warmed a viper in your bosom. + +--Ah, well, I will drive out this wicked viper. + +The Bishop, who kept two nieces in the episcopal seraglio, would willingly +have pardoned his secretary if he had been accused of immorality, but he +could not carry his condescension so far as heresy. He wanted, however, to +assure himself personally, and as Marcel was incapable of lying, he quickly +recognized the sad reality. + +The young Abbe was severely punished. He was compelled to make an apology, +to retract his horrible ideas, to stifle the germ of these infant +monstrosities; then he was condemned to spend six months in one of those +ecclesiastical prisons called _houses of retreat_, where the guilty priest +is exposed to every torment and every vexation. + +He was definitely marked and classed as a dangerous individual. + +His enemy, the Grand-Vicar, pursued him with his indefatigable hatred, so +far that from disgrace to disgrace he had reached the cure of Althausen. + + + + +XLIII. + + +ESPIONAGE. + + "A sunbeam had traversed his heart; + it had just disappeared." + + ERNEST DAUDET (_Les Duperies de l'Amour_). + +Since the fatal evening when the secret of his new-born love had been +discovered by his servant, Marcel had observed the woman on his steps, +watching his slightest proceedings, scrutinizing his most innocent +gestures. + +He encountered everywhere her keen inquisitive look. + +He wished at first to meet it with the greatest circumspection and the most +absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead +him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness. + +But he was soon obliged to renounce this means. + +The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Cure +pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt, +the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full +of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened +with a start by terrible noises during the night. + +He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and +threatened to leave him. + +--You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had +enough of it. + +--Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if +I were not afraid of your cursed tongue. + +Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and +smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant's manners changed +directly. + +She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive. + +Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the +same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to +conceal. + +He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her +usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place +remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed +without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing +gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the _Laudate pueri dominum_ with +the voice of the _De profundis_. + +Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from +coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before +upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and +with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He +saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him +in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were +astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he +forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church, +and whom he would meet again at his house. + +Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a +moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague +which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his +life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a +month ago; only a stranger. + +Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be +aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their +sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under +these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the +commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but +wishes to see the world at her feet. + +And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more +irritating and more insupportable. + +In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far, +very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant's gaze following him, and +weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted +jealousy. + +He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when +he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the +width of the village and the depth of the woods. + +She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye +searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds +of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to +strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts. + + + + +XLIV. + + +THE GARRET WINDOW. + + "Do I direct my love? It directs me. + And I could abide it if I would!... + And I would, after all, that I could not." + + V. SARDOU (_Nos Intimes_). + +Other days passed, and then others. + +From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view +of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain +Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several +times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet +object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he +forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts. + +Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream +edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with +the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne. + +Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber +and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with +that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable +complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the +tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul. + +But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of +observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught +one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under +the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in +that loft? + +He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his +pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his +flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled +his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment. + +He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers, +that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he +heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot. + +And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which +he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again +Suzanne's emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without +anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a +second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left +there. + + + + +XLV. + + +TREACHEROUS MANOEUVRE. + + "He stepped more lightly than a + bird; love traced out his progress." + + CHAMPFLEURY (_La Comedie Academique_). + +"I must know," he said to himself, "where I stand." + +And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village. + +He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But +after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being +watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged +with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the +circuit of Althausen. + +Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the +Captain's house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect, +resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could +suspect his secret agitation. + +He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the +other. + +To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though +it would break. + +In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine +argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever +under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating. + +Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its +nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever +increasing, consumed it. + +To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat +crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to +inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat. + +And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the +load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was +filled with a wild hope. + +A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the +little house, always so smart and white. + +Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind +it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a +goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore. + +There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which +crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed +of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than +once he had caught sight of a crabbed face. + +Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour +embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern. + +What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her? + +Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look +is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he +hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young +girl? Is he not her Cure? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has +he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the +disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another +blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after +what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore +rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is +enough. + +He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the +old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise. + +What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, +and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh, +that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of +love, into that chaste virgin conch. + +Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of +footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it +she? + +He turns round. + +Veronica is behind him. + + + + +XLVI. + + +THE LETTER. + + "Let them take but one step within + your door. They will soon have taken + four." + + LA FONTAINE (_Fables_). + +She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the +bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: "Ah, +ah, I have caught you here." + +--Come, Monsieur le Cure, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been +looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody +is waiting for you. + +--Who! + +But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards +home. The Cure followed her hanging his head. + +He reached the parsonage directly after her. + +--Who is waiting for me then? he said again. + +--It's the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait +till to-morrow. He had a letter for you ... for _you_ only, she added, +lingering over these words with a scornful smile. + +Marcel blushed. + +--Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of +mysteries there are here. Really it's worse than the Catechism. Your +letters for you only! Isn't that enough to humiliate me? You have reason +then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your +letters to _yourself only_. Holy Virgin! it's a pretty thing. What can they +think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your +letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don't matter to me. Would +they not say...? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in +this way? + +--There you are with your recrimination again! + +-Oh, Monsieur le Cure, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I +certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that +way with me. + +--Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish. + +--I see very well, that you don't ask advice from anyone.... And with the +insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added: +You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has +happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself? + +--Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I +consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions. + +--My business! Well, Monsieur le Cure, yours is mine just a bit, since I am +your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I +know. + +--Insolent woman. + +--Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Cure. I let you do as you like with +me. + +--Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded +with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you +want to arrive at? + +And the Cure approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes. + +--Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired. + +--I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica. + +Marcel's wrath passed all bounds. + +--Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; +tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless +narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. +Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, +beware of doing it a third time. + +--Be quiet, Monsieur le Cure, said Veronica softly, be quiet. + +--Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an +arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands. + +The servant came near him: + +--It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with +solicitude: shall I make you a little tea? + +--I don't want anything. + +--Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am +not. + +--It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica. + +--Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Cure, you will +understand it one day. + +--Leave me, I say. + +The servant withdrew. + +--It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a +horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation! +Ah, the apostle is right: "As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall +into the abyss." And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this +servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of +her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has +discovered.... Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a +dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!... dear +Suzanne ... no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so +loudly. + +He waited with feverish impatience for the postman's return. + +Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant's +inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his +letters to himself only. + +He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too +discovered excellent reasons for not going out. + +She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the +mysterious letter. + +Marcel's countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read +on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy. + + + + +XLVII. + + +GOOD NEWS. + + "Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia + O filii et filiae... + Et Maria Magdalena + Et Jacobi, et Salome! + Alleluia." + + (_Easter-Mass Hymn_). + +"Rejoice, my son, and sing with me _Hosannah! Hosannah!_ The ways of the +Lord are infinite. + +"Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest, +Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, _non tum +vilis quam nullus_, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a +guilty wretch as he is. + +"Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It +is written: 'If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.' Anastasius Gobin +has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it. +_Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu_, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you +will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will +relate the matter to you in private. + +"_Ergo_. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now +only a question of regaining Monseigneur's favour. The serpent is no longer +there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When +the beast is dead, the venom is dead. + +"I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it +costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has +been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope, +experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. _Filii Sion exultate et +laetimini in Domino Deo nostro_. + +"I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will +form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend, +you will do honour to your old master. _Tu quoque Marcellus eris_! + +"As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is +worth more, I am going to stir up the arriere-ban of the sacristies. + +"I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything +in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de +Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that +before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbe Marcel alone. + +"That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an +Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure--that at +length you shall leave your Thebaid. + +"Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to +dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your +wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will +discuss what is best to do. + +"Have patience then till then. _Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis, +fratres_, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you. + +"I embrace you tenderly, + +"Your spiritual Father + +"MARCEL RIDOUX + +"_Cure of St. Nicholas_." + + + + +XLVIII. + + +RECONCILIATION. + + "The fair Egle chooses her part on a sudden + In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming." + + CHAMPFORT (_Contes_). + +"Here is salvation," said Marcel to himself, "the solution of the problem, +the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot +which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!" +And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him: + +--Good news! Veronica. + +--I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you +nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit? + +--Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbe +Ridoux, gives notice of his. + +--Monsieur le Cure of Saint Nicholas? + +--Himself. Do you know him? + +--Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul) +regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it +appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in +the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the +world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It's +he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a +little diversion, for we don't often laugh. + +--That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest's +house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where +there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness. +Our Saviour has said: "Every house divided against itself shall perish." + +--He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Cure. + +--We must not perish, Veronica. + +--I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war. + +--Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle +might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic +differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We +are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself, +it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica? + +--Oh, Monsieur le Cure, we can come to an understanding directly, if you +wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice. + +--Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after +supper. + +--I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service. + +--And we will celebrate the good news. + +--I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not +know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I +am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another's, and when we +must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to +laugh, and do not give up my share. + +--Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only +way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to +my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my +secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is +at the bottom of your bag of iniquity. + + + + + +XLIX. + + +CONFIDENCES. + + "To thee I wish to confide this secret, + Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet + They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Cure of Althausen had +coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups. + +--You have asked somebody then? she enquired. + +--Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica. + +The woman smiled. + +She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the +shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed +partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her +master. + +--We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us. + +Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his +servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he +thought, and he answered quietly: + +--We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do +anything wrong. + +--Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your +table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would +begin to chatter. + +--It is true. + +--And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so, +Monsieur le Cure? + +Marcel bent his head: + +--You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one +cannot usually with a ... common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand +me. Then, after a moment's hesitation: + +--Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a +serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it. + +--Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Cure, I deserved everything that you +have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly +towards you. + +--I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate +all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely. + +--Monsieur le Cure is too good. + +--No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved +differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of +ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, +and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we +can come to an understanding. + +--Yes, I am easy to accommodate. + +--Let us save appearances, that is essential. + +--You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could +ever reproach me for setting a bad example. + +--I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is +well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we +must wash our dirty linen at home. + +--Poor Monsieur Fortin. + +--That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my +disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and +you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little +confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little +brandy? There! now sit close to me. + +--Monsieur le Cure, one only confesses on one's knees. + +--At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I +mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, +but by right of a friend. + +--I am quite confused, Monsieur le Cure. + +--There is no Cure here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, +but not a priest. Are you willing? + +--I am quite willing. + +--You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to +you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say +regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me. + +--What do you want me to tell you? + +--They committed faults then?... + +--I have told you so, sir,--sometimes--like you. + +--Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day. + +--Seven times! + +--Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but +I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater +saints? + +--Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between +ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar. + +--Oh, Veronica, Veronica. + +--Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another +thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted +their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them. + +--What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things? + +--One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one +sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to +his _valet de chambre_; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I +tell you so. + +--But that is blasphemy, Veronica. + +--Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel. + +--Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness? + +--Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who +surprised me. + +--You!... And how then? + +--Monsieur le Cure, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their +weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine. + +--Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? +these ecclesiastics? + +--Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet ... if Mademoiselle Suzanne +Durand.... + +--Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to +me. It is wrong of you to forget that. + +--Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand +that since you, you have erred, the others.... + +--And what have they done? + +--Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus! + +--Let us see. + +--I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it. + +--Come, let us see, speak ... you have nothing to be afraid of before me +... speak, Veronica, speak. + +--Where must I begin? + +--Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose. + +--There are several of them. + +--Several beginnings? + +--Yes; I have had three masters, you know. + +--Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I +knew slightly. + +--He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no. + +--The Abbe Fortin? + +--Lord God, yes, the Abbe Fortin! + +--What has he done then? + +--My God ... you know well, that which one does when one ... is a man ... +and has a warm temperament. + +--To you, Veronica, to you? + +--Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Cure, I am so good-natured, I don't +know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to +resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your +confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a +certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be +quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out +through the parsonage door. + +--Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad. + +--And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we +are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed +is a sin half pardoned. + +--Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what +causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence." + +--Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so? + +--A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe. + +--I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least? + +--He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman. + +--That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would +believe in us without that? I say _us_, for I am also somewhat a +church-_woman_. + +--Undoubtedly. + +--I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St. +Eprive's and my mother the Cure's housekeeper. + +--That is your title. + +--Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the +head of the association of the Holy Virgin. + +--No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy +and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot +contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!... And how did he go to work to +... seduce you? He must have used much deceit. + +--All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge. + + + + +L. + + +MAMMOSA VIRGO! + + "The monk could not refrain from admiring + the freshness and plumpness of + this woman. For a long time he made + his eyes speak, and he managed it so + well that in the end he inspired the + lady with the same desire with which + he was burning." + + BOCCACIO (_La Decameron_). + +Veronica took several sips of the brandy which remained at the bottom of +the cup, collected her thoughts for a moment, and casting her eyes down +with a modest air, she proceeded: + +--The good Monsieur Fortin, as perhaps you know, used to drink a little of +an evening. + +--Oh, he used to drink! + +--Yes, not every day, but every now and then; two or three times a week: +but you know ... quite nicely, properly, without making any noise; he was +gayer than usual, that was all. But when he reached that point, though he +was ordinarily as timid as a lay-brother, he became as bold as a gendarme, +and he was very ... how shall I say?... very enterprising. I may say that +between ourselves, Monsieur le Cure, you understand that strangers never +knew anything about it. If by chance anyone came and asked for him at these +times, I used to say that he had gone out, or that he was ill. One day, I +was finely put out. Christopher Gilquin's daughter came to call him to her +mother who was at the point of death. He took it into his head to try and +kiss her. The little one, who was hardly fifteen, did not know what it +meant. I made her understand that it was to console her, and through pure +affection for her and for her mamma. It passed muster. But when she had +gone I gave it to him finely, and I made him go to bed ... and sharply too. + +--And he obeyed you? + +--I should think so, and without a word. He saw very well he was wrong. One +evening then ... I had been in his service hardly six months--I must tell +you first that he had looked at me very queerly for some time; I let him do +so and said to myself: "Here is another of them who will do like the rest." +And I waited for it to happen. I was better-looking then than I am now: I +was ten years younger, Monsieur le Cure. + +--Ten years younger! but you were thirty then. How could you be a Cure's +servant at that age? Our rules are opposed to it. + +--I passed as his relation. And that was tolerated. Besides, when +Monseigneur made his visitation, I did not show myself ... for form's sake, +for Monseigneur knew very well that I was there. I met him once on the +stairs; he took hold of my chin, looked at me very hard, and said in a sly +way: "Here is this little _spiritual sister_ then; faith, she is a pretty +little rogue." I was so bashful. I asked Monsieur Fortin what a _spiritual +sister_ was, and he told me that they used formerly to call women so who +lived with priests. They say that all had two or three _spiritual sisters_. +What indecency! I should not have allowed that. + +--Spiritual sister is not exactly the expression, said Marcel, it is +_adoptive sister_, because they were adopted.[1] Alas, Veronica, the clergy +were slightly dissolute in former times: it is no longer so in our days, in +which so many holy ecclesiastics give an example of the rarest virtues. + +--Oh, three wives, Monsieur le Cure! three wives! sweet Jesus! they must +have torn out each other's eyes. + +--No, Veronica. They agreed very well among themselves. They had different +ideas at that time to what we have now. + +--One evening then Monsieur Fortin had drunk at table a little more than +usual. I was going to bring the dessert and I leaned over to take up a dish +which was before him. As the dish was heavy and rather far from my hand, I +supported myself on the back of his chair, and involuntarily I rubbed +against his body with my stomach. "Oh, oh," he said, "if that happens again +I shall pinch that big breast." + +--What! Monsieur Fortin used that expression? + +--Yes, sir, and many others besides. I blush when I think of it.... Then I +looked at him quite astounded. He began to laugh. I went to look for the +cheese, and I passed again beside him on purpose, and supported myself on +his chair again to place it on the table. "Ah," he cried, "she is beginning +again. _O, mammosa virgo_!"--he repeated it so many times to me that I +remember it--"so much the worse, I keep my promises." And he pinched me. + +--Where? + +--Where he had said. He made no error. I blushed for shame and drew back as +quickly as possible: "How can he," I said to myself, "use Latin words to +deceive poor women?" Then he cried: "Are you ticklish?"--Yes, sir. "Ah, you +are ticklish. The big Veronica is ticklish! Who would have believed it?" +And he laughed, but I saw clearly that his laugh was put on, and that +something else preoccupied him. And from that moment, each time that I +passed near him and stooped down to clear away, he tried to pinch me where +he could: "And there," he said, "are you ticklish? are you ticklish there?" +I was so stupefied that I could not get over it. "It is a little too much, +Holy Mother of God," I said to myself, "a man like him! to pinch me in this +way! who would believe it! One would not credit it, if one saw it! Ah, I +will see how far he will go, and to-morrow I will give him an account." At +last, when I saw that he would not stop it, and that he was going too far, +I said to him severely: Monsieur le Cure, if you continue to tease me in +this way, you shall see something. + +--What shall I see? he said getting up suddenly, I want to see it directly. +Ah, _mammosa virgo_! you threaten your master! Wait, wait, I will teach you +respect. + +And, pretending to punish me, he caught hold of as much as he could grasp +with both hands; yes, sir, as much as he could. Ah, I was very angry, God +can tell you so. + +--And did he stop? + +--Not at all, sir; quite the contrary. I escaped from his hands, and I +turned round the table saying: "Ah, sweet Jesus, what is going to happen? +Divine Saviour! How far will he dare to go?" To complete the misfortune, I +let the lamp fall, and it went out. Then he put himself into a great +passion, and soon caught me. "You have upset the oil," he cried. "I will +teach you to spill the oil." He held me with all his might. Then I got +angry in earnest, in earnest, you know. + +--Well? + +--Well, that was useless. I was taken like a poor fly. It was too late. It +was all over. + +--All over! + +--All over. Monsieur Fortin let me go then. Ah! sir, if you knew how +ashamed I was. + +[Footnote 1: They are still called _sisters agapetae_ or _subintroduced_ +women. Perhaps it is not unnecessary to recall the fact that Gregory VII +was the first of the popes to impose celibacy on the clergy. He nullified +acts performed by married priests and compelled them to choose between +their wives and the priesthood. In spite of this, and in spite of +excommunication with which he threatened them, many kept their wives +secretly, the rest contented themselves with concubines. Besides, the +majority of the bishops, who lived after the same manner, tolerated for +bribes infractions of the rule by the lower and higher clergy. The Council +of Paris, in 1212, forbade them to receive money, proceeding from this +source. At the present time, however, the Catholic priests of the +Greeks-United, those of Libar and different Oriental communions, all under +papal authority, not only may, but must take wives. + +St. Paul said: "Choose for priest him who shall have but one wife." Would +he find many of them at the present time?] + + + + +LI. + + +CHAMBER MORALITY. + + "Practise moderation and prudence + with regard to certain virtues which + may ruin the health of the body." + + THE REV. FATHER LAURENT SCUPOLI (_Le Combat Spirituel_). + +--What a strange story, said Marcel. Oh, Veronica. But did you not make +more resistance? + +--Resistance! I was lame from it for more than a fortnight. I walked like a +duck. People said to me: "What is the matter with you, Mademoiselle +Veronica? They say you have broken something!" Ah, if they had suspected +what it was. + +--What a scandal! Monsieur Fortin! + +--He was stronger than I; but I don't give him all the blame. We must be +just. It was my fault too. That is what comes of playing with fire. + +--But it seems to me, Veronica, that you displayed a little willingness. + +--Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you are scolding me for telling you all this so +plainly. Was it not better for me to act thus, than to let Monsieur Fortin +run right and left and expose himself to all sorts of affronts, as some do? +That man had a temperament of fire. And that temperament must have expended +itself on someone. The business about little Gilquin made me reflect. I +sacrificed myself, and I acted as much in his interests as in the interests +of religion. + +--And does not temperament speak in you also, Veronica? + +--Ah, that is only told in confession. + +--Nevertheless it is fine to rule your passions, to be chaste. + +--Ah, yes, as you were saying once when I came in: "Chaste without hope." +All that is rubbish. God has well done all that he has done; I can't get +away from that. + +--How can you bring the holy name of God into these abominable things? + +--Abominable! that is rubbish again. Monsieur Fortin and I often asked +ourselves what evil that could do to God, when neither of us did any to +other people. Monsieur Fortin used to say to me: "Are we doing evil to our +neighbours, Veronica?" "Not that I know of, Monsieur le Cure." "Are we +causing a scandal?" "Ah, Jesus, no, Monsieur le Cure." "Are we setting a +bad example?" "No, Monsieur le Cure, no." "Are we populating the land with +orphans?" "Oh, as to that, no." "Well then, in what way can we be offending +God?" That was very well said all the same, the more so as his health +depended on it. + +--But, replied Marcel, wishing to change the conversation which was verging +upon dangerous ground, have you not told me that you have been in the +service of ecclesiastics for nearly five-and-twenty years. That appears to +me to be very extraordinary for, after all, you are hardly forty. + +--Thirty-nine, corrected Veronica, who was past forty-five. + +--Reason the more. + +--That is true, Monsieur le Cure, but I began early. At fifteen I went to +the Abbe Braqueminet's. + +--I was acquainted with a Braqueminet, who was Bishop _in partibus_. A very +worthy prelate. + +--That he is, sir; he went to America. + +--Come! this is too much, Veronica; you want to make a fool of me. At +fifteen, do you say, that is too much! At thirty you were with the Abbe +Fortin. I have no objection to that, since you passed as his relation, +although with regard to this, our rules are precise, and we cannot take a +housekeeper, till she is over a certain age. Sometimes, it is true, they +smuggle in a few years: but fifteen years! + +--It is the exact truth, however, sir. I was fifteen years old, and no more +at the Abbe Braqueminet's, and you will believe me, when I tell you that I +was his niece. + +-Monseigneur Braqueminet's niece! you, Veronica? + +-Yes, sir, his niece; the Holy Virgin who hears me, will tell you that I +was his niece, and I will explain to you how. + + + + +LII. + + +THE POSSET. + + "This little maid, so fair, with teasing ways, + Was made to be a lovely man's support. + For many a foolish thing in former days + He did to gain a face less fair than thine." + + BERANGER (_la Celibataire_). + +My father, as I have told you, was beadle at Saint Eprive's, and my mother +was servant to Monsieur le Cure. These were two good situations, but they +had a number of children, and not much time to attend to them. Therefore +when I was thirteen, they entrusted me to an old aunt who was willing to +take charge of me. She was servant to Monsieur Braqueminet, who was then at +Mirecourt. She placed me at first with a lady who made me look after her +little children. At the end of a year Monsieur l'Abbe had a change, and +went away to a village near Saint-Die. He said to my aunt: "You cannot +leave Veronica alone at Mirecourt; she will soon be fifteen; she is tall +and nice-looking; she will run too much risk, and we must take her with us; +but as it would make these foolish peasants chatter if their Cure had a +strange young girl in the house, she shall pass as my niece. What do you +say to this proposal?" My aunt was delighted and agreed to it directly, and +all the more because I would have to assist her in the household work, and +that her labour would thus be lightened. They took me away from my +situation, they taught me my lesson, and I went away with them, very +pleased to be Monsieur le Cure's niece. Ah! that was the best time of my +life. My aunt spoilt me, Monsieur le Cure was excessively fond of me, I had +all my wishes. All the ladies in the neighbourhood spoke to me civilly, the +Collector's wife, the lawyer's wife, the Mayoress, the wife of the +exciseman, they all, in short, made much of me. Mademoiselle Veronica here! +Mademoiselle Veronica there! I had my place in the gallery. They invited me +to dinner and they were rivals as to who should make me little presents, as +if I were really his true niece; everybody believed it, and my aunt +herself, by dint of hearing it said, ended by believing it herself, for she +never called me anything else than Mademoiselle Veronica. + +Unfortunately after some time my aunt died. When we had both of us wept +copiously for her, Monsieur le Cure said to me: "Now your aunt is dead, +Veronica, what are you going to do?" I made no answer and burst again into +tears. "You must not cry like that, little one, you will spoil your pretty +eyes; will you remain with me? will you continue to be my niece?" That was +my dream; I asked for nothing more. I thanked Monsieur Braqueminet with all +my soul, and told him that as he wanted me to be his niece, I would remain +his niece all my life.--"That is agreed," he said to me, "you shall keep my +little house for me, and I will take another maid-servant for the heavy +work only." For he was so nice to me that he would not allow me to fatigue +myself in anything. Ah, the men, Monsieur le Cure, who can trust the men! +See what he has made of me after all his fine promises: a poor servant, +nothing more. + +--Had he then any reason to complain of you? + +--To complain of me! ah, sweet Paschal Lamb! Never has he said a word of +reproach. But since I am in the mood to tell you everything, I may as well +do so at once. It was he who had my innocence. + +--What! it was not the Abbe Fortin then? + +-No, Monsieur le Cure, it was the Abbe Braqueminet. + +--And how did he go to work to have your innocence? + +--Ah, he was a very clever man. First he knew how to inspire affection, he +was so kind to me. It was I who managed everything. I was mistress of all, +although so young, and, pray believe me, everything proceeded well. But ... +one fine day a real niece turned up, no one knows whence ... and, faith, I +was obliged to retire. I might have made an exposure, but I preferred to +sacrifice myself. + +--Was she younger than you then? + +--The same age, sir, but she was fresh fruit. She appeared so innocent that +one would have given her the sacrament without confession. Monsieur +Braqueminet, he undertook to give her the Sacrament.... Yes, he undertook +it, that man!... + +--But was she really his niece? + +--Yes, sir, his own sister's daughter. I have had proofs of it; do you +think I should have gone away, without that? This sister hated me, and I +thoroughly returned it; but when I saw her daughter arrive, I said to +myself: I am well revenged. + +--But your innocence.... how did he have it? + +--Ah, you are anxious to know that. I must tell you everything then! +everything! this is how it happened. He suffered a little from his chest, +and every evening my aunt used to carry him up a posset. When my aunt was +dead, I was obliged to take her place, for the servant we had taken was +married, and went home at the end of the day. He knew very well what he was +doing, and I, poor little lamb of God, believed everything. I was like a +new-born child. It is not right to be so silly as that. God has punished me +for it: it is quite right. I don't complain at it. So I used to take him up +his posset every evening. Then he used to kiss me and squeeze me to his +heart, calling me his dear niece, and charging me to be good: + +--You will always be good? he used to say to me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Always! you promise me. + +--Yes, uncle. + +--Ah, let me kiss you for that kind promise. I found that he kissed me for +rather a long time and although it was very pleasant to me, still it used +to give me reason for reflection: "How can he love me so much, I thought, +when he is not my uncle?" + +You can judge by that if I was not silly. But it is perfectly conceivable, +for I had never been to school, so who was there then to teach me +naughtiness. A young girl's brain is active, and I formed a thousand +fancies of every kind. "Perhaps he has some interest concealed underneath," +I said artlessly to myself, "and perhaps he does not love me as he wishes +me to believe." I was hardly fifteen, and you see I was quite candid and +simple. I thought I would pretend to be ill, in order to make a trial of +him, and see if he would be grieved and if he would come and nurse me. So +one evening, when he had finished supper, I told him that I was not well, +and that I was going to bed. He was reading his newspaper and did not +appear to hear me. At least he made no reply. I went away very sadly and +sorrowfully, thinking that his affection for me was not very great, as he +did not give the least attention to my complaints. In short, I went to bed. + +"He will go to bed too very soon," I said to myself, "he will call for his +posset and he will be obliged to get up to see why I do not bring it to +him." + +Indeed, about an hour after, I heard his bell. I wrapped myself up in the +sheets and pretended to be asleep. He rang a second time. "Veronica, +Veronica," he cried, "my posset; what are you doing then? Have you +forgotten it? Veronica!" + +I turned a deaf ear. + + + + +LIII. + + +THE LEG. + + "One is compelled sometimes to say to oneself, + 'On what does ruin or safety depend?'" + + J. TOURGUENEFF (_Les eaux printanieres_). + +Then I heard him come upstairs cautiously and stop at the door of my room. +All at once he opened it. He remained standing still for a moment, then he +came near my bed on tip-toe. + +I half-opened my eyes quickly, and the first thing I saw was his naked +legs--my word, he had a very well-made leg! I looked again and saw that he +was covered with an old black cloak which served him as a dressing-gown. + +I closed my eyes again quickly, and, without giving an account of my +feelings, I was overcome by a strong emotion. + +My uncle passed his hand over my forehead. He found it burning, for he +cried out directly: "But she is really ill, she is really ill, poor child." +Then leaning over me: "Little one, little one, where are you in pain?" + +I pretended to wake up with a start, and I stared wildly at him, as if I +was much surprised to see him there. We women have the instinct of deceit +from birth; believe me, what I tell you is true, Monsieur le Cure. + +--It is possible, Veronica. + +--Well, then be said to me, "Where are you in pain, little one?" I put my +finger on the pit of my stomach, and replied in a feeble voice "Here." + +He put his hand there, and I saw that he moved it about with complacency on +that part. + +This touch seemed to make him beside himself, "Oh, the pretty little girl, +the pretty little girl!" he said, "she is ill, poor dear child." And his +hand continued to caress me. + +You may think how I was trembling. Although he did it very decently, I said +to myself that it was not altogether proper, but I took good care not to +utter a word. A girl is inquisitive, you know, and I was not displeased to +see what he would come to. + +"Will you have a fomentation?" he said to me after a moment. "No, uncle," I +answered, "I feel I am getting better, it is not worth while; I am even +going to get up to make you your posset." "To get up, do you dream of +it?... All the same, perhaps you are right, there is still some fire in my +room: will you come there? you will warm yourself better than in your bed." +"I will, if it does not disturb you." "Disturb me! no, no, don't be afraid +of disturbing me; come, put on a dress and come." + +I sat up in bed, thinking that he would go out of the room to let me dress, +but he remained standing in front of me, and his looks frightened me. + +I remained sitting on the bed, without stirring. "Well, well, little girl, +you are not getting up?" + +"I dare not get up before you, uncle." "Are you silly? What are you afraid +of? Are you not my niece? Come, come, out of bed, little stupid." He said +that in a gentle insinuating voice, and I dared not hesitate any more. I +put one leg out of bed. He followed my movements with the greatest +attention; "Well, well, and that other leg?" + +I put out the other leg, blushing all over with shame, and I wanted to take +my petticoat. + +But he came near directly and said: "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty +she is like this.... You will always be good, will you not?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"How pretty you are when you are good. You will always be so? You promise?" + +"Yes, uncle." + +"Oh, I want to kiss you for that kind promise." + +--I held out my cheek to him without resistance, but it was my mouth which +received the kiss. It was followed by a thousand others. One is not of +iron, Monsieur le Cure, and that was how ... I ... lost my innocence. + +--What, Veronica, you fell so easily! They say that it is only the first +step which is painful, but it seems hardly to have been painful to you. + +--Oh, Monsieur le Cure, we women are full of faults, and we deserve only +eternal damnation. + +--I do not say that, Veronica. Certainly in this circumstance all the fault +lies on your seducer, but I should have preferred more struggle on your +part. + +--You men are very good with your struggle. To hear you, we never make +enough resistance. Would one not say that the poor women are made of +another paste than you, and that they ought to be harder? + +--No, but it is necessary to know how to govern one's passions. That is the +noble, the lofty, the meritorious thing. Resist temptation, everything lies +in that. + +[PLATE III: THE LEG. "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like +this..."] + +[Illustration] + +--Everything lies in that, I know it well; but what would you? I had lost +my head entirely like Monsieur Braqueminet. And I did not know what he +wanted, or what he was going to do. I only understood when it was too late. + +--Ah, Veronica, you singular woman, you have made me quite beside myself +with your stories. + +--It was you who wished it. + +--The Abbe Fortin! the Abbe Braqueminet! God of heaven! and who besides? + +--The Abbe Marcel! + +--Yes, it is true, I also ... I have been on the point of transgressing. +Ah! temptation is sometimes very strong, Veronica, my good Veronica; the +noble thing is to resist. + +The greatest saints have succumbed. St. Origen was obliged to employ a +grand means, you know what, my daughter? + +--Monsieur Fortin has told me. But you must not act like that saint; that +would be a pity, it would be better to succumb, dear Monsieur Marcel. How I +like your name, Marcel, Marcel, it is so soft to the mouth. + +--To resist temptation like Jesus on the mountain.... + +--There was but one Jesus. + +--Like St. Antony in the desert.... + +--That is rubbish; in the desert no one could tempt him. + +--Leave the room, Veronica; since you have talked to me, I understand the +fault of your former masters; leave the room. + +--Are you afraid of me then? Angels of heaven, a woman like me. Is it +possible? Ah, I should have been very proud of it. + +--Proud to make me sin? + +--Sin! Sin! Monsieur le Cure: why do we call that a sin? + +She came nearer to him. He wished to rise from his chair, but his hand went +astray, he never knew how, on his servant's waist. + +Oh vow of chastity, sentiments of modesty, manly dignity and priestly +virtue, where were you, where were you? + + + + +LIV. + + +MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. + + "Well, you have found it, this ephemeral happiness." + + BABILLOT (_La Mascarade humaine_). + +Sadness succeeds to joy, deception to illusion, the awakening to the dream, +the head-ache to the debauch. + +When the crime is perpetrated, remorse, the avenging lash of virtue, comes +and scourges the conscience. "Come, up, vile thing! thou hast slept over +long." + +And it exposes to the wretch the emptiness of pleasures, purchased at the +price of honour. + +The dawn found the Cure of Althausen groaning secretly to himself on his +couch. + +He had made himself guilty of an abominable wickedness, he had just +committed an inexcusable crime, he had succumbed cowardly, ignominiously; +he had betrayed his faith, abjured his priestly oaths, forgotten his +duties, prostituted his dignity on the withered breast of an old corrupted +maid-servant. + +Suzanne, the adorable young girl, who in the first place had insensibly and +involuntarily drawn him on the road of perjury, for whom he would have +sacrificed honour, reputation, the universe and his God, he had abjured her +also in the arms of this drab. + +And that was the wound which consumed his heart the most. + +For as soon as we have yielded to the infernal temptation, the lying prism +vanishes, the halo disappears, and there only remains vice in all its +hideousness and repulsive nudity. It is then that we hear a threatening +voice mutter secretly in the depths of our being. + +Happy is he who, already slipping on the fatal descent, listens to that +voice: "Stop, stop; there is still time, raise thyself up." + +But most frequently we remain deaf to that importunate cry. And, weary of +crying in vain, conscience is silent. It no more casts its solemn serious +note into the intoxicating music of facile love. + +And the wretch, devoured by insatiable desire, pursues his coarse and looks +not back. He goes on, he ever goes on, leaving right and left, like the +trees on the way-side, his vigour and his youth which he scatters behind +him. He set forth young, robust and strong, and he arrives at the +halting-place, worn-out, soiled and blemished. There is the ditch, and he +tumbles headlong into it. He falls into the common grave of cowardice and +infamy. The lowest depths receive him and restore him not again. + +Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums +have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened. Disturb +not this corpse, it is only putrefaction. + +The poet has said: + + "Evil to him who has permitted lewdness + Beneath his breast its foremost nail to delve! + The pure man's heart is like a goblet deep: + Whe the first water poured therin is foul, + The sea itself could not wash out the spot, + So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie." + +Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid +descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself: + +"Shall I ever be able to see the light of day? Shall I ever dare to raise +my eyes after this filthy crime? Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me. Avenging +thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the +nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth." + +But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest +rumbling of thunder. Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no +minister of God had sinned. The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and +danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the +pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden. + +There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the +burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile. +She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with +pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless +curiosity. + +[PLATE IV: MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. ...he sprang out of bed, surfeited with +disgust.... And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a +madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.] + +[Illustration] + +Doubtless she was saying to herself: "Is it really possible? Am I then in +bed with this handsome priest? Is my dream then realised?" + +And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in the +Cure of Althausen's bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones: + +--You say nothing, my handsome master. You seem to be dejected. What! you +are not tired out already? + +And she put out her hand to give him a caress. But he sprang out of bed, +surfeited with disgust. + +--Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful. I was forgetting your +Mass. + +And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and +carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm. + + + + +LV. + + +IN THE FOOT-PATH. + + "'Tis the comer blest where God's creatures dwell, + The wild birds' haunt and the dragon-fly's home, + Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell, + Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Les Rustiques_). + +"Abomination of abomination!" murmured Marcel, and he went out in haste; he +would not remain another minute in that cursed house. It seemed to him that +the walls of his room reeked of debauchery, and that everything there was +impregnated with the odour of foul orgies. + +He went out of the village, unconscious of his road, like a hunted +criminal; he tried to escape from himself, for that harsh officer, remorse, +had laid vigorous hold of his conscience. Be followed at random the +foot-paths, lined by gardens by which he had passed so many times with +placid brow and a clean heart; he walked on, he walked on, with bare head, +and blank and haggard eyes, thinking of nothing but his crime, seeing +nothing, hearing nothing, not oven the bell which summoned him to his +morning Mass, as it cheerfully filled the air with its silver notes. + +The morning was as bright as the face of a bride. May was shedding its +perfumes and flowers on the paths, and displaying everywhere its marvellous +adornments of universal life,--labour and love. The children were already +tumbling about in the foot-paths, the birds were warbling in the hawthorn +hedges, and in the moist grass the grasshopper was saluting the rising sun. + +And he, in the midst of all this joy and all this life, was walking on with +his head filled with vague ideas of suicide. A few peasants passed near him +and sainted him: he saw them not; he saw not the children who stopped still +and gazed in bewilderment at his strange appearance: he saw not Suzanne who +was approaching at the end of the path. + +She was only a few paces away when he raised his head, and all his blood +rushed to his heart. Vision blessed and cursed at the same time. She, she +there, at the vary moment of the consummation of his shame. She before him +when he had just dug an abyss between them. What should he say? Would she +not read on his troubled face the shameful secret of the drama within? Was +not his crime written on his sullied brow in indelible soars? He would have +wished the earth to open under his feet. + +Meanwhile she advanced blushing, perhaps as greatly agitated as himself. + +And from the smile on her rosy lips, from the brightness of her dark eyes, +from the gram of her carriage, from the chaste swelling of her bosom, from +the folds of her dress which, blown by the morning breeze, revealed the +harmonious outlines of her fairy leg, from all those inexpressible maiden +charms, there breathed forth that _something_, for which there is no name +in the language of men, but which accelerates the beating of the heart, +which pours into the veins an unknown fluid, and bids us murmur low to the +stranger who passes by, and whom perhaps we may never see again: "My life +is thine, is thine!" + +Mysterious sensation, which, in the golden days of youth, we have all +experienced once at least with ravishing delight. + +And everything seemed to say to Marcel: "Fool! If thou hadst wished it, we +were thine. The delights of paradise were thine, and thou hast preferred +the impurities of hell!" + +Oh, if he had been able, if he had dared, he would have cast himself at +this maiden's feet, he would have kissed her knees, he would have grovelled +on the ground and cried with tears: "Pardon! pardon! Fate has caused it +all. Almighty God will never pardon me, but it is thou whom I implore, and +what matters it, if thou, thou dost pardon me." + +The feeling of the reality recalled him to himself. Who was aware of his +fault, and what was there, besides, in common between this young girl and +himself? One evening when alone with her, he had acted imprudently, that +was all, and it was now long ago. Then, through desperation and also to +show that he attached no importance to that act of imprudence which he had +almost forgotten, he assumed an icy demeanour. + +She advanced with a smile, but she felt it congeal on her lips before this +insolent coldness, while he, gravely bowing to her as before, a stranger, +passed on. + + + + +LVI. + + +DOUBLE REMORSE. + + "Ah, how much better are the love-tales + which we spelt in our eyes with + our hearts." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Croquis d'automne_). + +His Mass said, Marcel did not want to return to the parsonage. He made his +way slowly to the wood, absorbed by a world of thoughts. All was quite +changed since the day before, and what a revolution had been wrought in his +soul in one day. + +The day before there was still time to stop, there was time to cast far +away temptations and impure desires, to avoid the infernal snares and +ambushes, to take refuge, according to the Apostle's advice, in the bosom +of God; now it was too late, it was no longer in his power; he found +himself hemmed in within the circle of abominations, and he did not see how +he could get forth. + +A double remorse tormented him, and wrung his conscience with fierce +fingers. + +On the one hand, there was his servant, become his accomplice and his +mistress, an odious thing; his servant defiling his couch, hitherto +immaculate; his couch of a virtuous priest. + +Then, on the other, there was the fair pale face of Suzanne, full of +reproaches, surprised and sad. Why had he not stopped? What fury had urged +him forward, cold and scornful, when he burned to hear once again the sound +of that voice which stirred his heart! + +And the memory of that meeting, at the very moment of the consummation of +his infamy, was the blow of the lash which laid bare the open wound of his +remorse. He did not curse his crime more than the inopportuneness and the +awkwardness of that crime. + +What! be had given himself up to a despicable old woman, he had slaked the +thirst of that ghoul with his generous blood, he had abandoned to that +hell-hag the promises of his young body and his virgin soul, while a young +girl whose like he had never seen but in fairy tales and dreams, came to +him and seemed to say to him: "You may love me." + +And he had repulsed her in order to give himself up to the former: that +horrible creature, that hypocrite, that sorceress. + +And now that his judgment was calm, he could not understand how he had +allowed himself to be carried away by such clumsy manoeuvres, that he had +fallen in so cowardly a way, and for such an object. + +If, at least, it had been in the arms of the lovely school-girl! If his +virtue had melted under the kisses of her charming lips! But no, none of +all that: none of those unparalleled joys, of those ineffable delights, of +those divine and sweet pleasures. + +Unclean touches, a withered body, an impure mouth. Lewdness instead of +love. + +And his servant's caresses recurred to him and froze him like the infernal +spectres of a hideous nightmare. + +He saw again her face, lighted up by amorous fever, her fiery lecherous +look, fastening on him with all the wild fury of her forty-five years, with +the cynicism of the sham saint who has thrown away her mask, and who, after +long fasting, continence and privation, finds at length the means of +glutting herself, and wallows more than any other in the sewer of +obscenities and Saturnalia. + +He saw her again like the old courtesan of Horace, + + ...._Mulier nigris dignissima barris_ + +soliciting horribly her too avaricious caresses, and employing all the +arsenal of her filthy seduction to excite him. + +Meanwhile the hours were passing away. The spirit travels in vain into the +land of phantoms; nature performs her modest functions without caring for +the wanderings of the spirit. + +He felt by the pangs of his stomach that he had as yet only breakfasted on +the body of Christ, a meagre repast after a night consecrated to Venus. In +short, he was hungry, and he decided to return to the parsonage. + + + + +LVII. + + +THE EXPLOSION. + + "What dost thou want with me, old + vixen, worthy to have black elephants + for thy lovers.... With what passion + dost thou reproach me for my disgust." + + HORACE (_Epodes_). + +Veronica was waiting for him with a puckered smile. At another time she +would have made a great uproar, for the hour for the meal had struck long +ago; but she did not wish to abuse her freshly conquered rights, and she +contended herself with asking in accents of soft reproach. + +--How late you are. Where have you come from? I was beginning to be +anxious. + +Marcel made no reply. + +--You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have +you come from? + +--I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply. + +The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the +table. + +--Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went +towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here +quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are +all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they +scorn her. + +This sentence struck the Cure to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his +wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he +wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him. + +--You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly. + +--There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I +said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not +young enough or pretty enough for you. + +--I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting. + +--What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick. + +--I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think. + +--I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken. Ah! I am +revolting! revolting! Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth. But +it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, +yesterday, she cried insolently. + +--Yesterday! yesterday! Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you. I would +that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of +the tomb. + +--Yes? is that your thought? Well, for my part, I will forget nothing. Oh! +you are pleased to wish to forget, are you? Therefore, you give yourself up +to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, +and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with +no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say: "Let us forget." +Ah! I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who +preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do +you hear? + +--Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven. + +--I will not be silent, I will not. So much the worse if they hear me. What +does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am? It is not I who am +guilty, it is you. It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you. +It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and +morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked +tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night +under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned +her back. Yes, yes, you have done that. I blush for you. And you are +Monsieur le Cure! Monsieur le Cure. If that wouldn't make the hens laugh. +Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it +is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you. Have I gone and +sought for you, have I? You have made me tell you a lot of stories which +ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside +you, drink brandy,... and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me. +Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has +been all her life the victim of priests like you. No, I will not be silent, +I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must. Ah! you have taken me like a +thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, +when one has no more need of it: I understand you; but I have more +self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant. + +You want to forget. Very good. But I do not want to forget, and I shall not +forget. Oh, I well know what it is your want, Messieurs les Cures; you want +young girls, quite young girls, green fruit, which you pick like that at +the Confessional, or in some corner, without appearing to touch it, and all +the while praying to God. I am aware of that, you know. You cannot teach +any tricks to me. You did not get up early enough, my good master. Your +Suzanne! there is what would please you. You would not tell her that she is +revolting. Affected thing! But they will give you them, wait a little. _Go +and see if they are coming, Jean_. The little girls come like that and +throw themselves at your neck! You would allow it perhaps. That is what +would be revolting. But the mammas are watching, and the papas are opening +their eyes. You hear, Monsieur le Cure? The papas; that is what annoys you. +Papa Durand. + +--Here! cried a voice of thunder from the bottom of the stair-case, and it +resounded in Marcel's ears like the trumpet of the last judgment. + +Pale and terrified, he questioned Veronica with his eyes. + +--It is he, she said, hurrying to the landing-place. + + + + +LVIII. + + +PROVOCATION. + + "For her, for her I will drink the cup to the dregs." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Chatterton_). + +--A thousand pardons, said the Captain, but the door was open and I have +knocked twice. Monsieur le Cure, I have the honour to salute you. I am not +disturbing you? + +--Not at all, Monsieur le Capitaine, quite the contrary, I am happy to see +you; please come in, stammered Marcel, trying to conceal his confusion, and +to look pleasantly at the old soldier. He eagerly brought forward an +arm-chair for him, the one on which Suzanne had sat. + +"Ah," he thought, "if he knew that his daughter was there, at this same +place!" + +The Captain sat down, and, tapping his cane on the floor, seemed to be +seeking for a way of entering on his subject; he appeared anxious, and +Marcel noticed that he no longer had his decisive scoffing manner. + +--Monsieur le Cure, he said after a moment's silence, you must be a little +surprised to see me ... although, after what I believe I heard, I may not +be altogether a stranger here. + +--My parishioners are no strangers, Captain. + +--Parishioner! oh, I am hardly that. I was not making allusion to that +title, but to my name, which was uttered at the very moment when I was at +your door. + +--Your name, Captain, said Marcel growing red; but there are several +persons of your name. + +--That is what I said to myself. There is more than one donkey which is +called Neddy, and more than one _Papa_ Durand in the world. _Papa_! that +recalls to me my position as father, sir, and the purpose of my presence +here. + +Marcel trembled. + +--For you may guess that independently of the pleasure of paying you a +call, I have moreover another object in view. + +--Proceed, Captain. + +--Yes, sir. I wish to talk to you about my daughter. + +--About your daughter! cried Marcel. + +--About my daughter, if you allow me. + +--Do so, I beg of you. + +--Monsieur le Cure, you have been in this neighbourhood some six or eight +months. People have certainly spoken to you about me; they have told you +who I am; a miscreant, a man without religion, who regards neither law or +Gospel: that is to say, only worth hanging. In spite of that, you came to +see me. Very good. You know that I do not pick and choose my words, that I +do not seek a lot of little twisting ways to express my meaning. You have +had a proof of it. I am blunt, and even brutal, that is well known; but I +am open and true. + +--I do not doubt it, Captain. + +--After our little conversation the other day, you must have decided on my +sentiments with regard to those of your profession. Are those sentiments +right or wrong? That is my business. I am not come to begin a controversy, +I am come to ask for an explanation. + +--Please go on, said Marcel alarmed. + +--Not liking the priests, I should have wished to bring up my daughter in +these principles. You see I am straightforward. Unfortunately, like many +other things, her education has slipped out of my hands. We soldiers do not +accumulate property, and those who have the best share, if they have no +private fortune, remain as poor as Job. We are not able therefore to bring +up our children as we intend. The State, in its solicitude, is willing to +undertake this care: we are glad of it, and we are thankful to the State; +but our children slip out of our hands; they become what the State wishes +them to be, that is to say, its humble servants, and, if they are +daughters, anything but what their father has ever dreamed. + +Marcel breathed again: + +--The vocation of children, he said softly, is often in contradiction to +the wishes of parents, and that is precisely the sign of the real vocation +... to shatter obstacles. Where is the great artist, the great man, the +hero, the saint, the martyr, who has not had to struggle with his own +family? + +--I am not speaking of a vocation, sir, but of prejudices, of fatal habits, +of disheartening nonsense, which children, and especially young girls, +imbibe in certain surroundings. The education which my daughter has +received, has inoculated her with ideas which I am far from blaming in a +woman--I have my religion myself too--but the abuse of which I resent. I am +not then at war with my daughter because she has her own, and her own is +more receptive, but what I blame with all my power, and what I am +determined to oppose with all my power is the excessive attendance at +church and on the priest ... on the priest, above all. You are a man, sir, +and you understand me, do you not? + +--I understand, Captain, that you do not wish your daughter to go to +church. + +--As little as possible, sir. + +--Nevertheless, as a Christian and as a Catholic, she has duties to +perform. + +--What do you mean by duties? + +--Why, the first elements which the Catechism prescribes. + +--I do not remember exactly what your catechism prescribes, but if you mean +by that the little box where they tell their sins, that is exactly what I +absolutely forbid. + +--Nevertheless a young person has need of counsel. + +--Undoubtedly; but that counsel I intend to give myself. + +--There is also the priest's part, Captain. + +--Allow me to have another opinion. Besides, the adviser is too young; that +is why, Monsieur le Cure, I ask you to abstain in the future from all +advice, and undertake to abandon any intention you may have with regard to +the direction of this young soul. Such is the purport of my visit. + +--Monsieur le Capitaine, answered Marcel, relieved from a great weight, I +am an honourable man. Another perhaps might be offended at this proceeding. +I will take no offence at it. Another perhaps might answer: "It is a soul +to contend for with Satan; it is the struggle between the Church and the +family; an old struggle, sir, an eternal struggle. You are master to impose +your will among your own, just as among us, we are masters to act according +to our conscience. As a father of a family, your rights are sacred, but +they stop at the entrance to the holy place. You desire the struggle. It +lies between us." For myself I simply reply: "Let it be done according to +your wish, and may the will of God equally be done!" + +--And what does that mean? + +--That your daughter is and shall be in my eyes like all the souls which +Heaven has willed to entrust to my care. If she does not come to church, I +will not go to seek her; but if she comes there, I cannot ask her to +depart. + +--You are really too good. And if she comes and kneels in the little box? + +--Then the will of God will be stronger than the paternal will. + +--That is no answer. + +--Well! what can I do? humbly replied Marcel. + +--Allow me, sir; I ask you what you would do in such a case. + +--I make you the judge of it; can I treat your daughter differently to the +other ladies of the parish? + +--That is to say that you will receive her confession? + +--That will be my duty, Captain. I am frank also, you see. + +--But, Monsieur le Cure, the first of your duties is not to encourage the +disobedience of children, and not to place yourself between a father and +his daughter. + +--I place myself on no side, Captain. I confine myself, as far as I can, to +the very obscure and modest character of a poor priest. I am charged with +an office; is it possible, I ask you yourself, for me to repel those who +address themselves to that office? + +--Very good, sir, said the Captain rising; I know henceforth what to rely +on. + +--Pardon me, Captain, but allow me to say that your proceedings and +apprehensions appear to me a trifle superfluous; for indeed, if you have a +reproach to make your daughter, it is not that of excessive devotion, for +it is a long time since she has come to church. + +--I have forbidden it to her, sir. But my daughter is grieved, and that +pains me. I came to address myself to you, man to man, and as you see, I am +disappointed. + +--Believe me, Captain, let the thing alone. Do nothing in a hurry. Young +people are irritated by obstacles. They need freedom and diversion. Think +of this young lady's position, dropped from her school into the midst of +this solitude, having neither friends or companions any longer; at that +age, the family is not everything; books, walks, music are not sufficient, +What harm is there in her coming sometimes on Sunday, to hear Divine +Service? We do not conceal it from ourselves, sir, that many women whom we +see at service, come there for relaxation. + +--And it is precisely that relaxation which ruins them. + +--Not in the church, sir. + +--Not there, no. But behind, in the sacristy, or at the back of some +well-closed room. Adieu, sir. + +--I do not want to criticize your language, Captain But one word more, I +ask. Is your daughter acquainted with your proceeding? + +--Why that question? + +--Because then my task will be all traced out. + +--What task? + +--To avoid every sort.... + +--Of intercourse. Do what honour counsels you, and trust to me for the +rest. I will act with my daughter as it will be suitable for me to act. As +for you, you have asserted that any other priest _less honourable_ would +have said to me: "We are going to engage in the struggle, it lies between +us." I see now that in your mouth the word _honourable_ signifies _polite_, +for you have been polite, but the other alone would have been frank and +honourable. "Between us" is better, "between us" pleases me. It is plainer +and shorter. Again, I have the honour to salute you. + + + + +LIX. + + +ACTS AND WORDS. + + "Intrigues of heavy dreams! We go + to the right; darkness: we go to the + left; darkness: in front; darkness ... + the thread which you think you hold, + escapes out of your hand, and, triumphant + for a moment, you set yourself + again to grope your way to the catastrophe, + which is a denseness of shadows." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Croquis d'automne_). + +When the Captain had gone away, Marcel perceived the triumphant face of his +servant. Mad with shame and rage he shut himself up in his room, and asked +himself what was going to become of him. "What am I to do?" he said to +himself; "here is the punishment already." + +Nevertheless, on serious reflection, he saw a way all traced out before +him; it was the ancient, the good, the old way which he had followed until +then, and into which the Captain had just brutally driven him back: + +The way of his duty. + +To forget Suzanne! He had that very morning, without wishing it, almost +unknowingly, commenced the rapture; the father's visit had just completed +the work. + +To forget Suzanne! Yes, he would forget her, he must; not only his honour, +his reputation, but his very existence were involved in it. Material +impossibilities rose up before him in every direction where he tried to +deviate from the straight path. His servant! The father! He was compelled +to be an honourable man anyhow, not lost sight of, watched and spied upon +by these two enemies. + +To forget Suzanne! How, after what had passed the previous day, would he +dream for a moment of remembering her? He was almost thankful to his +servant for having stopped him in time on a descent, at the end of which +was scandal and dishonour. + +In any other circumstances his pride would have revolted at the menaces of +the foolish father, he would have been stung in his self-esteem, and he +would have disputed with him for his treasure. But where was his pride? +Where was his dignity? He had left all that on the lap of a cook. + +Reputation was safe; that was henceforth the only good which he must keep +at any price. + +"Come," said he, "keep it, have courage. Stand up, son of saints and +martyrs. Yield not, hesitate not, march forward, without being anxious for +what is on the right or left. Do thy duty in one direction, since in the +other thou hast failed. Is a man then lost because he has for one moment +deviated from his way? Is he dead for one false step? Peter denied his +master three times, thou hast done so but once!"[1] + +The postman's ring drew him from his reverie. He ran to receive the letter, +recognized the writing, hastily put it into his pocket, took up his hat and +his breviary, and went out without saying a word. + +When he was in the little hollow road which is at the bottom of the hill, +he turned round, and, certain that he was not being followed, only then did +he open the letter which follows: + + +"MONSIEUR LE CURE, + +"Why are you vexed with me? If you have not seen me any more at Mass, it is +that I have had to contend with my father, and that I have been obliged to +yield. Nevertheless, I am unhappy, and more than ever have I need of your +counsel. You have said: 'We cannot serve two masters,' and 'it is very +difficult to render to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which +is God's.' One word, if you please, through the medium of Marianne to + +"Your very devoted + +"S.D." + +He tore up the letter into the smallest fragments and returned home in all +haste. + +A few hours after, Marianne received the following notice: + +_"To-morrow evening at 7 o'clock, in honour of the Holy Virgin, there will +be Salutation and Benediction at the Chapel of St. Anne. The faithful are +besought to attend."_ + +[Footnote 1: Thou art man and not God, says the holy book of Consolation, +thou art flesh and not an angel. How canst thou always continue in very +virtue?] + + + + +LX. + + +TALKS. + + "When from the hills fell balmy night, + 'Neith the dark foliage of the lofty trees, + Starred by the moon-beams' placid light, + Often we wandered by the water's side." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poesie inedite_). + +As he expected, she did not fail to be at the meeting-place. She was +unaware of her father's proceedings; it was Marcel who informed her of +them. She was quite terrified; but he reassured her, and knew how to soothe +her young conscience; and meeting followed meeting. Dear and innocent +meetings. The most prudish old woman would have found nothing to find fault +with. The mystery, and their being forbidden, formed all their charm. + +The Chapel of St. Anne, half-a-league distant from the village, was a +charming object for a walk. You cross the meadow as far as the little +river, bordered with willows, then the chapel is reached by a hollow lane +hedged with quicksets. The sweet month of May had begun. Three evenings a +week the little nave was in festal dress, and filled with light, and +perfumes and flowers. + +Suzanne went no more to Mass, but she had said to her father: + +--Will you not let me go instead and take a walk sometimes beside Saint +Anne's, to hear the music and the singing of the congregation? + +--Marianne shall accompany you, replied Durand. + +They were always the last to leave the chapel, and Marcel soon rejoined +them. It was at some winding of the path that he used to meet them _by +chance_, and every time he showed great surprise. They walked slowly along, +talking of one thing and another. The Spring, the latest books, the _good_ +Captain's rheumatism, were themes of inexhaustible variety. The future +sometimes attracted their thoughts, her own future; and the priest tried to +cause a few fresh rays to shine into the young unquiet soul. + +They talked also of the school and of friends who had gone out into the +world. One of them, a fair child with blue eyes, was her best-beloved and +the fairest of the fair, and Marcel sometimes felt jealous of these warm, +young-girl friendships. + +He did not disdain to talk of fashions; it is one way of pleasing, and he +admired aloud the elegant cut of the waist, the twig of lilac fastened to +the body of her dress, and the graceful art which had twined her long jetty +plaits. She smiled and said: "What, you too; you too; you pay attention to +these woman's trifles!" + +But what matters the topic of their conversations, all they could say was +not worth the joyous note which sang at the bottom of their hearts. + +When they drew near the village he bowed to her respectfully, and each one +returned by a different way. + +Marianne was then profuse in her praises: + +-What a fine Cure! she said, so kind and civil. If your father only knew +him better! + +And Suzanne, who returned very thoughtful, said once: "The Cure! can it be? +It is the Cure then." + + + + +LXI. + + +LE PERE HYACINTHE. + + "She still preserved for herself that + little scene; thus, little by little, we + accumulate within ourselves all the + elements of the inner life." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +She had shown Marcel the portrait of her beloved Rose. "Yes, she is very +pretty," he had replied, "but I prefer dark girls ..." Suzanne blushed. He +opened his breviary and drew out a card. + +--Are you going to show me a dark girl? she said. + +He handed it to her without answering. + +It was the photograph of a man of about forty, with strongly-marked and +characteristic features. The eyes, prominent and slightly veiled, were +surrounded with a dark ring, a token of struggle, fatigue and deception. A +profile out of a picture of Holbein in every-day dress. + +--It is a priest, she cried. + +--It is a priest, indeed, answered Marcel. We are recognized in any +costume. We cannot conceal our identity. Do you know who that is? + +--Is it not that monk who has made such a noise? That Dominican who has +married, and broken with the Church? + +--Yes, Mademoiselle. + +The young girl regarded it with curiosity. + +--It must have been a violent passion to come to that, she said. + +--No, it was an idea well resolved upon and matured. No transport of youth +carried him away. See, he is no longer young, and the companion he has +chosen is very nearly his own age, and he had for her only a tender and +holy feeling. + +--Why then this uproar and scandal? + +--In order to protest aloud against a rule which he did not approve. In our +days there are so many cowardly and degenerate characters, that we cannot +too greatly admire those who have the courage to proclaim their opinion in +the presence of the mob, especially when those opinions shock the +brutalized mob; for my part I admire this man; but what I admire still more +is the woman who has dared to put her hand in his, and brave the derision +of the vulgar, and the calumnies of hypocrites. + +--But his vows? + +--What is a vow when it is a question of the duty which your conscience +dictates? I heard him say one day: "If, after reaching middle age, I have +decided after long reflection to choose a companion, it is not in response +to the cry of the senses, but in order to sanctify my life." He has taken +back the word which he had given, as we all do, at an age when we are +ignorant of the import, and the consequence of that word. Be assured that +his conscience does not reproach him, for you can see on this fine +countenance that his conscience is at rest. Besides, is it the case that +God enjoins celibacy? The celibacy of priests dates only from the year +1010: Christ never speaks about it. + +--And so he has broken with all his past, his relations, his world; he has +ruined what you men call his future. He must begin his life again. + +--And he begins it again in accordance with his inclinations, his needs and +his heart: It is never too late to change the road when we discover that we +have taken the wrong way. It takes longer time, there is more hardship, but +what matters it, provided we attain happiness, the end which we all have in +view. Ah, Mademoiselle, how many, like he, would wish to begin their life +again, if they found a courageous soul who was willing to accompany them? +The future, do you say? But the future, the present, the past, the whole +life lies in the sweet union of hearts. To devote oneself, to renounce +everything, to give up everything, even one's illusions, one's beliefs, +one's dreams for the loved object, is not a sacrifice: it is the sweetest +of joys and the noblest of duties. + +He stopped, fearing that he had gone too far, and did not dare to look at +Suzanne. + +She answered coldly. "Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you approve of that! I did not +think you would have approved of Pere Hyacinth; truly, I am astonished." + +_Monsieur le Cure_! It was the first time Suzanne had called him _Monsieur +le Cure_. That name wounded him like an affront. He remembered what he was, +and what he must not cease to be in the eyes of the young girl: the Cure! +nothing but the Cure. + +And he was sick at heart for several days. + +But one fine morning, on coming out from Mass, his countenance lit up, he +uttered a cry of joy and fell into the arms of Abbe Ridoux. + + + + +LXII. + + +THE HAPPY CURE + + "Such was Socrates said to have + been, because the outside beholders, + and those estimating him by his external + appearance, would not have given the + slice of an onion, so plain was he in + his person, and ridiculous in his bearing ... + simple in habits, poor in fortune, + unfortunate with women, unfit + for all the offices of the republic, + always laughing, always drinking with + one or another, always sporting, always + concealing his divine wisdom." + + RABELAIS (_Gargantua_). + +Monsieur Ridoux was a very good fellow, but he was not handsome. A big +nose, a big belly, blinking eyes, an enormous mouth, hair on end, the arm +of a chimpanzee, and the legs of a Greenlander. At first sight, he gave me +the impression of a monkey with young. + +But what is a man's outward form? The vessel, more or less regular, filled +with a baneful or beneficent liquid, and you all know that the shape of the +flagon has no influence on the quality of the wine. + +The outward form is the wrapper of the goods: very often that wrapper is +brilliant and gilded, of satin or watered silk, and the goods are +adulterated and spoiled. At other times the wrapper is rough and coarse, +but it enfolds precious commodities. + +The stamp of genius is usually found only on countenances with fantastic +features. Have you ever seen on the fair insipid faces of our _young +swells_ the imprint of a powerful and fertile intelligence? + +The body nearly always is adorned at the expense of the mind. + +Of all the deformities of nature, the hunchbacks are intellectual in +proportion as the handsome men are not. + +Enquire of the army its opinion on its pre-eminently _fine man_, the +drum-major. + +Vincent Voiture, who had, as he confessed himself, the silly face of a +dreaming sheep, used to say that nature usually likes to place the most +precious souls in ill-favoured, puny bodies, as jewellers set the richest +diamonds in a small quantity of gold. + +Accordingly, the pitiful wrapper of the Abbe Ridoux covered an excellent +soul. With his ugly face and his old stained cassock, he reminded me of +those dirty bottles, coated with spider-webs and dust, which we place +daintily on the table on days of rejoicing, and which lord it majestically +among the glittering decanters, soon to be despised, when their dusty sides +appear. + +Thus Monsieur Ridoux lorded it amongst his curates, younger, handsomer, +fresher, more tasty than himself, and eclipsed them by all the brilliancy +of his good-sense, his tact, and his experience. + +He had certainly his little failings!... Who can say that he is exempt from +them? But his mind was sound. A good companion, besides, and of a cheerful +disposition. "We have reached a period," he used to say, "when the priest +must lay aside the stern front and the anathema. There is already much to +obtain pardon for in the colour of his robe. Let us be cheerful, let us be +insinuating, let us be compassionate to human weaknesses. Let us sin, if +need be, with discretion and propriety; but, in heaven's name, let us not +terrify. Let us promise paradise to all. There are always plenty enough +whose life is a hell." + +In that he was not of Veuillot's opinion, that rigid saint, who wished to +see all the world damned for the love of God. + +Therefore, on seeing this cheerful countenance, this openness of manner, +this freedom of speech, this unrestrained good-nature, even those who had +been warned, could not help saying: "Well indeed! this Cure has a pleasant +phiz!" + +Slanderous tongues, Voltairians--who is sheltered from the stings of that +race of vipers?--slanderous tongues affirmed that beneath this Rabelaisian +exterior, he was profoundly vicious, artful, and hypocritical. Marcel, who +had been brought up by him, and was acquainted with the most secret details +of his inmost life, has always assured me that he was nothing of the kind, +and that his uncle Ridoux, endowed with the ugliness of Socrates, had also +his wisdom. + +Nevertheless, I would not dare to assert that he did not like to pinch the +young girls' chins, especially of those who had made their first communion +and were near to the marriageable age; a familiarity which, thanks to his +gray hairs, and the development of his abdomen, he thought was permitted +him, but which, however, is not always without danger. + +Cazotte, a wise man, used to say to his daughters: "When you are alone with +young people, distrust yourselves; but if you find yourselves with old men, +distrust them, and avoid allowing them to take hold of your chin." + +Cazotte was right, for old men begin with that. I would not dare either to +assert that the charms of his cook were safe from his indiscreet curiosity, +for it is there too that old men finish; and we must swear not at all. +Everybody knows the wise man's precept: "When in doubt, abstain." + +At the period of which I am speaking to you, he reigned in a good parish, +well frequented by devout ladies, both young and middle-aged, where from +the height of his pulpit he laid down his laws to his kneeling people, +without hindrance or control. + +He was happy, as all wise men ought to be. Happy to be in the world, +satisfied to be a Cure. "It is the first of professions," he often used to +say, and there is not one of them which can be compared to it. + + "I am a village Cure, + Where I live most modestly; + I'm no important person, + But I'm happy and content + No, I do not envy aught, + For my wants they are but small. + How I love to pass my days + Within the house of God!" + +But if he had complained, it would have been very hard, and everybody in +the diocese, from Monseigneur the Bishop to his sexton, would have risen +with indignation and called him, "Ungrateful wretch." For Ridoux was +favoured above all his colleagues; above all his colleagues Divine +Providence bad overwhelmed him with its favours. He possessed in his +parish, in his very church, at his door, beneath his eyes, beneath his +hand, a real blessing from Heaven, a grace of God, a Pactolus always +rolling down a mine of Peru, a secret of an alchemist, the veritable +philosopher's stone caught sight of by Nicolas Flamel, and vainly sought +for till the time of Cagliostro, a marvel which made him at once honoured +and envied, which made his name celebrated, which gave him a preponderant +voice in the Chapter and a place in the episcopal Council, which swelled +his heart with pride and his money-bag with crowns; he had in the choir of +his church behind the mother altar, in a splendid glass-case, laid on a bed +of blue velvet ... an old yellow skeleton! The relics of a saint. + +But there are saints and saints; those which do miracles, and those which +do them not, those which work and those which rest. + +Monsieur Ridoux's saint worked. + + + + +LXIII. + + +THE MIRACLES. + + "Miracles have served for the foundation, + and will serve for the continuation + of the Church until Antichrist, + until the end." + + (_Pensees de PASCAL_). + +The miserable herd of free-thinkers, people who have no faith, those who +are still plunged in the rut of unbelief, are ignorant perhaps that all the +saints have done miracles, that they have all begun in that way, that that +is the condition _sine qua non_, for entrance into the blessed +confraternity. + +No money, no Swiss; no miracles, no saint. It is in vain that during all +your life you shall have been a model of candour and virtue; it is in vain +that you shall edify the universe by your piety and your good works, that +you shall have resisted like St. Antony the temptations of the flesh, that +you shall have covered yourself with hair-cloth like St. Theresa, with +venom like St. Veuillot, with filth like St. Alacoque or with lice like St. +Labre: it is in vain that you shall have been beaten with rods like St. +Roche, been scourged by your Confessor like St. Elizabeth, that finally you +shall have sinned only six instead of seven times a day; if at your death +you should not succeed in performing some fine miracle, you will never be +admitted into the Calendar. + +The Pope causes your shade to appear before his sacred tribunal, and +according as the number of the dead whom you have raised to life is judged +sufficient or not, as the touch of your tibia or coccyx has cured the itch +or scrofula or not, you are admitted or excluded. + +It is a difficult profession to be a saint, and is not for anyone who +wishes it. + +Therefore, the candidates who die in the odour of sanctity hasten to +accomplish their regular total of prodigies, in order that our father the +Pope may be pleased to assign them a place in the highest heaven. + +They have hardly closed their eyes before they begin to _operate_. Allured +by the hope of being crowned with a glorious halo, they display infinite +zeal, and we have seen them, from their tooth-stumps to their prepuce, +effecting the most marvellous miracles. + +That of Jesus Christ--I speak of the prepuce--is preserved thus in several +churches; all of which contend for the honour of possessing the veritable +one. It is not yet exactly known which is the best; but all without +distinction work wonders, and at certain seasons of the year, are kissed by +pious young women.[1] + +But this noble zeal of the saints lasts but for a time, and this is a proof +of the imperfection of human kind, that our faults and whims follow us even +beyond the tomb. + +The saints, themselves, fall into all the little meannesses so common with +the most ordinary sinners. Like candidates who solicit the votes of the mob +in order to gain power, and make the most brilliant promises which they +hasten to forget as soon as they have climbed the stairs, so the candidates +for canonization perform marvels at first, but once admitted into the +seventh heaven, they appear to trouble themselves no more concerning lowly +mortals. + +Or perhaps miraculous properties are like all other faculties, as they grow +old they become worn-out, and an _elect_ who has stoutly brought the dead +to life when he was only an aspirant for honours, is now only capable of +curing the ringworm. + +But, as I have said, it was a zealous candidate that the Abbe Ridoux had in +his church. His bones had been there for fifty years, and as the longed-for +time for his canonization had not yet arrived, and he had as yet only the +rank of _blessed_, his zeal had not grown cold. + +Each saint, we all know, has his medical speciality, like Ricord, for +instance, or Dr. Ollivier. + +Suppose you are suffering from ophthalmia, and instead of consulting a +physician, you pray to God, in hopes that God will cure you. + +You are wrong, that does not concern God. It is the business of St. Claire, +who has the principal management of the sight of the faithful. + +You are paralyzed, and you commend yourself to your patron saint. "You must +not address yourself to me, that one answers. Go to the other office. See +St. Marcel (or _Marchel_), to make the impotent walk is entrusted to him." + +And so one after another: + +St. Cloud cures the boils; St. Cornet, the deaf; St. Denis, anemia; St. +Marcou, diseases in the neck; St. Eutropus, the dropsy; St. Aignan, the +ringworm, and it is generally admitted that we ought to pray on All Saints +Day to be preserved from a cough.[2] + +And observe how the good people of France are always the most enlightened +and intelligent people in the universe! + +The speciality of Monsieur Ridoux's candidate was broken legs, girls in +complaints of childhood, and fluxes of the womb. That was what he healed, +but he must not be asked for anything else; besides fluxes of the womb, +sprains, and girls in complaints of childhood, he did not attend to +anything. + +That is conceivable; one cannot do everything. + +It is quite unnecessary to state that he did not give all his consultations +free, and that he did not work for fame alone. No one was constrained to +pay, it is true; but it would have been a very unhandsome thing not to make +a preliminary contribution to Monsieur le Cure's poor-box. + +Little presents have always maintained friendship, and there is nothing +like sterling silver to predispose the benevolence of the saints and the +love of heaven in our favour. + +While on the contrary: + + A poorly furnished niche affronts the saint: + The God deserts, and when we enter, shows + His anger from the door of his poor shrine. + +He no longer worked every-day, but on fete-days. + +All the cripples came from twenty leagues round, and there were miracles +then for crutches. + +As in the time of Paris the deacon, when Cardinal de Noailles kept a +register of the wonders of St. Medard's Cemetery, a churchwarden of the +place, assisted by two secretaries and the corporal of Gendarmes, +religiously inscribed the miraculous cures of the saint on a magnificent +volume. + +_Credible_ witnesses attested these prodigies and, if necessary, gave +details to the incredulous. + +If all were not cured, they had the hope of being so, which was a +consolation. + +"And then," whispered Monsieur Ridoux in the ear of sceptics, "if the +touching of these blessed bones produces no benefit, you are sure it will +do no harm, and you cannot say the same of your doctor's drugs." + +[Footnote 1: The Holy Prepuce is at Rome in the Church of St. John Lateran; +it is also at St. James of Compostelia in Spain; at Anvers; in the Abbey of +St. Corneille at Compiegne; at Our Lady of the Dove, in the diocese of +Chartres, in the Cathedral of Puy-en-Velay; and in several other places +(Voltaire, Dictionnaire philosophique). + +The Able X...., author of _Maudit_ also places the holy fragment in the +church of Chanoux (Vienne) and asserts that a Bishop of Chalone in the 18th +century threw a pattern of it into the river.] + +[Footnote 2: Ainsi parchait a Sinay un caphar, qui Sainct Antoine mettoit +le feu es jambes; Sainct Eutrope faisait les hydropiques; Sainct Gildas les +fols; Sainct Genou les gouttes. Mais je le punis en tel exemple, quoi qu'il +m'appelast heretique, que depuis ce temps caphar quiconque n'est ause +entrer en mes terres. + +Et m'esbahi si vostre roi les laisse perscher par son royaulme tels +scandales. Car plus sont a punir que ceulx qui par art magique ou sultre +engin auraient mis la peste par le pays. La peste ne tue que le corps, mais +tels imposteurs empoisennent les ames. (Rabelais).] + + + + +LXIV. + + +THE TWO AUGURS. + + "I am surprised that two augurs + can look at one another without laughing." + + CATO. + +--Ave Marcellus! said the old Cure, giving his nephew a paternal embrace; +how are you, my poor boy? + +--I am very well, replied Marcel. + +--No! your servant has told me that you have been unwell for some time. + +--She is really too kind. You have been talking to her then? + +--Yes, while waiting for you. She seems to me a worthy and intelligent +person, but a little irritated with you. Do you live badly together? + +Marcel coloured. + +--Come, the blush of holy modesty is covering your face. Don't do so, +child, don't we all know what it is, my dear fellow? + +--Indeed, much you ought to know what these women are. They are +cross-grained and stubborn, and claim to be the mistresses of the house, +especially with priests younger than themselves. + +--That is the inconvenience of our condition, Monsieur le Cure. What will +you? We must pass it over. But, tell me, she is not so _old_ as that. Ah, +come, the maiden's blush again! I do not want to offend your virtuous +feelings any longer, and I am going to talk to you about something else. +You know I have centred all my ambition on you, that I occupy myself about +you only, and that together with my saint and my salvation, you are the +sole object of my care. Therefore, you can explain my indignation and wrath +at seeing my pupil buried in this frightful village, at seeing you +extinguishing your brilliant qualities, having no other stimulant for your +intellect than your Sunday sermons and your stupid peasants, no other +emotion than your disputes with your cook. I have therefore asked of the +Lord one thing only, only one. _Unam petii a Domino, hanc requiram_. You +know what it is--your promotion. Well, Monsieur le Cure. I come to tell you +that everything is going as it were on wheels. + +--Really? said Marcel indifferently. + +--Just think. The day before yesterday a letter reached me from the Palace. +It was Monseigneur's secretary, little Gaudinet, who wrote to me. You know +Gaudinet? + +--No, uncle. + +He is not a bad fellow, but a devil to intrigue. Well, as he knows the +interest I take in you, and as he wants to creep up my sleeve, because he +hopes soon to take the place of one of my curates, he wrote to me that +Monseigneur had spoken of you with interest, and that he proposed to put an +end to your exile. I recognize there the Comtesse de Montluisant's good +offices. You see that she has lost no time, and so we will do the same; we +most strike the iron while it is hot; you are going to get your bag and +baggage, and take yourself off to Nancy. + +--Already? + +--Why already? Have you any business here which detains you then? + +--Nothing ... absolutely nothing; but what shall I do at Nancy? + +--That is just why I have come, you impatient young man, to point out to +you what line of conduct to follow, and, as I know, you are rather more +scrupulous than there is any need for in our profession, to assist you in +removing certain scruples which might stand in the way of your promotion. + +--Heavens! What scruples? + +--We will talk about them at table. Meanwhile, this is the question. I have +told you that I will move heaven and earth for you; you, however, must help +me a little on your side, for whatever I may do, I can effect nothing +without you. In his letter, Gaudinet informs me that the parish of St. +Mary, Nancy, is deprived of its pastor. It came into my head directly that +you must take the place of the defunct. It is an excellent parish, very +prominent, splendid surplice fees, devout ladies, sisters, elderly +spinsters to plunge into saintly jubilation, a host of Capuchins, +everything indeed which constitutes a _blessing from heaven_ for a poor +priest. You are young, you are handsome, you are intelligent, you are +energetic; while you are waiting for something better, I promise you an +existence there, of which the most ambitions of village Cures has never +dared to dream. But we most hasten, time presses; Gaudinet tells me that +there are already at least a dozen candidates in earnest; and although old +Collard's intentions (and he intends to atone for his former injustice) +regarding you are favourable, you are well aware that he allows himself to +be led by the nose, and generally the last one who talks to him is right. +You must be then both the first and the last, and you must not let him +slip; not you, but your second, your aide-de-camp, your _fideicommissum_, +or rather your protectress, the Comtesse de Montluisant. + +--But I do not know this lady. + +--It is precisely for that reason that it is indispensable for you to +hasten to go and see her, in order to make her acquaintance. You have only +to present yourself, and I assure you even if you were not sent by me, she +would receive you with the greatest pleasure. For, between ourselves be it +said, she is an elderly coquette, but she is good-natured and knows how to +remember her old friends. You will have therefore to be amiable, +insinuating, respectful, assiduous. You might even tell her that she is +charming, and that one sees she has been very pretty; which is true. Old +ladies dote on young people, and devout old ladies on young priests, +especially on those with a figure and face like yours. "The face is +everywhere the first letter of introduction," said Bernardin de +Saint-Pierre, and I assure that with Madame de Montluisant, you will not +require another. Ah, the Comtesse de Montluisant, my friend, there is a +precious soul! What a misfortune that she is a little over-ripe! It is all +the same to you, and if you are wise, you will pass over that defect, which +she amply atones for by her amiable qualities. She has the complete mastery +of Monseigneur. She is the Maintenon of that old Louis XIV. Be to her what +she is to him, and have the mastery of her in your turn. I was talking to +you a little while ago about scruples; for once you must leave them at home +or put them in the bottom of your cassock. _Dixi_! You have understood me I +hope. + +--No, uncle, I don't understand you. + +--Are you talking seriously? + +--I declare, uncle, that I don't understand you. + +--_O rara avis in terris_, oh phoenix! oh pearl! you don't understand me!!! +Well, I am come expressly, however, to make myself understood. Must I put +the dots on the i's for you? You don't understand me, you say? Surely, you +are making fun of me. Come, look me straight in the face; in the white of +my eyes ... yes, like that, and dare to tell me that you have not +understood me, and keep serious. Ah, ah, you are laughing, you are +laughing. You see you cannot look at me without laughing. + + + + +LXV. + + +TABLE TALK. + + "I allow that it is necessary to be + virtuous in order to be happy, but I + assert that it is necessary to be happy + in order to be virtuous." + + CH. LEMESLES (_Tablettes d'un sceptique_). + +They sat down to table. It was an excellent meal, and the worthy Ridoux +tried to make it cheerful, but a vague feeling of sorrow oppressed Marcel. + +That departure, which he had so eagerly desired before, and the hope of +which he had clung to as one lays hold of a means of safety, he could not +think of without grief, when he saw it near and practicable. Undoubtedly he +would leave without regret this village, where his youth was buried, where +his abilities were rendered unfruitful, where his sanguine aspirations were +slowly killing themselves.... But Suzanne? + +That sweet name which he murmured low with love. That sweet young girl the +sight of whom was as pleasant as a sun-beam, he was going to leave her for +ever. + +It was for his good, his honour, his quiet, his future; he knew it, he felt +it, but he was full of sorrow. + +Meanwhile, he overwhelmed his uncle with marks of attention and friendship; +he made every effort to cope with his guest's cheerful discourse, who, +after relating the flight of the Grand-Vicar, surprised in criminal +conversation with the wife of the Captain of Gendarmerie, acquainted him +all the little ecclesiastical scandals. But he gave only a partial +attention; his thoughts were absorbed in his inmost preoccupations. Now and +again only did he let fall a few observations in reply: "How horrible," or +"How shocking," or again: "How abominable!" + +Ridoux did not appear at first to pay attention to his nephew's gloomy +thoughts. He laughed and joked all alone, but he did not miss a mouthful. +Old priests are generally greedy. Good cheer is one of the joys which is +left to them. + +With no serious preoccupation, with no anxiety for the future, exempt from +family cares, they transfer all their solicitude to themselves, and make a +divinity of their belly. + +But when his appetite, sharpened by his journey, was appeased, he examined +Marcel with curiosity, and what he observed, combined with a few indiscreet +words of Veronica, confirmed him in his suspicions, that a drama was being +enacted in the young man's soul. + +--Do you know, he said to him, that you are a pitiable companion. You +scarcely eat, you scarcely speak, you do not drink, and you laugh still +less. Why, what's the matter with you? Are you not gratified at my visit? + +--Forgive me, uncle, but I am rather poorly, said Marcel; that is my +excuse. + +--That is what the maid-servant told me, but you declared to me that you +were quite well. + +--How can you suppose that I am not happy to see you? You know my feelings +well. + +--I know that you have excellent feelings. But I find you quite changed. It +is scarcely a year since I saw you, and you bear marks of weariness. You +stoop like an old man. Look at me, always the same, firm as a rock. "God +smites the wicked with many plagues, but he encompasseth with his help +those that hope in him." Second penitential psalm. You are not wicked: what +plague consumes you? Ambition? Patience, everything will be changed, since +your enemy is vanquished. Is it your conscience which is ill at ease? But +conscience should be cheerful; that is its true sign. Is it anything else? +Come, tell me. + +--Well yes, uncle, there is something. The same complaint as before, you +know, when I hesitated to enter the seminary, when I had doubts about my +vocation. You ended my hesitation and silenced my doubts; you have made a +priest of me; well, now more than ever, I have moments of lassitude which +make me disgusted with my calling. + +--Really? + +--Yes, there are hours when this priest's robe devours me, like the robe of +Nessus; I wish that I could tear it off, but I feel that I should tear off +pieces of my flesh at the same time, for it is too late, and it has become +a portion of myself. I am ashamed to make this confession to you, but you +wished it, and I have opened my heart to you. + +--May it not be that the heart is sick? Come. I see that I am come to take +you away from here at a seasonable time. + +--Do not believe that, uncle. + +--So much the better, if I am mistaken. I should be delighted to be +mistaken. To be in love, my son, is the greatest act of stupidity which a +priest can commit. Make use of women, if you will, for your health and your +satisfaction, and not for theirs. Otherwise you are a lost man. + +--In truth, uncle, you have singular theories, cried Marcel. Have you not +then taken your calling seriously? + +--My calling? I have taken it so seriously that you will never see me +handling it but in the practical way. Therefore, among those who surround +me I enjoy a fine reputation for wisdom. To be wise is to be happy, and I +have contrived so as to pass my existence in the most pleasant manner +possible. I counsel you to make as much of it, and I am going to tell what +I mean by being wise: Make use of the things of life with moderation, +discretion, and prudence. Now, what constitutes life? Spirit and matter. +Well, I wisely make the enjoyments of matter and spirit march abreast. I +obtain the equilibrium: health of body and health of soul. As soon as the +equilibrium is broken, the mental faculties are deranged, or the +constitution declines. You are in one of these two cases, my dear fellow. + +--I! + +--Yes, you. And, in spite of all your denials, I wager that you are in +love. Ah, ah, ah. It is a good story. He keeps his countenance like a +thrashed donkey. Come, drink, cheer up; honour the Lord in his benefits. +Your glass is always full. Enjoy yourself, you don't entertain your uncle +every day. + +Marcel emptied his glass. + +--Is she possessed of a husband? + +--But uncle, I don't know, what you want to talk about. + +--Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man's heart. I +congratulate you on it: it is good for strangers, for the profane.... But +I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger? + +"Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings." + +Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh. + +--Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my +only true friend. Yes, I want to ask your advice. I am afraid of soiling +one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame +and compassion. Ah, I am unhappy. + +--Here we are, cried Ridoux. Speak. The only point is to understand one +another. + + + + +LXVI. + + +GOOD COUNSEL. + + "Ah, my friend, have not all young + people ridiculous passions? My son is + enamoured of virtue!... The customs + of the word, the need of pleasure, + and the facilities of satisfying himself + will bring him insensibly to a moderate + state of feeling, and at thirty he will + be just like any other man; he will + enjoy life, and shut his eyes to many + things which shock him to-day." + + PIGAULT-LEBRUN (_Le Blanc et le Noir_). + +At that moment Veronica came in to serve coffee. + +In honour of her master's guest, she had put on her black dress of +Associate and her silver medal; and on her head she wore coquettishly an +embroidered cap, trimmed with tulle of dazzling whiteness. + +The old Cure threw himself into his arm-chair with his head back, in order +to contemplate her with admiration. She went and came, clearing the table, +and he followed her movements with the eye of a connoisseur, estimating the +value of an article. + +He smiled sanctimoniously, and the smile and attention, which the bashful +Veronica noticed, made her blush and cast her eyes modestly down. + +-Eh! Eh! he seemed to say, here is a girl who is still fit to adorn a bed. + +When the servant had left the room, he rose, drew the screen between the +table and the door, and then came and sat down again facing Marcel. + +--I don't understand, he said, why a man should go and search away from +home, amid perils and obstacles, for a pleasure which he can obtain +comfortably, quietly, with no fear or disquietude, at his own fire-side. + +--To what are you pleased to allude? + +--There is a girl, Ridoux continued, who certainly has merit, and I am +convinced that many younger ones are not worth as much as she. She is +there, in your hands, at your door, in your home; ready, I am sure, to +satisfy all your requirements. Avail yourself of her willingness? No? Make +use of this blessing which you possess? Again, no. You throw it aside to +run after phantoms. Alas, all the men of your age are the same: like the +dog in the fable, they let go their prey to seize the shadow. You are like +the fool, who spends his life in vainly following fortune to the four +quarters of the world, and who, when he returns to his hearth wearied, +worn-out and aged, finds it sitting at his door. But he is too late to be +able to enjoy it. + +That girl is really very well: handsome, fresh, very well-preserved, with a +decent and respectable appearance. Why then do you disdain her? Why? Tell +me. Because she is a few years older than you? But that is just what you +young priests require. You require women of that age: matrons with more +sense than yourselves. She is staid, she is ripe, she is experienced, a +mistress of love's science, and above all, she has a great quality, an +inestimable quality, she is cautious and will never compromise you. + +--Uncle, I implore you. + +--Let me finish. + +Another thing which is very valuable. She is full of little attentions for +her master. Ah, you are not aware with what tender solicitude, with what +kindness, with what jealous affection an old mistress surrounds you. She +fears more for your health than for her own, she is acquainted with your +tastes and knows how to anticipate them, she satisfies all your desires, +and lends herself to all your fancies. + +--What a conversation! If anyone heard us.... + +--Be easy. I have drawn the screen. + +The young mistress is fickle, egotistical, capricious; she exacts +adoration, and most frequently loves you for a whim and for want of +occupation. + +The old one devotes herself entirely to you and does not ask you (sublime +self-denial!), that you should love her, but only that you should let her +love you. Balzac extolled the women of thirty; that was because he had not +tasted those of forty. Ah! the women of forty! + +They are the only women who are of value to the priest, my friend. You have +had the good fortune to meet one here, and instead of profiting by it, of +thinking yourself fortunate, of thanking heaven and piously and devoutly +enjoying the good which God grants you, you cast it away, you disdain, you +despise it; and why? For some giddy little thing who will bring upon you +every kind of vexation and unpleasantness. _Dixi_. You can speak now. + +Marcel made no reply. With his elbows resting on the table and his head in +his hands, he stared at his uncle. + +He asked himself if he was really awake, if it was really his adopted +father, the mentor of his childhood, the wise and virtuous Cure of St. +Nicholas, who was talking to him so. + +He knew the worthy man's somewhat eccentric character, his coarse +witticisms in bad taste, but he never could have believed that he would +have stated such theories before him with a cynisism like that. He quite +understood that a man might commit faults, he even excused _in petto_ +certain crimes, and he excused them the more willingly because he himself +had been guilty of them; but he did not understand how a man could dare to +talk about them. + +He was rather of that class of persons who are modest in words, but not in +deeds, who are offended at the talk, while they delight in the acts. We +hear them utter cries of horror and indignation at the slightest equivocal +word, we see them stop their ears at the recital of a racy tale, chastely +cover their face before the figure of the Callipygean Venus, treating +Moliere as obscene and Rabelais as debauched; yet, out of sight, sheltered +by the curtains of the alcove, they love to strip in silence some +lascivious Maritorne, and cautiously abandon themselves to disgusting +orgies with Phrynes whom they chance to encounter. + +Therefore the Cure of Althausen was offended and indignant at his uncle's +cynicism, who had so crudely broached the chapter about the love of +middle-aged women to him, who the evening before had abandoned himself to +all the furies of a long-repressed passion, in the arms of a debauched old +maid-servant. + +At the same he felt that his brain was confused and that he was gradually +losing the exact idea of things. The wine he had drunk was more than he was +accustomed to; it was rising to his head and he was becoming intoxicated. + +--Well, said Ridoux, you give me no answer and you stare at me like an +earthen-ware dog. + +--What answer do you wish me to give you? except that I believe I am +dreaming; in truth, I believe I am dreaming. + +--Be more sincere. I do not like hypocrisy. + +--You talk of a giddy little thing; I know no giddy thing. As to the rest, +I have not quite made out what it is you wanted to tell me. I think that +you have intended to make a joke about your old women. + +--Ah, you, you never understand anything. Where did you come from? + +--Why, from your school, from the seminary, and neither you nor my masters +taught me that there. + +--To me! to me! to me! you speak in such a manner to me? Oh clever fox! +_Alopex, alopex_. Well, you are sharper than I am, cried the old Cure, +striking the table and looking at Marcel with astonishment mingled with +admiration. Why should I concern myself about your future? You will +succeed, my dear fellow, you will succeed. Oh, oh, you are a master. A +gray-beard like I cannot teach you anything. Jesus, Mary, Joseph! That is +my nephew! My dear old Ridoux, Cure of St. Nicholas, allow me to +congratulate you. Monsieur le Cure of Althausen, I swear you will become a +bishop. Monseigneur, I drink your health! + + + + +LXVII. + + +IN A GLASS. + + "The fumes of the wine were working + in my veins; it was one of those + moments of intoxication when everything + one sees, everything one hears, + speaks to us of the beloved." + + A. DE MUSSET (_Confession d'un enfant du Siecle_). + +They conversed for a long time still, and they drank too, so much so that +Marcel went to his room with his brain charged with the fumes of the wine. +He opened his window and breathed with delight the fresh air of night. +While he gazed on the stars which were rising slowly in the sky, he tried +to analyze the new sensation which he experienced. "How a few mouthfuls of +liquor alter a man," he said to himself. + +He felt himself to be totally different, and he allowed his thoughts to +wander in an ocean of delights. His ardent and ecstatic imagination +launched itself into space. Bright unknown worlds rose before him with +their atmosphere saturated with warmth, with caresses, and with perfumes. +He saw the future, and it appeared to him radiant. There were sons without +number and feasts without end; the entire universe belonged to him. He flew +from planet to planet without effort or fatigue, borne by a mysterious wing +into the fields of the Infinite. + +He discovered an unknown audacity, and all obstacles subsided before his +powerful will. No more barriers, no more bolts, no more doors, no more +pretences, no more social chains, no more terrible father, no more +servant-mistress; Suzanne alone remained in all her youthful grace and her +chaste nudity. For, after having wandered in boundless space, it was +towards her that his hopes, his desires, his aspirations inclined. There +was the soul and the body; happiness and life, sacred symbolical wedlock, +the chosen vessel, the nubile maid ready for the husband. And he murmured +the Song of Songs: + + "Let her kiss me with kisses of her mouth, + For her teats are better than wine." + +And it was at the very moment when he was about perhaps to be able to taste +this exquisite cup, that he must go away. Go away! that is to say, leave +her, she who had just cast a ray into his life. Go away, to obey a culpable +ambition; to lose for ever this ravishing young girl! And the promises +which he had made to himself; and the unsatisfied desires, and the +boundless joys, the delicious troubles, the sweet evening talks, the hand +sometimes squeezed in a moment of audacity; of all that but the memory +would remain. Of all the intoxications of soul, of heart, of sense; of all +those joys which should repay him for his wasted youth, for his fair years +lost, he would preserve but remorse ... remorse for having so senselessly +let them go. + +And all at once in the whirlwind of his ideas, he seized one as it passed +by. He noticed during the day the Captain entering the _diligence_ for Vic. +It was, in fact, the time at which he drew his pay. He could not return +till the following day. Suzanne then was alone with the old maid-servant. +She went to bed late, he knew; perhaps she was still awake. He looked at +his watch, it was not yet eleven o'clock; he still had a chance of seeing +her. He cherished this idea; it pleased him and he was surprised that he +had not thought of it before. Yes, certainly, he must see her, in order +that she might keep the remembrance of him, as he was bearing away the +memory of her. + +What would be more delightful than to say to himself: "I hold the thoughts +of a beautiful young girl, I hold her simple confidences; I possess the +treasure of her sweet secrets." + +And although there would never be between her and him but the pure and +chaste sympathy of two souls, was not that enough, was not that a +compensation, sufficient for the step which he was venturing? + +And with the audacity of conception and the temerity of conduct of a man on +the border of intoxication, he determined to put his fine project into +execution immediately. His sense became inflamed the more he thought of it, +and what had at first presented itself to him as a vague desire, soon +became firmly fixed in his brain, and, in less than ten seconds, he had +conceived the plan and weighed all the chances. + +He decided that nothing was more simple, and that the only serious +difficulty was to get out of the house without being heard. He still felt a +few scruples; he poured himself out a glass of brandy. + +--Let me swallow some courage, he said. What a singular piece of machinery +is man, who imbibes in a few drops of liquid the dose of bravery which he +lacks, and spirit which he needs. + +And, in fact, he soon felt a generous warmth which ascended to his head; +and his heart became anew surrounded little by little with that triple +breast plate of brass, _robur triplex_, without which there is no hero. + +He listened inside and out. All sounds were hushed; in the parsonage as in +the village, everybody was asleep. He heard only the croaking of a legion +of frogs which were sporting in the neighbouring marsh, and, far away, the +bark of some farm-dog. + +The night was splendid. The moon was rising behind the woods. That was a +serious obstacle; but are there any serious obstacles for a man +over-excited by drink? He did not even think of it; his mind was cheerful +and content. If anyone encountered him in the night, wandering along the +roads, what could they say? Had he not a perfect right like anybody else to +take, the fresh air of evening? And, besides, might he not have been +summoned by a sick person? + +On the other hand, no more favourable moment would ever present itself for +talking with Suzanne. His uncle was snoring in the next room, and his +servant, supposing she was still awake, would she dare, while there was a +guest at the parsonage, to come and assure herself if he was in his bed? + +He took off his shoes, opened the door noiselessly and glided into the +street. + +He rapidly went round the parsonage, and he put on his shoes again only +when he was at some distance, under the discreet shade of the limes. + +Then he walked boldly on, keeping to the middle of the road, on the side, +however, where the houses cast their shadow, and advanced with the step of +a man who is going to accomplish a duty. + +He arrived without any hindrance at the Captain's house. It was fully +lighted up by the pale moon-light, and all the shutters were closed. +Consequently, the side looking upon the garden was in the shadow, and there +was Suzanne's room, the room hung with rose. + +So he pursued his way at a rapid pace, entered the little path, bordered +with hawthorn, and soon reached the clump of old chestnut-trees. + + + + +LXVIII. + + +THE ROSE CHAMBER. + + "They are women already, they were + so when they were born, but one + guesses them so still, one reads it + in their little thought, one comes + across an end of thread here and + there, which is like a revelation ... + They are ... But forgive me, young + ladies, I am afraid of going too far." + + G. DROZ (_Entre nous_). + +What man is there who has not experienced a delicious emotion on entering +for the first time a young girl's room? Who has not breathed with +voluptuous delight its sweet and chaste perfumes, and felt his heart soften +in its fresh and fragrant atmosphere? + +How pretty, neat, and harmonious is everything there. The most +insignificant objects, the most common articles of furniture, have a +mysterious and secret aspect there which makes one dream; one contemplates +with transport all those nothings, all those little trifles, all those +trinkets which young girls delight in, and because they have been touched +by a white hand, they appear clothed in enchanting colours. + +The fairy who lodges in this place has left a _something_ of herself on all +which surrounds her, and _that something_ transforms all into jewels, even +the least pin. + +But that which above all else arrests the gaze, that which drives the blood +to the head and causes the heart to beat, is the bed. + +The young girl's bed, the sanctuary, the delicious nest of love. + +There is the pillow on which her head reposes ... And then the question +comes: What passes in the young head when, softly leaning on the warm down, +she lets her thoughts travel into the land of dreams? + + When slumber soft on all + Around thee is outpoured; + Oh Pepita, charming maid, + My love, of what think'st thou? + +Here is the place of her body. Yes, it is there, beneath the discreet +eider-down, that she hides her naked charms. And we begin to dream as well, +and we say to ourselves that we would give much to be able to penetrate +into this sanctuary at the hour when the divinity is going to bed. + +Happy Gyges, lend me your ring that I may assist mutely and invisibly at +the sweet mysteries of the night toilette. + +She is here! She has given and received the evening kiss. "Sleep well," her +father and mother have said, and the child replies: "Oh, yes, I am very +sleepy." + +Then she quickly shuts the door and breathes a sigh of satisfaction. She is +in her own room, she is alone! + +Alone! do you believe it? If so, you would be greatly mistaken, for this is +the time when she receives her own visitors, and often there is a numerous +company. + +Oh, be reassured: these guests will not be able to compromise her; they are +secret, silent and invisible for all else but her; she alone sees them, +talks to them and listens to them. + +It is at the summons of her thought that they hasten there, passive and +obedient. Then she passes them in review one by one; she examines them from +head to foot, she clothes and unclothes them at her will; never has a +Captain of infantry, under orders for parade, made a more minute inspection +of his conscripts. + +Sometimes they come all in a crowd, giving themselves up with her, in the +mysterious comers of her imagination, to the wildest frolics. Young people +with a stiff collar, beardless sublieutenants, coxcombs with red hands, +swells with white cuffs, little heads of wax and little souls of cardboard, +run up, ran up, ye pretty puppets. + + Dance my loves + You are but dolls. + +And she makes them dance on every cord and every tune. + +But soon the figures are effaced and blend into one. The pomatumed band +disappear into space, whence there rises clearly the image of the chosen +one. + +He is young, he is dark or fair: she has seen him to-day; she looked at +him, he smiled at her, he thinks her pretty. + +Is she then always pretty? And quickly she goes to her mirror. Heavens! how +badly her hair is done. How badly that ribbon sets! If she had put it in +another place? And that little wandering lock; decidedly it must set off +that. "Perhaps he would like me better if, instead of plaits, I had curls, +and if instead of the brown dress, I put on the blue?" + +He. Who is he? He is the imaginary lover, the handsome young man whom she +has met in the street, he who turned round to look at her, or the one who +was so charming at the last ball, or again the one who has just passed the +window. + +Who is he? Does she know? It is the one she is waiting for. The first who +presents himself who is _handsome, young, intelligent and rich_. What does +the rest matter provided he possesses all these qualities, and all these +qualities he must possess. + +Often she has never even seen him, but he is charming, and she feels that +she loves him already. + +And there are the brilliant displays of the future appearing, the enchanted +palaces which are built out of the chapters of novels which never will be +finished. + +And thus every evening--wild adventures in the young brain, intrigues in +embryo, meetings full of mystery, delightful terrors with phantom lovers, +until at length a very palpable one presents himself, and comes and knocks +at the door of reality. + +Sometimes he is very far from the cherished dream. He is neither young, nor +handsome, nor rich, nor intelligent. She rather makes a face, but she ends +by taking him. It is a man. + +And meanwhile mamma has said as she kisses her daughter's forehead, "Sleep +well, my daughter," and she murmurs to papa, "What an angel of candour!" + + + + +LXIX. + + +THE GUST OF WIND. + + "I turned my eyes instinctively towards + the lighted window, and through + the curtains which were drawn, I + distinctly caught sight of a woman, + dressed in white, with her hair undone, + and moving like one who knows that + she is alone." + + G. DROZ (_Monsieur, Madame, et Bebe_). + +Suzanne's room ... but why should I describe the room?... let me describe +Suzanne to you at this secret hour: I am sure that you would prefer me to +do so. + +The young people who read this, will do well to skip this chapter, it +interests the men alone. Like the preacher who one day turned the women out +of church, as he wanted to keep the men only, I warn over-chaste young +ladies that these lines may shock.... + +Suzanne was preparing to go to bed. + +To go to bed! That is not done quickly. You have, Mesdames, so many little +things to do before going to bed. So Suzanne was going to and fro in her +small room, attending to all these little details. + +She was in a short petticoat, with her legs and arms bare and her little +feet in slippers. I warned you that I had borrowed the ring of Gyges and I +can tell you that I saw her calf and right above the knee, and all was like +a sculptor's model. Beneath the thin, partly-open cambric her budding bosom +rose and fell, marking a voluptuous valley on which, like the Shulamite's +lover, one would never be weary to let one's kisses wander. + +But on seeing the white plump shoulders, the graceful throat, and the neck +on which was twisted a mass of little brown curls, and the back of velvet +which had no other covering than the thick rolls of half-loosed hair, and +the delicate hips which the little half-revealing petticoat closely +pressed, one asked oneself where the kisses would run on for the longest +time. + +She was delicious like this and under every aspect, and undoubtedly she +knew it, for every time she passed before the large glass of her wardrobe, +she looked at herself in it and smiled. And she was quite right, for it was +indeed the sweetest of sights. + +A pretty woman is never insensible to the sight of her own charms. See +therefore, what a love they have for mirrors. Habit, which palls in so many +things, never palls in this; for her it is a sight always charming and +always fresh. Very different to the forgetful lover or the sated husband, +whose eyes and senses are so quickly habituated, she never grows weary of +finding out that she is pretty, and making herself so; in truth a constant +homage, earnest and conscientious. + +Suzanne then examined herself full face, in profile, in three-quarters +view, and behind, attentively and conscientiously, like an amateur judging +a work of art, who cries at length, "Yes, it is all good, it is all +perfect, there is nothing amiss." One could have believed that she saw +herself again for the first time after many years. + +At length, when the survey was completed, and the toilette finished, she +let her petticoat slip down, opened her bed, put one knee upon it, and, the +upper part of her body leaning forward on her hands, prepared to get in. + +The lamp on the night-table, close beside her, threw its light no longer on +her face. + +But at the same instant a little zephyr taking her astern, caused the white +tissue which English-women never mention, to gently undulate. + +She noticed then that she had forgotten to shut her window. + +"Heavens," cried Marcel to himself, for it was he, who perched on the rise +of the road and armed with his good opera-glass, had just been witness of +what I have narrated. + + + + +LXX. + + +THE AMBUSCADE. + + "Be not discouraged either before + obstacles, or before ill-will. Wait + patiently. The sacred hour will sound + for you and all the ways will be + made smooth." + + (_Charge of Mgr. de Nancy_). + +Drawing near to the window, Suzanne distinguished in front of her, behind +the open-work palisade, a dark motionless figure. + +She immediately recognized the Cure. + +Alarmed and trembling, she hastily drew back; but she heard a gentle cough, +as if someone was calling and was afraid of being surprised. + +"What is happening?" she said to herself, "what is he doing there?" + +She covered herself hurriedly with a dressing-gown and drew near the +casement again. Marcel, with his hat in his hand, bowed to her, and +appeared to invite her by a sign to come down. + +Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. She +hesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, she +was afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake and +catch the Cure of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour, +before her door, during her father's absence. God only knew what a scandal +there would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps might +hear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they were +beginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetings +on the road. + +She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating that +the Cure would withdraw. + +But the Cure of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition to +abandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by the +alcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that he +had just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place, +he was waiting with impatience. + +Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to see +if he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and calling +her by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy, +multiplied his salutes and his signs. + +She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for him +to have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require an +interview with her in the middle of the night "Good God! could some +misfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. She +hesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over her +shoulders, and went downstairs. + + + + +LXXI. + + +THE BREACH. + + "Who art thou, who knockest so + loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom + all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed + (more than life) their very heart ... + Ah, if thou art he, let the door be + opened wide." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +She saw at once that he was all in a fever. + +--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father? + +--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him this +morning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well. + +--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me. + +--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous has +happened. Be comforted. I was passing by in my walk, I saw the light, I +observed you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself: +Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away. + +--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? And +where? And when? + +--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Mass. + +--For ever? + +--Perhaps. + +--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to your +parishioners, to your friends! + +--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hear +me some ... friendship; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poor +solitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom of +my heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell. + +--But why this sudden and unexpected departure? + +--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, like +others, a little grain of ambition. + +--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change in +your fortune. Is it far? + +--Nancy, Mademoiselle. + +--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions there +which you have not here. I almost envy you. + +--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I am +sorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, I +have no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me to +depart. + +--Motives ... serious? + +--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, and +that I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day I +saw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy. +Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness which +I should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if God had given me one. +Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblem +of purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you, +for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why I +wished to see you again and bid you farewell. + +--I thank you, sir. + +--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I may +ask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if I +shall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with your +thought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. We +leave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end? +May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar on +the arduous road of life? + +It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heaven +is dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, in +a little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul, +which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmurs +across space: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and less +alone. + +--Yes, that is true, I understand you. + +--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all the +pleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of the +Covenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that we +should follow one another thus in life? You do not answer.... + +--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road. + +--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there are +footsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell, +Mademoiselle, farewell. + +--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for they +must have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions. + +--What shall I do? I cannot remain here. + +--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safe +from any gaze. + +--What! said Marcel, you wish...? + +--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It is +more prudent for both of us. + +She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-open +gate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour. + +Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him. + + + + +LXXII. + + +THE ASSAULT. + + "Be mine, be my sister, for I am all thine, + And well I deserve thee, for long have I loved." + + A. DE VIGNY (_Eloa_). + +They were standing up under the dark arbour. One close to the other, +excited, panting: they could scarce get their breath again. Does their +heart beat so hard because there is someone in the path? Silence! + +The cricket, just by their side, sends forth from under the grass his soft +monotonous cry, and down there in the neighbouring ditch the toad lifts his +harsh voice. Silence! + +A noise in the road, faint at first as the murmur of the wind, increases. +It comes near. It is the cautious hesitating step of someone listening. It +comes nearer and stops. Silence! The philosopher cricket continues his +song, the amorous toad his poem. + +Behind the branches of honeysuckle they watch attentively, and can see +without being seen. A shadow passes slowly by, with its head turned towards +the dark arbour. Suzanne made a movement of surprise;--Your servant, she +said. + +--Silence, murmured Marcel; and he seizes a hand which he keeps within his +own. + +Veronica slowly walked on. + +When she reached the gate, she pushed it as if to assure herself if it was +open. + +--Well, there is an impertinence, said Suzanne. Who can have made her +suspect that you were here? + +Marcel, for reply, pressed the hand which he was holding. + +Finding the gate closed, the servant continued her road, then all at once +returned, stopped for a few seconds facing the arbour, and at length +disappeared behind the chestnut-trees. + +They followed the sound of her footsteps, which was soon lost in the +silence, and found themselves alone, hearing nothing but the beatings of +their own heart. + +--Let us remain, said Suzanne in a low voice, we must not go out yet. +Really, that is the most impertinent creature I have ever seen. By what +right does she spy on you thus? + +--Dear child, do you not know that these old servants are on the track of +every scandal, jealous of all beauty and all virtue. She will have noticed +our frequent interviews, and has imagined a world of iniquities. +Nevertheless, I bless her, yes, I bless her, since I owe to her the joy of +finding myself in this tete-a-tete with you. See, dear child, how strange +is destiny, which is none other but the hand of God--for we must be blind +not to recognize in all these things the finger of divine Providence--it is +precisely the efforts made to put an obstacle between us, to prevent us, me +from fulfilling my duties of a pastor, you those of a Christian, which have +been the cause of our sweet intimacy. Your father forbids you to assist at +the Holy Sacrifice, and you come to me to ask for counsel. This servant +pursues us with her envious hate, and obliges us to take refuge like guilty +lovers beneath this dark arbour. Almighty God, thanks, thanks. But what a +strange situation! If anyone were to surprise us, the whole world would +accuse us, and yet what is surer than our conscience? You see plainly, dear +child, that we cannot separate thus, and that, whatever happens, we must +not remain strangers to one another. + +Suzanne did not answer, and he, emboldened by this silence, pressed between +his the hand which she abandoned to him. + +--I was so much accustomed to see you in our church that, when you ceased +to come there, it seemed to me that everything was in mourning. You were +the most charming and the chastest ornament of it. When I went up into the +pulpit, it was for you that I preached, and when I turned towards my flock +to bless them, it was you alone, sweet lamb, that I blessed in the name of +the Father. You understand now, why I shall go away enveloped in sorrow. + +--But, sir, I do not deserve the honour which you do me, and I am unworthy +to occupy your thoughts in this way. + +--Do not say that, for since I have seen you, you have become, without my +knowing how, the joy of my life, the source from which I draw my sweetest +and most holy pleasures. With the memory of you, I lull myself in the +Infinite. I see Heaven and the angels, I dream of Seraphims who resemble +you, who bear me on their diaphanous wings into the abode where all is joy +and love ... heavenly love, dear Suzanne, love like that of the angels for +the Virgin, the mother, eternally pure, of our sweet Saviour. You see, you +have no reasons to be offended with my dreams. You are not offended at +them, are you? + +--Why should I be offended at them, said Suzanne softly. Can one be +offended with dreams? + +--You remember that night, when, alone as we are now, I allowed myself in a +moment of pious transport, to bear to my lips your lovely hand. I have +often blushed at it.... I have blushed at it, because I thought that you +might have mistaken that respectful kiss. I kissed it as I should have +kissed the hem of a queen's robe, if that queen had been a saint, as I +should have kissed the feet of the Virgin, as Magdalena kissed those of +Christ, as I kiss it at this moment, dear, dear Suzanne. + +And his lips rested on that little warm, quivering, feverish hand, and they +could no more be separated from it. + +And, when at length he withdrew his mouth from it, he found that Suzanne +was so near to him that he heard the beatings of her heart. + +--Leave me, said the imprudent girl, I entreat you, leave me. Oh, why are +you doing that? + +And she tried with vain efforts to loosen herself from the embrace. + +But he murmured softly: + +--Leave you, oh, never; you shall be my companion in life as you are my +betrothed before the Eternal. Leave you, dear Suzanne, sweet mystic rose, +chosen vessel. See, there is something stronger than all the laws and all +the proprieties; it is a look from you. Why do you repulse me? I speak to +you as to the Virgin, and I kiss your knees. Chaste betrothed of the +Levite, let me espouse you before God. + +She struggled with all her might, excited and maddened. But what can the +dove do in the talons of the hawk! Pressed to his breast by his vigorous +arms, it was in vain that she asked for pity. Hell might have opened, ere +he would have dropped his prey. + +The struggle lasted several minutes, passionate, silent, ardent. Woman is +weak. Soon nothing was heard ... a sob ... and all died away in the dense +shade. + +The startled cricket was silent, and it alone might have counted the sighs, +while in the neighbouring ditch the toad unwearied continued its love-song. + + + + +LXXIII. + + +AUDACES FORTUNA JUVAT. + + "If you have done wrong, rebuke yourself sharply: + If you have done well, have satisfaction." + + SAINT FRANCOIS DE SALLES (_Traite de l'Amour Divin_). + +Marcel reached the parsonage without hindrance. Veronica had not yet +returned. He congratulated himself on that, and went up the stair-case +which led to his room with the light step of a happy man, locked his door, +and began to laugh like a madman. + +Everything was safe; only there was down there in a corner of the village, +an honour lost. + +--Is it really you, Marcel, is it really you, he said, who have just played +so great a game, and won the trick? + +And he laughed, and he rubbed his hands, and he would willingly have danced +a wild saraband, if he had not been afraid of making a noise. + +He listened in the next room where his uncle was in bed, and heard his loud +breathing. + +--And the hag who is watching still beneath the limes! And the father who +is at Vic, and who, I doubt not, is snoring too. Come, all goes well! all +goes well! + +But he stopped, ashamed of himself. + +--Decidedly, he said to himself, I have become in a few days utterly bad. I +did not believe that it was possible to make such rapid progress in evil. +But nonsense. Is it evil? Has not God made wine to be drunk, flowers to be +plucked, and women to be loved? As to that weather-beaten old soldier, why +should I feel any pity on his account? He has been insolent, he has +detested me without my ever having done anything to him; I have loved his +daughter, his daughter has loved me, we are quits. I do not see why I +should distress myself about an adventure which would make so many people +happy, and for which all my brethren would have very quickly sold the +sacred Host and the holy Pyx besides. Ah, my dear uncle, good father +Ridoux, sleep, sleep in peace. How greatly am I your debtor for what you +have done for me, unwittingly and in spite of yourself; for, have you not, +by urging me to drink more than is my custom, in order to draw my secret +from me, given me the courage to undertake what I should never have dared +to dream of? _Audaces fortuna juvat_. Oh, Providence! Providence! She is +mine, the girl with the dark eyes is mine! + +He heard a slight noise in the corridor. + +--Good never comes alone, he continued, it always has evil for an escort. +Behind the sweet form of the angel, the grinning face of Satan. He is +coming upstairs and knocks at the door. + +He had not lighted his lamp again, and he carefully refrained from +answering. He heard Veronica, trying to open the door and calling him in a +low voice. But he pretended to be deaf, and quietly got into bed, all the +while cursing his accomplice, and thinking of the clumsy trap into which he +had fallen like a fool, and of that thick and filthy spider's web where, +like an unwary and silly fly, he had daubed his wings. + +What a difference between the chaste resistance of Suzanne, her tears and +her defeat, and the hideous advances of that old courtesan of the sacristy! + +In place of that unclean creature, accomplished in crime, oozing hypocrisy +from every pore, he had an adorable, loving, charming mistress, such as he +had never dared to dream of. And all this alteration in a few hours! +because he had faced it out, because, excited by intoxication, he had taken +his courage in both hands, and because he had dared. + +Oh, why had he not dared ere this? He would not be under the infamous yoke +of his servant. And how many priests, he said to himself, for want of a +little boldness, are devoted to a degrading concubinage with faded old +spinsters! + +He was not without uneasiness. How could he see Suzanne again, situated as +he was between the jealous watching of the servant and the vigilance of the +father? And above all, how could he discard his uncle's entreaties, and +refuse an unexpected promotion, without arousing suspicion in high +quarters? For, more than ever, he wished to remain at Althausen and keep +the treasure which had just caused him so much anxiety. Yes, he saw them +accumulating on his head, swooping from all parts and under all aspects: +Veronica, Durand, Ridoux, the Bishop, the gossips, scandal, dishonour. + +But, after all, what did it matter to him? The essential is that he was in +possession of Suzanne, that Suzanne was his, that he had the most charming +of mistresses, and he was indifferent to all the rest. + +To see her again readily and without danger, to contrive other interviews, +and above all to act prudently, was what he must think of. The chief step +was taken, the rest would come of its own accord. + +With Suzanne's consent all obstacles could be smoothed away, and clever is +he who succeeds in barring the way to two lovers who are determined to see +one another again. + +The old counsellor Lamblin, who in his capacity of magistrate was aware of +that, said long ago: + + "To safely guard a certain fleece, + In vain is all the watchman's care; + 'Tis labour lost, if Beauty chance + To feel a strange sensation there." + +It was on this indeed that Marcel calculated; and, smiling, he slept the +sleep of the just and dreamed the most rosy dreams. + + + + +LXXIV. + + +BEFORE MASS. + + "You think that we ought not to + break in two this puppet which is + called Public Opinion, and sit upon it." + + EUG. VERMEESCH (_L'Infamie humaine_). + +A loud and well-known voice roused him unpleasantly from his dreams. + +--Well, well, lazy-bones, still in bed when the sun is risen! You are not +thinking then of going away? You go to bed the first, and you get up the +last. I, a poor old invalid, am giving you an example of activity. Ah, +young people! young people! you are not equal to us. Come, come you can rub +your eyes to-morrow. Get up! Get up! + +--How early you are, my dear uncle; my Mass has not yet rang. + +--Have you no preparations to make for departure? + +--For departure. Is it for to-day then? + +--Do you wish to put it off to the Greek Kalends? + +--To-day! repeated Marcel. I did not think really that it was so soon. + +He dressed with the prudent delays of a man who says to himself: Let us +see, let us consider carefully what we must do. + +--You don't look satisfied, resumed Ridoux; I bring you honour, fortune and +success, and you look sulky. + +--Honour, fortune and success. Those are very fine words! + +--It is with fine words that we do fine things, and one of them is, it +appears, to unmoor you from this place. + +--The fact is, replied Marcel, that I have reflected to-night; and, after +well considering everything, I am perfectly well off, and have no desire to +go away to be worse off elsewhere. + +--Hey! what do you say? + +--My parish, humble as it is, is not so bad as you think. The people are +simple, kind and affable. I love peace and tranquillity, and I tell you, +between ourselves, that to be Cure in a large town has no attractions for +me. + +--What stuff are you telling me now? + +--Your town Cures are full of meanness and intrigues. The little I have +seen of them has disgusted me for ever. They spy one upon another. It is +who shall prejudice a fellow-priest in order to supplant him, or play the +zealot in Monseigneur's presence. When I was the Bishop's secretary, hardly +a day passed without my being witness to some shameful piece of tale +bearing. You must weigh all your words, cover your looks and have a care +even of your gestures. The slightest imprudence is immediately commented +on, exaggerated, embellished and retailed at head-quarters. The Vicar +General is the spy in general. + +Marcel uttered the truth. + +The position of the priest is a difficult one; he is surrounded with the +malevolence of enemies. But the priest's chief enemy, is the priest. As a +body, they march together, close, compact, disciplined, defending their +rights and the honour of the flag, resenting individually the insults +offered to all, and all rejoicing at the success of each. As individuals, +they spy on one another, are jealous of one another, fight, accuse and +judge one another; and they do all this hypocritically and by occult ways. +These hatreds and intrigues do not go outside the sanctuary domains. It is +a strange world which stirs within our world, a society within a society, a +state within the State. It is the behind-the-scenes of the temple, and it +stretches from the sacristy to the parsonage, from the parsonage to the +Palace. The profane world suspects nothing; it passes unconcernedly by +without dreaming that tempests are rumbling by its side. But, like the +revolutions raised by the eunuchs of the Seraglio, the intrigues of the +sacristy have been known to change the face of nations. + +The priest is the spy upon the priest. + +Misfortune to the cassock which unbuttons itself before another cassock. +The old priests are aware of this, and when they are among themselves, they +draw the folds of their black robe close, carefully hiding the least +tell-tale opening. But the young ones, simple and unreserved, often let +themselves be taken. They sound them and turn them up, and soon know what +they have underneath. In order to please Monseigneur and to deserve the +good graces of the Palace, there are few priests who resist the temptation +to sell their brother-priest, and are not ready to deny Jesus like Peter +the good apostle, the first and the model of the Roman pontiffs, three +times before cock-crow, that is to say before Monseigneur gets up. + +--No, that will not do for me, added Marcel; if I am poor here, at least I +am free. + +--Pshaw! You did not raise all those objections to me yesterday. + +--I have reflected, my dear uncle, as I have had the honour of telling you. + +--Your reflections are fine. Well, whether you have reflected or not, is +all the same to me. I have taken it into my head that you should go, and +you shall go. I will make you happy in spite of yourself, for I have +reflected also, and more than ever I said to myself that you most go. Do +you want me to enumerate the reasons? + +--The same as yesterday I have no doubt. + +--No, there is one more, and that is worth all the rest. + +--I know what you are going to say to me, but I have my answer all ready. +Speak. + +--What! at your age! in your position! Are you not ashamed to fall into +errors which would scarcely be pardonable in a seminarist? Ah! you want the +dots on the i's, well I am going to place them. + +--Place them, uncle, place them. + +--Had you not enough girls then in the village without going to lay a claim +on the one yonder? On a well-educated young lady, whose fall will cause a +scandal, the daughter of an enemy, of a Voltairian, almost a radical, a +gaol-bird in fine who will be happy to seize the occasion to raise a +terrible outcry, and to proclaim your conduct to the four quarters of the +horizon. You see I know all. + +--And who has informed you so correctly? + +--I know all, I tell you. You can therefore keep your temper. Will you act +like the Cure of Larriques? + +--What is there in common between the Cure of Larriques and me? + +--You ought to humble yourself before God. If you wanted a young girl, if +your immoderate appetites were not satisfied with what you had under your +nose, is there no cautious person in the village who would have been proud +and happy to be of service to you, and whom you could have married to some +clodhopper or to some Chrysostom ready for the opportunity; whilst that +one, whom will you give her to? There will be an uproar, I tell you, and +that will be abomination. + +--Really, uncle, said Marcel pale with anger, if anyone heard us, would +they believe that they were listening to the conversation of two +ecclesiastics? you talk of these shameful things as if you were talking of +the Gospel. In fact, I do not know which to be the more astonished at, the +freedom of your talk or the sad opinion which you have of me. But I see +whence all this emanates. Do you take me then for a bad priest? + +--What is that? Do you take me for a simpleton? for one of Moliere's +uncles?... Enough of playing a farce. You do not take me in, my good +fellow. I told you yesterday that you were cleverer than I; you did not see +then that I was joking? Your mask is still too transparent. One sees the +tears behind the grinning face. No tragic aim. Come down from this stage on +which you strut in such a ridiculous manner, and let us talk seriously like +plain citizens. + +--Or bad priests! + +--Be silent. The bad priests, that is to say the clumsy priests, which is +all the same, are in your cassock; and the clumsy ones are those who allow +themselves to be caught. You have been caught, my son; and caught by whom? +by your cook. Ha! Ha! + +--Are you not ashamed to listen to the tale-bearing and calumny of that +horrible woman? + +--Horrible! Be quiet, you are blind. It is your conduct which is horrible. +To concoct such intrigues! + +--I concoct no intrigue. And when that does occur; when my feelings of +respect, of esteem, of friendship for a young person endowed with virtues +and graces, change into a sweeter feeling: at all events, if my position +compels me to conceal my inclinations from the world, I shall have no need +to blush for them when face to face with myself, that is to say: with my +dignity as a man. While your allusions, your instigation to certain +intimacies, which in order to be more closely hidden are only the more +abominable and degrading, inspire me only with disgust. + +--Oh, Holy Spirit, enlighten him. He is wandering, he is a triple fool. +When I suspected, when I discovered, when I saw that you were entering on a +perilous path, I gave you yesterday the advice which a priest of my age has +the right to give to one of yours, especially when he is, as I am, +regardful of his future. + +--I am as regardful of it as you. + +--Cease your idle words. Have you decided to go? + +--No, uncle, I am well off here, and I stay here. + +--Well off! Mouldy in your vices and obscurity. Wallowing, like Job, on +your dung-heap. Roll yourself in your filth: for my part I know what course +remains for me to take. + +--You will do what you think proper. + +--I am sure of it. But you, instead of having the excellent cure which was +destined for you, you shall have one lower still than this where you can +wallow at your ease in your idleness, your nothingness and your vices, for, +I swear to you by my blessed patron, that if I go away without you, you +shall not remain here for forty-eight hours. I will have you recalled by +the Bishop. You laugh. You know me all the same; you know when I say _yes_ +it is _yes_. A word is enough for Monseigneur, you know. _Magister dixit_. + +Marcel knew the character of the old Cure well enough to know that he was +capable of keeping his word. Fearing to irritate him more by his obstinacy, +he thought it better to appear to yield. + +--It is time for Mass, he said. We will talk about that again. + +--Go, my son, and pray to the Holy Spirit. + + + + +LXXV. + + +DURING MASS. + + "I have my rights of love and portion of the sun; + Let us together flee ..." + + A. DE VIGNY (_La Prison_). + +It will easily be credited that Marcel's thoughts had little in common with +the Holy Eucharist. He would have been a very ungrateful lover, if his +whole soul had not flown towards Suzanne. This was then his chief +preoccupation, while he murmured the long _Credo_, partook of Christ, and +recited his prayers. + +What should he decide? that was his second. Should he go away? That meant +fortune, reconciliation with the Bishop, putting his foot in the stirrup of +honours. Young, intelligent, learned, what was there to stop him? + +But that meant separation from Suzanne: saying farewell to all those divine +delights which he had just tasted. He had hardly time to moisten his +parched lips in the cup, before the cup was shattered. He was truly in +love, for he should have said to himself: "There are other cups." But for +him there was but one. Uncle Ridoux, the Bishop and greatness might go to +the devil. The promised cure and the episcopal mitre might go to the devil +too. Did he not possess the most precious of treasures, the most enviable +blessing, the supplement and complement of everything, the ambition of +every young man, the desire of every old man, of every man who has a heart: +a young, lovely, modest, loving, intelligent and adored mistress. But what +might not be the result of that love? What drama, what tragedy, and perhaps +what ludicrous comedy, in which he, the priest, would play the odious and +ridiculous character? + +This love, which plunged him into an ocean of delights, would it not plunge +him also into an abyss of misfortunes? + +Could it proceed for long without being known and remarked? + +Scandal, shame, and death perhaps, a terrible trinity, were they waiting +not at his door? + +For the viper which harboured at his hearth, had its piercing glassy eye +fixed unweariedly on him; and how could he crush the viper? + +What could he do? What could he venture? He remembered hearing of priests +who had fled away with young girls whom they had seduced, and he thought +for an instant that he would carry off Suzanne and fly. + +Willingly would he have left behind him his honour and his reputation, +willingly would he have torn his priestly robe on the sharp points of +infamy and scandal, willingly would he have quitted for ever that cursed +parsonage where shame and humiliation, vice and remorse were henceforth +installed; but Suzanne, would she follow him? + +Then, had he well weighed the mortifications which await the apostate +priest! + +To be nameless in society, with no future, repulsed, despised, scoffed at +by all! + +Should he, like the Pere Hyacinth, go and found a free church in some +corner of the republic, and rove through Europe, like him, to confer about +morality, the rights of women and virtue? + +Would not poverty come and knock at his door? Poverty with a beloved wife! +It would appear a hideous and terrifying spectre, chilling in its livid +approach and in its kisses of love. + +To struggle against these obstacles he would need high energy and high +courage, and he felt that courage and energy were lacking in him, the +miserable coward, who had shamefully succumbed to the clumsy artifices of a +lascivious woman, who had allowed the first fruits of his virginity and his +youth to be lost in shameful debauch; while close by there was an adorable +maiden whose heart was beating in unison with his own. + +Thus did his reflection lead him till the end of the Gospel, and when he +said the _Deo gratias_ he had as yet decided nothing. + + + + +LXXVI. + + +AWAKENING. + + "We never permit with impunity + the mind to analyze the liberty to + indulge in certain loves; once begin + to reflect on those deep and troublesome + matters which are called _passion_ and + _duty_, the soul which naturally delights + in the investigation of every truth, is + unable to stop in its exploration." + + ERNEST FRYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_). + +When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut the +street-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and sat +down on the side of her bed. + +She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination, +if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had held +her in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself. + +Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, to +reflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even to +recover herself. + +A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a few +seconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she had +lost her honour, and that was love! + +She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelled +hair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than all +that, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming. + +He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and light +of heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in her +soul. + +And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, still +burning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Where +is my virginity?" + +Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing, +it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not a +virginity which flies away. + +And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse. + +The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice of +illusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regarding +the opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, be +it understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, without +which she is not a woman, but an unclean female. + +When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself: + +--What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me? + +And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have said +so already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her. + +And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed +_illegitimately_ the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, does +not say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when the +bandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love _suppliant_, is unbound +from the eyes of love _satisfied_, when the _unknown_ which has so many +charms, has become the _known_ that we despise, when of the rosy, inflated +illusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to me +trustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equal +facility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... what +devil...?" + +A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the +heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the +time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by +Pleasure. + +And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own +fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love. + +For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have given +one's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country, +family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the +ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend +half-a-sovereign. + +Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh +morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a +loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the +shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome, +young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or +blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards +another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought +to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip. + + "One of those noble loves which have no end." + +Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is +insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The +universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in +order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple +in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony, +the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love. + +You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes +by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because +like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them +as the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon +with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear +the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting +ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles. + +Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become +of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an +endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves? + +As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which the +evening breeze carried away last year. + + "But where are the snows of yester-year?" + +What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always. +Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two first +forfeited the oath? + +There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those who +had sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers. + +The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on the +arm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, a +little faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian. + +That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head of +her lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dull +tallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, and +who said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to and +separated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished by +fastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish but +substantial. + +And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea of +oblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses, +can he precisely remember her name? + +Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpools +of life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipated +into an abyss. + +She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she had +received a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, her +heart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn which +somehow or another had made its way into the field of tares. + +She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility with +which she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuse +to try and palliate her fault in her own eyes. + +But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl is +pardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness and +excitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault. + +But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Cure? + +Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husband +who is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroad +whom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Her +father, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The white +hairs of that worthy, brave old man. + +She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled to +confess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected her +most was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremely +surprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt to +find an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But in +proportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what a +corner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom she +had fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater. + + + + +LXXVII. + + +CONSOLATIONS. + + "Every fault finds its excuse in + itself. This is the sophistry in which + we are richest. The struggle of good + and evil is serious, and really painful, + only in the case of a man who has + been brought up in a position where + actions, deeds and thoughts have had + the power of self-examination." + + EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_). + +Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the odd +caprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings are +exhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourished +by the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existed +nowhere but in the brain of novelists. + +Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the first +rascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness and +good looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if he +knows how to brazen it out. + +"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope. + +And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament, +remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on that +account. + +It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. The +opportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women's +virtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, although +it is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it by +which they seize and do not let it go again. + +Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying _Ab una disce +omnes_. + +You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not in +that category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark. + +Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom she +had yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequently +yield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him by +the purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towards +the male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on our +dwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and the +quintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there always +comes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion of +seraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man. + + ........who goes by night + In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark. + +Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions. + +Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet and +unctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on his +countenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of her +father, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she was +going. + +She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerably +surprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise than +as a sister is loved. + +But that is not what we men understand by love. + +The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we ought +to touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen. +Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires become +more inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress. + +If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubt +that she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessary +to resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recovered +from her terror and confusion. + +I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far more +worthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than the +haughty virtue of certain others. + +And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried to +deceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who had +ruined her. + +--He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not love +the man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. It +is natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since I +cannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes, +I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power to +resist him? + +Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed the +looks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It would +have been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he has +seen me only. + +He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man as +handsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought to +be loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and being +loved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because I +admire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, so +audacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, must +find itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my look +met his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inward +feelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments. + +And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in their +love. + +In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the reality +kills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, it +nearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination of +being loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble, +the shame, the sacrifice. + +For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her whole +life. + + + + +LXXVIII. + + +FALSE ALARM. + + "She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid + Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now, + When I beheld her in her home; alas, + And can the flower so quickly fade?"... + + DELPHINE GAY. + +Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning, +when her father burst into her room like a hurricane. + +She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless to +assume the most innocent and the calmest air. + +--What is the matter, papa? + +But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye, +apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were asking +them if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event. + +But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannot +relate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter in +such a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going to +faint. + +--Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night? + +--I! she said with the most profound astonishment. + +--Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hear +anything in the night? + +She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite of +herself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she replied +with the most natural air in the world: + +--What do you mean that I have heard, father? + +--Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, said +Durand, scanning his words, something extraordinary. + +This time Suzanne was terrified. + +Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to the +last extremity. + +--Well? + +--Well, father? you puzzle me. + +And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her father +with perfect assurance. + +She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered her +round, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed on +Durand's. + +The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, and +reproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he said +gently: + +--Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know very +well that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you have +nothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry. +But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts of +thoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yet +have a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered the +garden. + +--The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and +scrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father, +no, I have heard nothing. + +--I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take +more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed. + +--Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt... + +--Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible. + +Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her, +and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her father +knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her +terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying: + +--Ah, papa! Ah, papa! + +The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears. + +--Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this, +little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if you +had heard anything. + +--No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes. + +--You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Another +time we will keep our eyes open, that is all. + +But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she +decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her +father in a reproachful tone: + +--And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your +asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell +me that. + +--True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talk +about it any more, hang it. + +But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the +end. + +--I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by +coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your +asparagus, as if it were my fault. + +--It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived this +morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very +quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped. +What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in the +middle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makes +himself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the +house and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. There +was still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself then +what it meant, and I came to you to learn. + +--To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do you +suppose that I know more about it than you? + +Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy and +frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and +frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty. + +Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by their +children with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands are +deceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered their +eyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the +_cherub_ which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whose +long roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recount +before strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice and +hide-bound in overweening vanity. + +He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for some +time gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes: + +--No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is not +this calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul? + +And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said to +her gently: + +--It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes, +without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which are +nothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimes +carelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church, +at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough for +him to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least as +an encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake some +enterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men are +for the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, can +make that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed the +age of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals who +want to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Men +are very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that all +the ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passes +by, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, they +say directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they try +the knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphant +air, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address her +impertinently. + +--Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some young +fellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches well +waxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they have +amused us. + +--At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman, +passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyes +meet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rather +nice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that it +would not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look she +gave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and down +under the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl. + +And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the most +deplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had all +been very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough. + +Together they passed in minute review all the young village _beaux_, but +Durand's suspicion did not rest on any. + + + + +LXXIX + + +IN THE _DILIGENCE_ + + "Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts + on the mitre, and Bobeche the crown, + Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin + parades as Solon. Scapin is heard + calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My + Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are + titles for honours. The more they + are branded on the shoulder, the more + they are bedisened on the back. + Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace + resplendent." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Paris-Berlin_). + +During this time, the _diligence_ for Nancy was carrying away Marcel and +Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's +exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to +anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;" +and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy. + +They were alone in the _coupe_, and could converse at their ease. + +--Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away +there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret +at leaving this part? + +--And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there? + +--Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you. + +--Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and +trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you. + +--Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray. + +--Let us rather talk about your promotion. + +--My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious. + +--What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are going +perhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouse +yourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longer +ambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do you +hear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man, +like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen your +nephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however, +who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will give +me your patronage, will you not? + +--Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Cure's hands, you +still have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become a +Bishop? + +--What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you not +of the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as well +as another? + +--A bishopric is not for the first-comer. + +--Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you really +must get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession, +evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there are +two things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stir +yourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that is +an accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely an +accessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than is +necessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are not +sufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myself +up for you. Success wholly lies in that. + +You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh. +Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does he +possess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues very +doubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleased +the world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dear +friend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales of +our destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something about +it, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should not +be now Cure of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many I +know who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say in +the pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receive +the confessions of influential sheep. + +--You confess, uncle, that it is abominable. + +--I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it not +logical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than those +whose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been the +case since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on the +subject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by our +advantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to the +foolish and envious. + +--Birth also counts for much in our fortune. + +--Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of a +journeyman baker. + +--He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII. + +--Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, nor +his genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then something +else. + +--In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men, +starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity: +Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VI +was the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar. + +--And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourage +you who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller. + +--Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could have +married according to my taste and have become the worthy father of a +family, an honest artisan rather than a bad Cure. + +--Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you. + +--Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are not +acquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see her +through the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on her +account, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well as +I, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from those +dangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no more +than others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature.... + +-Alas, alas, human infirmity! + + Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori. + +--Then.... + +--Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there. + +And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, where +they changed horses. + + + + +LXXX. + + +AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. + + "Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek + Doth blend the tints of cream and rose. + And lends the pearls which deck her hat + And rubies too from off her gown, + To be your own fit ornament." + + E. DARIO (_Strophes_). + +Before the _Hotel des Messageries_, a young girl, modestly dressed, was +waiting for the _diligence_, with an old band-box in her hand. + +Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with +surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had +seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and +those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their +freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her +prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the +mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the +market-place of Althausen. + +By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow? + +Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded +horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the +red face, and the thin and hungry little children? + +He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair +girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow. + +--Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor. + +--It is I, she said. + +--This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a +good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. +And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupe. + +The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said: + +--What, in the coupe? + +--Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupe, and in good hands too. Do you +complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will +undertake your conversion. + +--Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing +herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me? + +He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get +up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she +sat down beside Marcel. + +--You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle. + +--I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the +hospital. + +--Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you? + +--'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening +performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or +leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been +very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, +there are good people everywhere. + +--And you are going to Nancy? + +--To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be at +Epinal. + +Ridoux was listening in his corner. + +--You know this young person then? he said. + +--I know her through having seen her once at Althausen. + +--Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away. +You remember, we were both of us at our window? + +Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic +sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical +low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion +of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect +that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered. + +--I don't remember. + +Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the _diligence_; allured by the +sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time _litanies_, +_paters_ and _aves_ in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. +Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few _sous_ among the +most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert +beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they +threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears. + +--I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you +set of idlers. + +--Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are +some who cannot work. + +--There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be +lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now +these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart +bleed to see such misery. + +And he took a pinch of snuff. + +A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind +the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a +pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half. + +--You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel. + +--Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it +yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a +good action, she added laughing. + +--I see that the Sisters were very kind to you. + +--Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take the +Communion, which I had not done for a long time. + +--That is well, said Ridoux. + +The _diligence_ had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and +with bare feet was running, cap in hand. + +He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he +cried: + +--Charity, kind Monsieur le Cure; charity, if you please. + +--Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal. + +-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home. + +--Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the _gendarmes_. + +The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again. + +--Poor little fellow, said the dancer. + +And she threw him the other half of the pie. + +Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous +action, for he cried angrily: + +--Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion? +No doubt it was with that piece of meat. + +--Why, sir? + +--In what religion have you been brought up? + +--In the Catholic religion. + +--Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your +meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of +the deepest indignation: has not your Cure then taught that it is forbidden +to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from +your sins? + +--I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to +attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish. + +--What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling? + +--I am a travelling artiste, sir. + +--A travelling artiste. What is that? + +--I dance character dances, and I appear in _tableaux vivants_ and _poses +plastiques_. + +--_Poses plastiques_! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that +calling? + +--That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the +young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that +when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves +with. + +--Honourably! that's a fine word! + +--I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour. + +--And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when +you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, +which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage +others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given +that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church.... + +--I did not think of that. + +--And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child +to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly +life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday.... +You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our +Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to +offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine +Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth +in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by? + +--I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke. + +--A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the Holy +Virgin. + +--Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat? + +--Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It +appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give +me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and +work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must +not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your +soul also requires to eat. + +Marcel interrupted. + +--Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the +duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide. + +--I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to +guide her. + +Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page +of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep. + + + + +LXXXI. + + +A LITTLE CONFESSION + + "Let us not ask of the tree what + fruit it bears." + + CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Mes Medailles_). + +--Monsieur le Cure is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellent +heart. + +--Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the old +gentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of a +man! + +--The Chaplain, no doubt. + +--No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge, +that makes one think of the _gendarmes_. I was quite in order, fortunately. +Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere, +and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened me +very much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be. + +--You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Society +of St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic. + +--Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only to +people who are religious and honest and right-minded--as he says. As I am +an artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself about +me, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl. + +--What do you mean by honest girl? + +She looked at him attentively: + +--You know very well, she said. + +--But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be +honest. + +--Was I not obliged to go to confession before? + +--Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. That +is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again. + +--Fall where? + +--Into your sins. + +--That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of +them. + +--Many! so young! How old are you? + +--Sixteen. + +--Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you can +commit at sixteen? + +--Many. The Cure of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that I +was a cup of iniquity. + +--Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins do +you commit then? + +--I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass. + +--What then? + +--Others besides. + +--What are they? + +--I do not know; there are so many. + +--Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you have +just related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others ... +you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing? + +--They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, +is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin. + +--But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others. + +--Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins? + +--All those which are not innocent, yes. + +--How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so? + +--Your conscience is the best judge. + +--And when my conscience says nothing? + +--That is not a sin. + +--Well, Monsieur le Cure of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins +for which my conscience does not reproach me at all. + +--My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to +have a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is +kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance. +What are then those great faults? + +--Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl? + +--Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good +advice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, +exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are. + +--Pretty! you think me pretty? + +--Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't you +know it? + +--Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when I +am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the pretty +girl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to +hear it. Is that a sin too? + +--A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greater +ones than that, you are really an honest girl. + +He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed. + +--Where are you going to stay at Nancy? + +--The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house where +I can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company: +the _Hotel du Cygne de la Croix_. + +--I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house, +the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt but +that you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommended +by the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is a +conscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. She +is not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes a +great interest in you then? + +--Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a more +suitable position for me; but what position could he give me? + +--He might find you some ... he is an influential man. I invite you to +follow his advice. He is a member of the _Society for the protection of +poor young girls_. + +--But, no doubt, I shall not see him again. + +--Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; but +unfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here for +long. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need of +anyone ... you understand ... a young girl might find herself at a loss in +a huge town ... you will enquire for the Abbe Marcel at this address. + +-Many thanks, sir. + +They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her small +amount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the inn +which the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquainted +her with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance, +where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant. + + + + +LXXXII. + + +THE CHURCH-WOMAN. + + "Devotion is the sole resource of + coquettes: when they are become old, + God becomes the last resource of all + women who know not aught else to do." + + MME. DE REUX. + +As _his uncle_ had foreseen, the young Cure pleased the old lady greatly. +She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make his +way. + +--You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such as +we require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, who +bring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back to +their village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbe? It is a shame, an +absolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproach +Monseigneur severely for it. + +--It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken a +dislike to my nephew. + +--I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Too +frozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. He +is the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That is +what comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, Monsieur +Marcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion and +agreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory and +amiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I may +confess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shall +have the women, the world is ours. + +While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady could +exercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that in +order to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of this +estimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried to +be amiable and witty. + +But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuous +drawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he had +only to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of the +earth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to be +the instrument of a rapid fortune. + +The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who make +of religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs of +gallantry. When they are old, and can scarcely _venture_ any longer on +their own account, they generously place their experience and their small +talents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others. +That is called _lending the hand_, and more than once the old lady had +countenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews of +sweet sheep with their tender pastor. + +The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesans +when they are young and procuresses in their ripened age. + +Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usually +comes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches of +the temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls at +length upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for the +most part they begin with conviction and good faith. + +They attend church frequently, not only because it is _good form_, not only +through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination. + +The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir, +the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the +pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass +windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of +Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small +chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and +intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the +beadle and the sacristan. + +It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to +the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship. + +They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have +knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there +is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are +invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again. +They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed +on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book +of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to +reality. + +A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them +like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same +place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to +read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious +look, which inspires fear. + +What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively +behaviour of this red-faced Abbe? + +How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can +find no better employment for the day than to mutter _Paternosters_, devoid +of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague +sanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_. + +Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission +in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and +joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by +a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting +mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence, +into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of being +the fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become the +passive instruments, the unfruitful _things_ of the priest, that is to say +the agents of reaction. + +It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman is +called to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is the +desolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, that +she is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society: + +"_Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady, +she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morally +certainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of the +old race: The Stick_!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet, _Love_. + +No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says. +She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured and +reformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful and +intelligent, she knew _what talking meant_, and how to read in wise men's +eyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in good +time, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be so +opposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple: _Religion +and pleasure_. + +"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasure +hurt God." + + + + +LXXXIII. + + +CONVENTICLE. + + "Je, dist Panurge, me trouve bien + du conseil des femmes, et mesmement + de vieilles." + + RABELAIS (_Panurge_). + +They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair to +the Palace that very day. + +--There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Cure of St. Marie is +much coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the Abbe +Matou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he is +young, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choose +myself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little story +formerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, after +all, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur would +he desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in public +esteem. He is dangerous. + +Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is the +son of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. There +is yet the _Sweet Jesus_. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbe Ridoux? + +--Yes, it is the Abbe Simonet. + +--The Abbe Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at the +Seminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow. + +--Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly in +love with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers, +and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbe Gobin. Now he +has gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town? +Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough to +make one shudder. Dear _Sweet Jesus_! When I see him wandering in the +Cathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand the +infatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat. +Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young and +handsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holy +flock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strive +very hard against the _Sweet Jesus_. + +--We will strive, said Ridoux. + +--And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbe, hasten to Monseigneur's, +he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is well +to reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St. +Marie. + +Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Cure of St. +Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one or +another mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhaps +indispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputation +and the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longer +Suzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there are +reconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant, +and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne from +time to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and less +perilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in that +village where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see.... + + + + +LXXXIV. + + +AT THE PALACE. + + "This world is a great ball where fools, disguised + Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness + Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness + In vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us; + Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different." + + VOLTAIRE (_Discourse sur l'Homme_). + +Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first +time after five years, within the episcopal Palace. + +It was there formerly--five years ago, quite an abyss--he had dreamed of a +future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had +seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away. + +Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same +faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at +once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, +browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost +bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young +and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into +the illimitable future. + +The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good +looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain +and insolence this obscure country Cure, of whose disgrace they were aware. + +--Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind of _valet de chambre_ with a +sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again +to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed. + +--Then I will wait. + +--Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting +a long time. + +If it had not been for the valet's insolence, Marcel would no doubt have +gone away, and perhaps, would have abandoned the affair; but, humiliated at +hearing himself addressed in that tone, he became obstinate. + +--Can you not then inform Monseigneur that the Cure of Althausen desires to +speak with him? + +--Althausen! Ah, well! I believe that the Cure of Mattaincourt and Monsieur +le Cure of the Cathedral have called and not been received, replied the +valet; consequently, he added _in petto_, we shall not disturb ourselves +for a junior like you. + +--Can I speak with _Monseigneur_ the Secretary? + +--Monsieur l'Abbe Gaudinet does not like to be disturbed, and I believe +besides that he is in conference with his Lordship. + +Marcel was aware that in the episcopal Palace the village Cures are treated +with less regard than the dogs in the back-yard; therefore he took his own +part, and he had just sat down on a bench without saying a word, +deliberating with himself whether be ought to wait or to go away, when a +little priest with a busy and important air, with spectacles on his nose +and a pen behind his ear, quickly crossed the anteroom. + +--Is it not Monsieur l'Abbe Gaudinet? said Marcel rising. + +--Ah, cried the former, Monsieur le Cure of Althausen, I think? + +It was the Secretary, and he aspired, as may be remembered, to the envied +post of curate at St. Nicholas. He thought to obtain the good graces of +Ridoux by rendering a service to Marcel. + +--Monseigneur is really too much engaged, said he, but I will obtain +admittance for you anyhow. + +And he made him go into a small apartment next to the Bishop's private +cabinet. + +--I will call you when it is time, he said to him and went out. + +Marcel, left alone, heard the sound of a voice in Monseigneur's cabinet, +and he recognized perfectly old Collard's. + +He would have been failing in good clerical traditions, if he had not +gently drawn near the door and listened with all his ears; struck with +amazement, he heard the singular conversation which follows. + + + + +LXXXV. + + +LITTLE PASTIMES. + + "One thing which it is necessary + to take into account, is that they are + very precocious. A French girl of + fifteen is as much developed as regards + the sex and love, as an English girl + of eighteen. This is accounted for + essentially by Catholic education and + by the Confessional, which brings + forward young girls to so great an + extent." + + MICHELET (_L'Amour_). + +--Let us see, little one; look me right in the face. Madame de Montinisant +has assured me that you were very nice, very sweet, very submissive, very +modest, in fact ail the good qualities in the superlative, and that you +were worthy of entering into the sisterhood of the Holy Virgin, in spite of +your youth; is that quite true? + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! It is true, do you say? I am going to know exactly, I am going to +know if you are truthful or not. God has bestowed on Bishops the gift of +divining everything. Did you know that? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, ah! You are smiling; you believe perhaps that it is not true; wait, +wait, you shall see indeed. Is it long since she made her first communion? + +--Nearly two years, Monseigneur. + +--Two years, ah, ah! Then the little girl is fourteen. + +--Only thirteen, Monseigneur. + +--Thirteen! thirteen! that is very nice. At thirteen one is already a +grown-up girl. Are you already a grown-up girl, little rogue? + +--I don't know. + +--You don't know, ah, ah. We are going to see first, if you are modest. +Come close to me; see, little girl, give me your chin, and this pretty +little dimple.... Oh, oh! you are laughing, stay, stay ... she has some +pretty little dimples on her cheeks too, the little naughty thing. We are +going to make a little confession.... Ah, you are blushing. Why are you +blushing? You have then some great sins on your conscience? Come, you are +going to tell me all that ... quite low ... in my ear. + +--But, Monseigneur.... + +--There is no _but, Monseigneur_. It is the condition _sine qua non_ of +entering the sisterhood. You understand that in order to admit a sheep into +his flock, the shepherd must be completely edified regarding that fresh +sheep.... The sheep then must relate all her wicked sins to her Bishop. It +is God who wills it, it is not I, little girl. What enters by one ear, goes +out directly by the other. I should be much puzzled, after the confession +to repeat a single word of what you have told me. You know what a +speaking-tube is. + +--Yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, the Confessor's ear is the speaking-tube of the ear of God. Has not +your Confessor taught you that? + +--Oh, yes, Monseigneur. + +--Well, then, we have nothing to be afraid of, and she must not hesitate to +confide to us her little faults. Even were there very great sins, I shall +hear them without making any remonstrance, for that will prove to me that +you have confidence in your Bishop. Come, place yourself there, near me, on +your knees. You have no need to recite your _Confiteor_; it is only an +examination of conscience that we are both going to make. There! very well, +put this little cushion under your knees, you will be less tired. See, +where are we going to begin? + + --One God only thou shalt adore... + +No, no, that is unnecessary; I am fully persuaded that you love God and +your parents with all your heart. + + --The goods of others thou shalt not take... + +Ta, ta, ta, I am quite aware that you are not a thief--a thief has not a +pretty little face like that; let us go on at once to the sixth +commandment: + + The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire + But in marriage only. + +There, that is what moat concerns little girls. Do you know what are the +works of the flesh? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it +to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this +commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already +spoken to you about it? + +--No, Monseigneur. + +--Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in +confession. Who is your Confessor? + +--He is Monsieur Matou. + +--Ah, Matou! the Abbe Matou. Yes, yes, he has spoken to you about it, I +know him; he must have spoken to you about it. Come, tell me all about +that. + +--Well, once he asked me.... + +--Ah, ah! well, well! do not stop. What is it he asked you? + +--He asked me ... ah! it is a long time ago, before my first communion. + +--Well? + +--He asked me, if I did not go and play with the little boys. + +--And then? + +--If I had not culpable relations with them. + +--Culpable relations with little boys, well! And what did you answer him? + +--I answered him that I had not. + +--That you had not! Was that quite true? Do not blush, and do not tell a +falsehood. I shall see if you are going to tell a falsehood. + +--Yes, Monseigneur, it was quite true; I did not even know what Monsieur +Matou meant. + +--And you know it now? + +--Yes, he explained it to me. + +--Oh, oh! he explained it to you. And how did he explain that to you? + +--He told me.... + +--Let us see what he told you. Come, come, you most not hang down your +head: see, lift up this pretty face and show me this little dimple; what +did the Abbe Matou say to you?... Eh, eh! who is there! who is knocking at +the door? Is it you, Gaudinet? Rise up, my little daughter, and go and sit +down there, in the corner. Come in, Gaudinet, come in then. + +Gaudinet put his head discreetly inside. + +--Monseigneur, I came to inform you that the Cure of Althausen has been +there for some time. + +--There? where is that? + +--In the cabinet. + +--What! in the cabinet? Ah, are you mad, Gaudinet, to send people in this +way into my cabinet? I do not approve of that, I do not approve of that at +all. What does that Cure of Althausen want with me? + + + + +LXXXVI. + + +SERIOUS TALK. + + "Such were the words of the man + of the Rock; his authority was too + great, his wisdom too deep, not to + obey him." + + CHATEAUBRIAND (_Atala_). + +Marcel had not heard these last words. At Gaudinet's first word, he had +quickly vanished, foreseeing that a terrible tempest would burst upon his +head, if the Bishop should suspect that he had been a witness of his way of +hearing little girls' confessions, the usual way however of nearly all +priests; I appeal to the memories of the Lord's sheep. + +--Monsieur le Cure!... cried Gaudinet, opening the door. Ah, he is no +longer there. He has gone away, Monseigneur. I had told him, in fact, that +your Lordship was very busy, and, no doubt, he wished not to trouble you. + +--I was, in fact, expecting him. He will return to-morrow. But, for God's +sake, Gaudinet, never let anybody enter that room without warning me +beforehand. + +Marcel was already at the bottom of the stairs. A valet called him back, +and Gaudinet, after bringing out the little girl, introduced him to +Monseigneur's presence. + +--Ah, there you are, said the latter in a harsh tone, looking him straight +in the face. Why did you go away? + +--I was told that Monseigneur was engaged, and I feared to disturb your +Lordship. + +--Who told you that? + +--The Abbe Gaudinet. + +--You are much changed. I should not have recognized you. I have received a +letter from Monsieur le Cure of St. Nicholas, he added, searching on his +desk. Here it is. He says that you have returned to better sentiments ... +that you are amended, humbled before God ... that you wish henceforth to +follow the good way ... Is that so? + +--That is my desire, Monseigneur. + +--It is not enough to desire, sir, you must intend, firmly intend. + +--I intend also. + +--I intend to believe it. I ask nothing better than to oblige my old friend +Ridoux by doing something for you. Sit down. We are in want of priests, +that is to say, intelligent, hard-working, active priests, on whom we can +absolutely rely. Times are becoming difficult. Evil doctrines are +spreading. Faith is passing away. Infamous writers, wretched pamphleteers +are spreading everywhere, at so much a line, the seeds of doubt and +perversity. And to crown the evil, imprudent and maladroit priests are +indulging their vices and creating scandal. But we are not discouraged. Is +the holy arch in danger because a few nails are rusty, because a few cords +are rotten? Other nails and cords are supplied in their place, and the +rottenness is cast away. But we must not hide from ourselves that we are +passing through a melancholy period. This is what priests for the greater +part do not clearly see. They slumber in their priesthood, take their +emoluments, grow fat, go their small way, and believe they have discharged +their duty. That is not the case. When a man has the honour to be a priest, +he must be active. It is necessary, as in the time of the persecutions, to +make proselytes and win souls; to confront the irreligious propaganda with +our propaganda; lampoons, with lampoons; speeches, with sermons; acts, with +acts. In short, we must struggle. Can we remain still and idle, when our +Holy Father is imprisoned in a den of thieves? + +The time has come. We are fighting for our very existence, we must close +the ranks, take count of ourselves, and above all see on what and on whom +we can count. Let us see what we can expect from you? What do you ask? You +wish to come to the town? I warn you that it will be hard, if you intend to +do what I expect of you. + +--The trouble does not frighten me, Monseigneur. + +--You will have a difficult parish. You will have to run foul of a thousand +different interests, and not give the slightest pretext for slander. You +understand me? There are five or six influential Liberals whose wives or +daughters you must win over adroitly, and at any cost--at any cost, you +understand. Do you feel yourself qualified for this work? Are you the man +we need? + +--I will try, Monseigneur. + +--You will try. That is not on answer. It is not enough to try; you most +succeed. We are surrounded with men who commit nothing but follies, while +intending to do well. Hell, you know, is paved with good intentions. + +He looked at Marcel attentively, and the latter asked himself if this were +really the man he had heard, only a few moments before, talking lightly +with a little girl. + +--You have good manners, continued the Bishop; you are intelligent, I know. +You will succeed therefore, if you intend it seriously. Our misfortune is, +that we are encumbered with dull and stupid peasants, whom the Seminary has +been able only partly to refine, and who render us ridiculous. You must +certainly have gone to sleep in your village? + +--No, Monseigneur, I have worked. + +--We shall see that. And what sort of people are they? Do they perform +their religious duties? + +--A good and hard-working population. + +--Do they perform their religious duties? + +--Yes. Monseigneur, I was satisfied with them. + +--What society? + +--Very little. The lawyer, the doctor.... + +--Right-thinking? + +--Tolerably so. + +--And the women? + +--Much the same as all country-folk, ignorant and narrow-minded. + +--No, you were not the man needed there. You would lose your time and your +powers. I will send one of those brutes of whom I have just been speaking. +Well, go; you can tell the Abbe Ridoux that you will have the cure. Come +again to-morrow. I even think it will be useless for you to return to +Althausen. + + + + +LXXXVII. + + +THE SEMINARY. + + "I turned my head and I saw a + number of the dead in living bodies. + These are the worst spectres, because + they must be subdued: you touch them, + they touch you, and, in order to drag + you away to their tomb, they seize + you with an arm of flesh which is no + better than the marble hand of the + Commendatore." + + EUGENE PELLETAN (ELISEE, _Voyage d'un homme + a la recherche de lui-meme_). + +Marcel went away disconsolate. So it was done. He was changed, another put +in his place at Althausen. He had hoped for opposition, he had counted on +objections from the Bishop, he thought, in short, that he would remain in +suspense for some weeks, perhaps for some months, during which he would +have the time to look before him and reflect; but no, all at once: "Go and +tell the Abbe Ridoux that you have the cure." Well, and Suzanne? Could he +leave Suzanne in this way? He had, it is true, informed her of his +departure the day before; but had not everything changed since the day +before? Could be abandon thus his heart which he had left behind there? +More than his heart, his whole soul, his life, the maiden who had yielded +herself. + +Strange contradictions. When he had believed his change far distant and +still but slightly probable, he had thought he could leave Suzanne easily, +arrange far away from her for secret interviews, and await events; now that +this change was certain and had just become an accomplished fact, he looked +upon it as a catastrophe. Instead of hastening to announce _the good news_ +to Ridoux, he proceeded to roam through the streets, assailed by his +thoughts. + +"And I shall be obliged to live in this world which I have just caught a +glimpse of, to elbow these men at every hour, to mingle in their intrigues, +to blend myself in their life. That unscrupulous old Comtesse, that +insolent prelate, Gaudinet, Matou, Simonet and the rest, all oozing forth +hypocrisy, intrigue and vice; dreaming of one thing alone, to satisfy their +ambition, their passions, and their appetites. And these are the ministers +of God! Veronica was quite right: + +"'All the same, we are all the same, all.' And I am one of the least bad. I +was blind and idiotic not to have cast my gaze earlier into this filthy +sewer.--Blind, idiotic and deaf." + +He passed near a lofty, gloomy building. It was the Seminary. The desire +came upon him to go in. Some of his old fellow-pupils had remained there, +as masters or professors. But he altered his mind. What was the good? What +would he do? What would he say to them? There was henceforth an abyss +between him and these men who remained encrusted in the vessel of +clericalism, the most uncrossable of all abysses, that which divides the +thoughts. They were perhaps happy. He recalled to mind the long hours he +had passed beneath the Sacred Heart in the little chapel of an evening, +amidst the wax-lights, the incense and the flowers, mingling his voice in +exaltation with the voices of the young Levites, and singing senseless +hymns, with his heart melting with love of God. + +And he began to envy those young fanatics whose blind and unintelligent +faith killed every rising thought, and who were ready to suffer martyrdom +to support the ridiculous beliefs which they had been taught and which they +were called upon to teach. Blind, idiotic and deaf. + +"Why am I not so still!" he said; "I should believe myself the only guilty +one, the only wicked and perverse one among all those apostles; I should +curse my weaknesses and myself; but at least I should have faith, I should +walk onward with a star upon my brow, the star of sublime follies which +gives light and life, whereas I see nought around me but desolation and +death. I should humble myself before the Almighty, and I should cry to him +like the poet: + + "'Oh Lord, oh Lord my God, thou art our Father: + Pity, for thou art kind! pity for thou art great!' + +"And instead of that, I am obliged to humble myself before that Bishop whom +I despise, to endure the scorn of his lacqueys, and the offensive patronage +of his secretary, to have the opportunity of saying: + +"'A little place in your good graces, Monseigneur!' No, a thousand times +no. My village, my poor belfry, my humble parsonage, my liberty, and my +Suzanne!" + +By his dejected look, his uncle and the Comtesse believed he had not +succeeded. + +--Too late! they cried. The cure is given away. + +--Yes, he answered. + +--To whom? To the _Sweet Jesus_, I wager. Ah, the Tartuffe. + +--To me. + +--And that is why you have a funereal expression? + +--Yes, uncle, for I am burying for ever my tranquillity and my happiness. + +--Is it only that? Madame la Comtesse, I present to you the oddest and the +most extraordinary man you have ever met. Judge him yourself. He has just +carried off at the first onset what he was eagerly desiring, and there he +is as cheerful as a flogged donkey. Ah, my dear Madame, how difficult it is +to benefit people in spite of themselves. + +--That is my opinion also, said the Comtesse, looking tenderly with her +little eyes, still brilliant in spite of their long service, at the young +priest, for whom she felt that vague unfruitful passion which old +courtesans have for every young and handsome man; and she made him relate +minutely all the details of the interview. + +--Bravo! bravo, she cried. It is more than I hoped. But do not alarm +yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you. +I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One +of them the other day took it into his head to die _civilly_ and, in spite +of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the +early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary +schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third. + +--How? + +--By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their +children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Cure, which is incumbent upon +you. + +--And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from +the fathers. + +--I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in +question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this +young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with +certain prejudices. + +--Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task +for us women. + + + + +LXXXVIII. + + +THE FAIR ONE. + + "Pretty to paint! as graceful as an + ear of corn, slender and yet robust, + never was seen a morsel of flesh so + delicate, or better rounded. Her hair, + a wonderful fleece, smelt as sweet and + fresh as the grass, and shone red like + the sun." + + LEON CLADEL (_L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Boeufs_). + +It was with a great feeling of relief that, in the evening, after supper, +Marcel retired to the room which, in spite of his protests, the Countess +had caused to be made ready for him. + +He had need to be alone. Events had hurried on in such an astounding and +rapid manner, and he had had no time to think about them. + +His resolution was fully taken. He would refuse the new core. The odious +part which he was called upon to play there, decided him. He was about to +shatter his future. It meant a disagreement with his uncle, the hatred of +this influential woman, the formidable persecution of the Bishop; but what +was all that? He saw Suzanne again, amiable, gracious, smiling, looking at +him with her soft, dark eyes; Suzanne approving of his conduct and saying +to him: "You are a man of courage. Let us go away together; cast your frock +into the ditch." + +And he wrote three letters: one to his uncle, the other to the Comtesse, +and the third to the Bishop, entreating them to excuse him, and telling +them that he did not feel qualified to perform his ministry in a large +town. He implored Monseigneur to leave him at Althausen and to think no +more about him. + +But the night brings counsel. And when he woke up the next morning and saw +his three letters on the table, he thought that he could not do a more +awkward thing. + +He threw them in the fire, dressed and went out. The idea came to him of +going to see the parish which was destined for him. He followed the +streets, drawn in a straight line, of that too regular city, and when he +arrived at the corner of the _Rue des Carmes_, he heard his name +pronounced. Be turned round and saw the landlord of the inn where he was +accustomed to stay, when he came to Nancy. + +--What, you are passing before my door without coming in, Monsieur le Cure; +I was expecting you, however. I had prepared your room. + +--You were expecting me, Monsieur Patin? And who told you that I was here? + +--Who told me that? It was a young person who is very pretty, upon my word. +She came to ask for you yesterday evening, and we expected you up to ten +o'clock. + +--Dark? said Marcel much disturbed. + +--No, fair, the prettiest fair complexion which I have ever seen. + +Marcel remembered immediately the little mountebank, whom he had altogether +forgotten, and to whom he had given the address of Monsieur Patin's hotel, +where he had expected to stay. + +--It is a young girl who is recommended to me, he said; I regret that I did +not see her. + +--You are not coming in? + +--No, for perhaps I am going to set out again for Althausen. + +--For Althausen. That is impossible to-day. I have just seen the +_diligence_ go by. Come, you will sleep once more at my house, Monsieur +Marcel; your room is quite ready, and my wife, who has a fancy for you, +will not let you go away. Stay, here she comes; she has recognized your +voice. + +The little Madame Patin, plump, brown, active and pretty, hastened up, +indeed, and compelled Marcel to come in, almost in spite of himself. + +--You shall remain, you shall remain! she said to him, relieving him of his +hat. + +--No, he answered smiling, I shall not remain, and I will tell you the +reason. I came with my uncle, and I have my room at Madame de +Montluisant's. + +Before that declaration Monsieur and Madame Patin bowed. + +--Ah, that is not right, said Madame Patin; Madame de Montluisant is +opposing us, she is drawing our clients to her house.... My dear, have you +told Monsieur Marcel that a young person has come?... + +--Your husband has told me, Madame, and that proves to you that I certainly +had the intention of staying with you, since I showed her your address. It +had escaped my memory, otherwise I should have called to ask you to send +the young person to Madame de Montluisant's. + +--She will certainly come back again, for she seemed very desirous of +seeing you. Must I send her to you at that lady's? + +--No, but tell her to come again this evening late. I have a thousand +things to do, and I can scarcely see any moment but that when I shall be +free. + +That evening at eight o'clock, he was at Monsieur Patin's, where he found a +good fire in a small sitting-room well closed, with the newspapers and a +cup of coffee. The young girl had called again during the day, and would +return. Marcel installed himself comfortably in an arm-chair and waited for +her. + +He had seen the Bishop again, who had flashed before his eyes a future, +full of golden rays. The visit of Ridoux and the Comtesse had preceded his +own, and in the sudden change of manner of the prelate towards him, he +recognized the good offices of his new friend. + +A good dinner had completed the happy day, and life appeared to him, after +all, to have some sweetness. + + + + +LXXXIX. + + +LOVE AGAIN. + + "Oh Folly, which we call love, what + dost thou make of us? Out of free-men + thou dost make us slaves; thou + dost breathe into us all the vices. It + is thou who dost supply the altars of + disloyalty and fear! It is thou who + dost extract from thought the rhetorician's + art, and from enthusiasm a vile + profession. How many young people + have you blighted! all the fairest. Ah, + siren, thy voice is sweet. Thou speakest + to us the language of the gods, but + thou are only an impure beast." + + JEAN LAROQUE (_Niobe_). + +A kind of emotion seized him. He was almost ashamed of it, and tried to +give an account of it to himself. It seemed to him that he was affected as +if at the approach of sin. He restrained his feelings and enquired of +himself what this young girl could want with him. + +Perhaps she was but a common courtesan who, attracted by the handsome +appearance and tender look of the priest, counted on speculating profitably +in a clandestine intrigue. + +Nevertheless, he was not terrified at the prospect, and he recalled +complacently the scene in the open air in the market-place at Althausen. +With his eyes closed, he saw her again playing the castanets, rounding her +hips and shooting forward her little foot, in order to make the enraptured +rustics admire the sculptural beauty of her leg. He saw again that bosom, +free from all covering, which had plunged him into such confusion. + +Ah, if instead of his love for Suzanne, so full of fever and danger, he had +picked up on his way some pretty girl like this Bohemian, who, while +calming his feelings, would have left his heart in peace. + +With a common peasant girl, vigorous and sensual, like this dancer at the +fair, he would have gratified the only low permissible to a priest; for it +was the most unpardonable folly, he recognized now, to surrender his heart. + +The Cure of St. Nicholas was a thousand times right! Let the priest make +use of woman, nothing is more proper, as an instrument, as a pastime, +hygienic and aperient; but let him stop there. + +At certain periods, when the brain is heavy, the digestion is inactive, and +the bowels are confined, when dizziness occurs, when the blood becoming too +plentiful, grows thick and congested in the veins and rises to the head, +then it is that nature needs to accomplish her work. Then one seeks for a +woman, one throws oneself on her who happens to be there, and is willing to +lend herself to this hygienic and benevolent part. Servant or mistress, +girl or wife, lady or work-girl, young or old, courtesan from a +drawing-room or the pavement, one takes her, has one's pleasure of her, and +goes away. + +But to love long, to make of the woman the aim of our life, the spring of +our actions, the ideal of our existence; to believe in happiness together, +to put faith in these fragile, vain and ignorant dolls!... What trickery! + +To believe in happiness through love! Dream of the school-boy! It is +permissible to the neophyte who puts on for the first time the white +surplice and the golden chasuble with so much joy and pride. The sweet +young girls, the youthful wives, the grave matrons regard you with softened +eyes. Then you have faith, you have confidence, you see the future +illumined by angels with virgin bodies who murmur mysterious words in your +ear, which melt your heart. You dare hardly lift your eyes, and you say to +yourself: "Which one shall I love in this legion of seraphims? Oh, I will +love them all, all!" Presumptuous youth which doubts of nothing! + +But when you have loved one, two, three of them ... afterwards, afterwards? + +After having experienced the nothingness of all these trifles, of all these +follies of the heart, of all these caprices of the imagination, of all +these abortions of the thought, of all these voids of the soul, of all +these impurities of the body, of all the uncleanness of the woman with whom +you are satiated, and whose couch you are leaving, then go and speak of +eternal love. + +Oh, how right Diogenes was to call love a short epilepsy. + +How right that Imperial sophist of the Decline to call it a convulsion! and +the first Bonaparte, an affair of the sopha. + +Thus Marcel moralized, like an old prelate, coming out from a closed room +when some filthy scene has been enacted. + +The fact is, that for some time he had been the hero of a comedy and of a +drama; the grotesque comedy which he had unrolled with his servant, the +terrible drama in which he saw himself involved with Suzanne Durand. And he +was wearied and satiated. The satisfaction of his senses left him by way of +retaliation, shame, trouble and fear. + +Daniel Defoe has written in his admirable book: + +"From how many mysterious sources, opposed one to the other, do not +different circumstances cause our passions to proceed? We hate in the +evening what we cherished in the morning; we avoid to-day what we sought +for yesterday; we desire an object passionately, and a few moments after, +we shall not know how to endure the idea of it." + +Thus Marcel was cursing love, when Zulma came and knocked at his door. + + + + +XC. + + +LE CYGNE DE LA CROIX. + + "As soon as she comes + The Hostess looks hard: + --My beauty no ceremony, + The supper is ready; + Come in, come in, my beauty + Come in, and no more noise + With three gallant captains + You shall spend the night." + + (_Popular Songs of France_). + +Madame Connard, a widow, and the landlady of the Cygne de la Croix, a godly +and right-thinking person, made a significant grimace when she saw a young +girl, quietly dressed, entering her house, with no other luggage than an +old band-box. + +But when she handed her the card of Monsieur Tibulle, judge of the Court at +Vic, president of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and member of the +Committee for the protection of poor Young Girls, her grimace changed into +a gracious smile. + +She soon gave her a room and asked her what she wanted to eat, informing +her, however, that it was a fast-day and that, consequently, she had not +much choice. + +--Whatever you like, said the dancer; I am convalescent; I have a good +appetite, and I accommodate myself to everything: don't give then the best +which you have, but the cheapest. + +--The little thing is sharp, thought Madame Connard; and she added aloud: A +young lady, recommended by Monsieur Tibulle, need not fear that she will +want for anything. Consider what you would like, my little dear, and don't +disturb yourself about the rest. And since you are ill, the Church allows +us to give you meat to eat. + +She went out in the meantime, and an hour afterwards she herself served a +dinner which would have made the most greedy of curates envious, and washed +down with that light wine, acrid but heady, which the slopes of the Meurthe +produce. + +The dancer, like a true child of Bohemia, dined heartily, and without +needing to be asked. She was at her coffee, when she heard a whispering in +the corridor, and a little cracked voice, which said: + +--I am a little late, dear Madame, but I have been kept by Monseigneur. Has +the little one behaved well? + +--Like an angel, Monsieur Tibulle, and a demon for beauty. + +--Yes, yes. This will be a fine acquisition for the Church. A soul snatched +from Satan, dear Madame, snatched from Satan. We shall make something of +her. + +--Ah, how happy you gentlemen are to snatch in this way pretty little souls +from hell. We, poor women, have not that power. + +--But you prepare the ways. You open them, dear Madame Connard; everything +has its purpose, its purpose, its purpose. + +--Well, Monsieur Tibulle, proceed to yours. It is number 10. I leave you. + +And she quietly half-opened the door of No. 10, into which Monsieur glided +like a shadow, saying in his tremulous voice: + +--Eh! Eh! it is I, I, I, my little dear. How happy I am to see you again, +to find you here, comfortably installed like a little queen. Eh, eh. + +Madame Connard put her head in for an instant, smiled, and cautiously +closed the door; "He is still pretty young for his age," she said to +herself. "Ah, these men! these men! that goes on to the very end." + + + + +XCI. + + +THE CALVES. + + "Non formosus erat sed erat facundus Ulixes." + + OVID. + +Zulma had run forward to meet him. He took hold of both her hands and made +her sit down close beside him on the sofa. + +--Well, what is the news? How have they received you here? Are you +satisfied? Have you had a good dinner? + +--Too good, replied Zulma: I am afraid I have spent a deal of money. + +--A deal of money! Eh, eh! the good little girl! But you have nothing to +pay here, my little puss. Nothing at all to pay, nothing at all. All the +expense is my concern, and the more you spend, the better pleased I shall +be. Have they not told you that, told you that, told you that? + +--You are too kind, Monsieur; but I, what shall I do then for you? + +--She is heavenly, eh, eh! But I want nothing, darling, nothing, nothing +... except to see your pretty eyes. When we see them once, we have only one +wish, and that is to see them again, again, again. I am well paid for the +little I have done for you, since I have that pleasure. Yes, yes, yes. We +are only too happy for what we can do for a charming little face like +yours, and when we have obliged it, we say thank you! That is what I do, my +little duck; thank-you, thank-you, thank-you. + +--I am very grateful to you.... + +--That is what I was thinking. I want to kiss you for that kind word. Alas, +we come across so many ungrateful people in the world.... What a fine and +velvety skin; how soft it is under the lips ... again, again.... I could +eat it ... again.... Ah, you do not want to again. What are you afraid of? +I might be your father.... Come, another little kiss for poor papa. + +Zulma let him kiss her again. + + +[PLATE V: THE CALVES. "I want to see them again, again, again." + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees.] + +[Illustration] + +--Ah, what a pretty girl! Look how strong and well made she is! continued +the old President passing his trembling hand over the young girl's waist: +have not these breasts grown a little thin? Yes, I believe, a little, a +little, but how firm they are! like a rock, like a rock; hard as a rock, +heavenly girl.... Eh, eh! you are drawing back, you are afraid of me ... of +me who might be your papa. + +--And perhaps my grandpapa, said Zulma. + +--Grandpapa! Ah, the little girl is not flattering. Grandfather! you think +then that I am quite old? I am going to pinch her calves for that naughty +word, those big calves which I saw at Vic, and which have turned my head. +Have they grown smaller too? Let us see, let us see. + +Zulma held back the too presumptuous hand. + +--What, said the worthy man astonished, you will not show your calves? + +--What is the good, since you have seen them at Vic? + +--I want to see them again, again, again. + +--Well, there they are, but do not touch. + +--Oh, oh, you are cheating. That is only half, I want to see them all ... +up to the knees; at the least what I saw in the market-place. + +--No, sir. + +--Ah, you must not say _no_ to me.... I do not like _no_. Let me help you, +my pretty. Women always have a lot of strings under their petticoats and +sometimes there are knots, knots, knots. I know that, so let me do it. + +--But I don't want to, I tell you. + +--Nevertheless, just to show me your calves, your fine big calves. + +--You have seen them enough. + +--What, cried Monsieur Tibulle, indignant at length at such obstinacy, you +refuse to show to me what you exhibit in public, to everybody, in the +market-places, in the streets, to the first who comes along; you refuse me +when I am all alone, in this little room where nobody sees us. Ah, it is +very wrong, wrong, wrong. I intend to punish you for that naughty act. + +--In public, that is my profession, and besides I have a costume. + +--She is nice enough to eat! A costume! If you only want that, it is very +easy to find. I know of a little costume, very nice and not dear; and if +you like, we will both of us put it on. + +--What is it? + +--That which God gave us. It is the best of all, and besides it is that +which will become you the best. Ah, my little dear, nothing is equal to the +gifts of God, and all the fripperies of women will never serve them as well +as the simple attire of our first mother. We are going then to try the +costume of Adam and Eve. Does that suit you, little one? You will no longer +be afraid then of showing your calves. Come, come, Sophie, my dear, enough +of these affectations. + +--My name is not Sophie. + +--Your name is Zulma, and also Aspasia, and Phryne, and again it is Eve. +For it is long since you ate of the forbidden fruit, is it not, you little +rogue? + +--Let me alone, I ask you. + +--Leave you alone! you would think I was very silly. Come, heavenly Eve, be +quick into the costume of your part; I will play Adam and you shall see +what a fine apple we will eat. + +--Sir, a man of your age! + +--Old men are always more amorous than the young ones, you will see, you +will see. + +--I don't want to see anything, let me go. + +--Go! and where do you want to go to? A man does not let a little duck like +you go away when he has hold of her, for I have you, you little rogue, yes, +yes, I have you. Listen. We will go away to-morrow morning, each our own +way, neither seen, nor known. And I assure you that you will be satisfied. +My wife does not expect me till to-morrow. + +--Your wife? What, you are married?... + +--Does that surprise you? My wife is an old she-goat who is good for +nothing more. Therefore I make no more use of her. Come, let us be quick; +into the costume of Eve, and if you absolutely keep to it, I will fasten a +fig-leaf on to you. + +But Zulma was not the girl to allow herself to be forced in this way; and +the worthy old man, who wanted to add deeds to words, received a vigorous +slap on the face. + +He stopped, quite confused, and rubbed his cheek. + +--She has a strong wrist, he said. Who would suspect that such a little +hand could hit so hard? But the ice is broken now, and you are going to pay +me for it. + + + + +XCII. + + +THE SCAPULAR + + "And the old bearded fellow rubbed + away, pushed with his hips, embracing + her in front: clasped with his arms + embracing her behind; stuffing at the + chancellery, throwing her gently and + collecting his strength, labouring with + his chest, and even tripping her up: + he made use of all." + + LEON CLADEL (_Ompdrailles_). + +--I shall scream, said Zulma, who was defending herself valiantly; I shall +scream if you do not loose me. + +--Scream as much as you will, said the holy man as he recovered breath: +here the walls are deaf, and you will have to deal with me. + +--I just laugh at you. You old Punch! + +--Old Punch! Punch! + +--You ought to be ashamed. + +--You insult me; take care. + +--Let me go directly, or I shall know whom to complain to. + +--Ah, you assume that tone! You want to make a complaint do you? And to +whom, you little wretch? + +--To whom it may concern. + +--Ah, what a fine expression you have learnt by heart. Who is _whom it may +concern_? I do not know him. Whoever he may be, _whom it may concern_ will +laugh in your face. You, a daughter of the streets, a rope-dancer, a clown, +a ragged slut, you would lodge a complaint against me! Surely you do not +know who I am. I am an honourable man; known everywhere, respected +everywhere. Come, you see clearly that you are talking nonsense; be more +reasonable again. What! it pleases me to cast my eyes upon you, to want to +pass a little while with you agreeably; I honour you by stooping myself to +a girl of your kind, and you refuse, and are fastidious. Has one ever seen +such a thing? It is enough to make God laugh. Come, come now, not so many +affectations: for the lost time, how much do you want? A hundred francs? + +--You horrify me. Let me go away. + +He cast a fearful look upon her, and said, with a laugh which chilled her +blood: + +--Oh, you want to go away. Well, how about the money I have spent on you, +and on your journey? + +--Your money! I did not ask you for it. But I will let you have it back +again, be assured; when I have worked and earned it. + +--And you believe that I shall be satisfied with this fine promise? You +will let me have my money back immediately, or I shall certainly accuse you +of being a thief ... an adventuress. + +--I will say what happened. It was you who compelled me to take the money +for the coach-fare. + +--I make you a present of that, but you will have to pay all that you have +spent here; if not, you will be put in prison, you understand, little +good-for-nothing? Do you think people are going to keep you and let you +enjoy yourself for nothing? + +--And who has told you that I shall not pay, replied Zulma, struck by the +logic of this objection. + +--Then you will pay immediately, said the worthy man, for I have been +answerable for you, and it is on my recommendation that they have received +a trollop like you into this respectable house. Madame Connard, he cried at +the door, dear Madame Connard, will you bring up the bill, the little bill? + +Madame Connard appeared at once: + +--What, Mademoiselle is going away, is she not sleeping here? + +--No, Mademoiselle is going to try her fortune elsewhere. + +Madame Connard handed the bill to Monsieur Tibulle. + +--No, no. It is Mademoiselle who is going to settle it; this young lady. + +Zulma glanced at it and grew pale. She had hardly 10 francs, and the bill +amounted to 19 francs, 75 centimes. + +--And besides, it is so little because it is you. Everything is so dear +here, and one does not know what to do for a living. + +The poor girl remained silent; she looked at the bill without seeing it, +for her eyes were full of tears. + +--Well, said Monsieur Tibulle in a wheedling tone. Is there some little +hindrance to your settling that? + +--Madame, said Zulma, I have not enough money with me; no, I do not believe +I have enough money ... but I can find it, I know where to find it ... and +in an hour or two.... + +--Oh, oh, cried Madame Connard, in an hour or two, that is a very fine +tale. But I know it, my girl, and people don't tell me that sort of thing. + +--Well, dear Madame, I leave you, said Monsieur Tibulle, making her a +knowing sign; I am going to see if my horse is put to, for I am setting off +directly. Good-bye, little one, good-bye. No malice. + +--Well, Mademoiselle, said Madame Connard, what do you decide? + +--I have told you, Madame, I can give you five or six francs, and, although +it is a downright robbery, I will find you the rest. + +-What! a robbery? you little thief, you little hussy, you dare to call me a +thief, you little street-walker. You are going to pay me immediately, or I +will hand you over to the police. + +--Very well, call the police, if you wish; I ask for nothing better; I will +relate what has occurred. + +She considered no doubt that she was wrong, for she cried: + +--Look, that is not all, pay me immediately and take yourself off somewhere +else. Has one ever seen anything like? You believed perhaps that I was +going to lodge you and keep you for your pretty face? No, my dear. I have +been done already in that way, and you don't catch me any more. There was a +respectable gentleman, very polite, rich, and wearing a red ribbon, who was +answerable for you, if you had been willing to make an arrangement with +him; but instead of making an arrangement with him, you have a dispute; so +much the worse for you, your family quarrels don't concern me. What I want +is the money, that is all that I know; pay me my bill and get out, you +little prostitute. + +--Come, dear Madame, I will try and arrange this little matter, said +Monsieur Tibulle, appearing again; the little one is going to think better +of it, I feel sure. Let me reason with her. + +Madame Connard withdrew complacently. + +--You see, you see in what a position you are placing yourself, said the +excellent old gentleman, crossing his arms and looking at the young girl +with all the dignity and sorrow of a father who has detected his child in +some shameful act. + +--Say rather into what an ambush you have driven me, you old scoundrel. + +--Oh, oh, oh! no bad word, my girl. Bad words are no use. I am going away +to pay the bill. + +--A fig for you and your money. + +--What! a fig for me and my money! In the first place you should never +despise money, my girl; we can do nothing without money in this world. And +then you are wrong to despise me, who only wish you well, my dear; yes, +yes, wish you well. + +--I tell you to leave me alone. + +--Look now, don't be naughty, for I am going to settle the matter. + +--I don't want you. Don't touch me.... + +--And how are you going to get yourself out of this scrape, if you will not +let me get you out. You rebuff me again, though I only want to make you +happy. + +--I tell you not to come near me. + +--Come, be pacified, you little angry cat; only a kiss and that shall be +all. + +He wanted to take hold of her waist, but she pushed him back. But he had +gone too far to believe that he ought to beat a retreat, and he retained to +the charge with renewed vigour. In the struggle she seized him by the neck, +his waistcoat came undone, and a little square bit of painted canvas, of a +dubious colour, remained in her hand. She threw it back in his face in +disgust. + +--My scapular! he cried. You throw my scapular about in this way. Stay, you +are a little wretch, a street-walker, a hussy, a reprobate. You will perish +miserably, and I leave you to your fate. Ah, you throw away my scapular! + +When he had said this, the good gentleman piously recovered his scapular, +buttoned up his overcoat, and retired full of dignity. + + + + +XCIII. + + +FROM THE DARK TO THE FAIR. + + "Moderation should preside over + pleasure: let us seek in new pleasures + a refuge against the satiety of our + souls." + + KALVOS DE ZANTE (_Odes nouvelles_). + +Zulma had remembered Marcel and had gone to him boldly. + +--You have been crying then, my child? said the priest who noticed her red +eyes. + +The young girl in a few words informed him of her adventure. + +--Who would ever have believed that? she said. Such a kind man! Such an +obliging lady! The old gentleman said to me at Vic: "I shall not concern +myself about you if you do not go to Confession, if you do not receive the +Communion, if you do not say your prayers." Whom can one trust? + +And that Madame Connard: "Eat what you like, and don't stand on ceremony. +Monsieur Tibulle wishes it so. Old men are made to pay." And with all these +fine words, I owe her ten _francs_. + +Marcel could not help laughing at the girl's artlessness. + +--Then you have come to ask me for them. + +--Yes, said Zulma blushing; have I not done right? She has kept my +band-box, the old thief; what it contains is not worth ten _francs_, but I +don't want to leave it with her. + +--And what will you give me in exchange? + +--Everything you want. + +--That is a great deal to promise; but you have nothing. + +--It is true, I have nothing, she said piteously. Well, I will kiss you and +will love you very much. One may kiss a Cure, may one not? + +Marcel thought she was getting to business very quickly. + +--Priests do not receive kisses from anybody, he replied. + +--From nobody? not even from a sister? + +--But you are not my sister. + +--Well, I will be your comrade. + +--No more do they have a comrade. + +--Oh, well, if I were a man I should not like to be in your position; one +must get awfully tired of being all alone. What are you able to do all the +blessed day? For my part, in the first place I must have a lover. + +--Ha, ha! and who is your lover? + +--A rider at the Loyal Circus. A handsome boy too. A tall dark fellow like +you. He is a little too proud, but I like that in a man. + +--And for how long has he been your lover? + +--Ever since I have seen him. It is nearly two years ago at the fete at +Mirecourt. Our booth was beside the Circus. + +--Two years! cried Marcel: but at what age did you begin? + +--Begin what? to dance on the tight-rope? + +--To have lovers. + +--But I have only had one, and that is he. + +--Well, how old were you when you had him? + +--I have never had him. + +--Look, dear child, you have told me that you are sixteen. + +--Yes, sir. + +--Then you began at fourteen. + +--Began what? + +--With your lover. + +--We never began anything. I have told you that he was too proud. I wanted +to speak to him once, and he answered, "Go along." + +--But he is not your lover. + +--But he is, because I love him. + +--And you have not had others. + +--No, because I love him. + +--Well, you are a good girl, and if what you have said is true, you are +worth your weight in gold. + +--My weight in gold! cried Zulma laughing; then buy me, for it is true, and +I shall be rich. + +--But how shall I know if what you say is true? + +--Ah, that is embarrassing, she said thoughtfully. What can I do to prove +it? + +--I believe you without proof. But I am not rich enough to pay you. + +--It doesn't matter, to you I give myself for nothing. + +Marcel was bewildered and hurriedly gave her the ten _francs_. + +--How kind you are; I should like all the same to do something for you. + +--You wish to please me? Well, remain good. + +--Only that! And till when? + +--Until I give you permission not to be so any longer. + +--I will certainly. + +She took a few steps towards the door, opened it, then turning back +suddenly, she advanced her bust, as though she were making a bow to the +crowd, and placing the tips of her fingers on her lips, she wafted a +gracious kiss to the priest. + +--There is pleasant and easy love-making, said Marcel to himself. Why did I +not know it sooner? + +He ran to the door. + +--Wait, my child. Where are you going to sleep to-night? It is late. Have +you a lodging? + +--Stay, my word no, I had forgotten it. + +--This is what you will do. First, settle your account with this landlady, +without making allusion to anything. A scandal must always be avoided. +Monsieur Tibulle is a man, highly esteemed, with a considerable position in +the world, and anything you might say against him, would only turn against +you. Do not tell this story then to anybody; and do not tell anybody that +you know me. Now take these two _louis_, my dear child, and buy yourself a +few little articles of dress. You must be dressed properly. Go, and come +back here. Monsieur Patin! + +The landlord appeared. + +--Monsieur Patin, said Marcel, I confide this young person to you, or +rather, to Madame Patin here. She has been recommended specially to me by +some ladies of high rank. She is going to fetch her small articles of +luggage, and will soon be back again. Be careful of her. Give her a room +and her meals; I am answerable for her. Mademoiselle, I shall see you again +to-morrow. + +What were Marcel's intentions? + +Had he felt the appetite for the unknown awakening? + +He who had just poured forth his bitterness upon woman and upon love, had +be come to the conclusion in the presence of this stranger that he could +not do without woman or without love! + +But the other? + +The other was not there, and the absent are in the wrong. + +Could this one make him forget the other? Could a new fancy destroy the +strong love which bound him and was ruining him? Could a love facile and +without risk soothe the hidden mischief and diminish the fury of a +dangerous passion? She had all that was required for that, this little fair +girl with the tempting lips. + +Like Suzanne she was young and charming, like Suzanne she would be loving, +and unlike Suzanne, she would be submissive. + +Her eyes swimming in their azure, her aquiline nose with its mobile +nostrils, her scarlet fleshly lips, her golden hair like ripened corn, her +rosy cheeks in which coursed health and life, the slimness of her waist, +the delicacy and whiteness of her hand; it all said: Love me. + +And she was a fresh woman ... a fresh woman, eternal temptation. + +When he returned to the hotel, he found the Comtesse anxiously waiting for +him. + +With a smile she handed a large packet, sealed with the episcopal arms. + +It was his nomination to the Cure of St. Marie. He would have to take +possession of it immediately. + + + + +XCIV. + + +THE CHANGE. + + "Prayer on that day is said within the gothic church, + The old men mourn beneath the ancient oak. + Resisted are the games but just begun. + The village maidens will no longer dance." + + MME. DE GIRARDIN (_Elgire_). + +The worshippers at Althausen were much surprised the next day to see a +priest whom they did not know, officiating without ceremony in the place of +their Cure. He was stout and plain, with an inflamed face, bloated lips, a +cynical look, and a thundering voice: he said Mass in such a hasty and +indecorous manner that they went away scandalized. The handsome Marcel +certainly was no longer there, with his sweet and unctuous voice, his +evangelic piety, and his eyes which stirred their hearts. + +The report spread through the village that the handsome Cure had gone away, +and all the gossips at bay grouped in the market-place and watched for +Veronica to assail her with questions. But the old maid-servant to her +mortification knew no more about it than the gossips. She ventured to +interrogate her new master, but he slapped her on the back and sent her +away to her kitchen-stove. + +--He is disgusting, this old fellow, she said. For my part I am not going +to remain here. I prefer the Corporal. + +Durand had just sat down at table with his daughter, when Marianne with a +scared air, looked at Suzanne in a mysterious way, and said to the Captain: + +--Do you know? Monsieur le Cure has gone away. + +--Pleasant journey, said Durand. + +--There is a new Cure already in his place. He said Mass this morning. + +--A new Cure, cried Suzanne; then he has gone away not to return again? + +--Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is +discouraging! It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest +has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching +farewells to his flock. For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager +that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded. + +--Oh, father! + +--He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very +quietly with another Cure. + +--Let him go to the devil! + +Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress. She pretended +to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears. +Why this decisive departure? Why had she not received a single warning from +Marcel? No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was +incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a +cruel wound. + +Soon the news arrived. The new Cure announced Marcel's change in the +sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners. Everybody was in +consternation. He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt. + +For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for +Suzanne. The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said +it was necessary to wait. Wait for what? Suzanne waited. + +But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a +start in her entrails. She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel +answered: Wait. + +Wait for what? She waited again. + + + + +XCV. + + +THE CURE OF ST. MARIE. + + "The white ground and the gloomy sky + Blended their heads sepulchral; + The rough north winds of winter + Breathed to the heart despair." + + CAMILLE DELTHIL (_Poemes parisiens_). + +Weeks and then months passed away. One rainy winter's evening a young +woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped +at the Cure of St. Marie's door. + +She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of +the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, +slackening her walk and seeming to say: "Ought I to go in? Yes, I must go +in." But each time she pursued her way again. At length, as the rain kept +falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, +slowly retraced her step and rang gently. + +The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of +leather, invited her in mysteriously, "Whom shall I announce?" she +asked.--"Do not announce me. I am expected." + +The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the +door of which she closed upon her. + +It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends. + +A _prie-Dieu_, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on +shelves painted black, composed all the furniture. + +A large crucifix of wood which stretched its thin arms from one window to +the other, contributed no little to give a sorrowful and monastic look to +the room. + +The young girl approached the chimney-piece, where a few brands were +burning at the bottom of a huge grate. She shivered, perhaps more from +emotion than from cold, for she remained there, thoughtful, forgetting even +to warm her feet, soaked by the rain. + +A door opened soon at the other end of the room and Marcel entered. + +He had greatly changed during these few months. + +His eye shot forth a gloomy fire, his cheeks were hollow, and numerous +threads of silver showed themselves in his dark locks. It was evident that +anxiety, watchings and cares, contended on his wrinkled brow. + +At the sight of the young woman he assumed a livid palor. + +--You, he murmured in a stifled voice, you here, Mademoiselle? + +--I am, replied Suzanne; did you not reckon then on seeing me again? + +--Not now, dear child, I confess to you. I had said to you: Wait. + +--And I have waited. And weary of waiting, I decided to come and to know +finally from your own mouth what I must wait for, and on what I most count. +But ... sir.... I am tired: will you allow me to sit down? + +--Pardon me, Mademoiselle, I mean to say, dear Suzanne, but your coming has +filled me with such confusion.... + +He handed her a chair, and sat down facing her. + +--Ah! dear child, you do not know with what cares I am overwhelmed. + +--They must indeed be very serious, sir, since they have made you forgetful +of your duties, even to the care of your honour and of mine ... for the +moment is approaching when I shall no longer he able to hide the +consequences of your.... + +--Of our fault, dear Suzanne, of both our faults. Do not overwhelm me +alone, for it was your pretty face which made me mad. But is it really +possible? Can it be true? what, you are.... + +--I have let you know it, sir, a long time ago, and you have not deigned to +give any answer on that subject. I have read and read again your letters +many times, seeking for a word which might console me, for a hope, for a +light, but there was nothing. You have told me to wait; you have tried, +like a coward, to gain time, you have reckoned on something unforeseen +occurring, which might settle the question without your aid ... and you +would have washed your hands of it in peace in your broad conscience. But +the time has gone on, the unexpected has not come, and now here I am, and I +come to ask you: What do you intend to do with me? + +--In truth, dear Suzanne, I had not believed ... Ah, you are more beautiful +than ever ... No, I had not believed that the case was so desperate. + +--You have not believed. No doubt, amidst your life of lies, surrounded by +hypocrites and criminals, you have included me charitably in the number, +and supposed that I lied. + +--Suzanne, dear Suzanne, do not be offended ... I believed that you wished +to terrify me ... Ah, how lovely you are like this ... Ah, it is a terrible +misfortune. We must guard against it. And your father, does he suspect? + +--Not yet, sir, but the moment is approaching when I shall no longer be +able to hide the truth. + +--It is true then. What is to be done? What is to be done? + +--Stop; you would make me laugh, if I did not pity you. I am come to ask +you, for the last time, if I ought to count upon you. + +--Count upon me? But, my dear child, upon whom would you count if not upon +me? There is no doubt but that you have only me to count on. I am your +friend, your only friend. Always the same, dear Suzanne. I am ready for +anything, in order to get you out of this scrape. But judge yourself. I am +observed by all here, the slightest report would re-echo terribly and would +ruin me. I am surrounded by those who envy me and consequently are my +enemies. In a year or two, perhaps, I may be Grand-Vicar. You see how +careful I have to be of my position. I will do everything, be well assured +of it, it is my interest as well as yours, but I cannot do the impossible. +What do you ask? + +--You have a short memory, sir, but I remember, I remember with what +infernal art you induced me, not to yield to you--for you well know, and +God is witness to it, that I yielded only to violence--but to listen to you +with a too trustful ear. No, I see you do not remember it: you have +forgotten so many things that it would be lost time to try and refresh your +memory. You do not answer? For in truth, sir, the parts are strangely +altered, and if I am ashamed of it for myself, I blush still more for your +sake. But since you are so careful of your future and of your fortune, I am +come to tell you this: I am rich, sir, do not then fear anything, do not +dread poverty; I have inherited from an aunt, who leaves me enough to +provide me with a husband. But what I want is a father for my child.... + +--Mademoiselle, dear and fondly-loved Suzanne, yes, ever fondly-loved +Suzanne, I am full of confusion and remorse; I thank you from the bottom of +my heart for your generous offer ... but ... can I accept it? I make you +the judge of it yourself. Do I belong to myself? I am the Church's, bound +from head to foot, body and soul; not a thought belongs to myself, I am but +the infinitesimal portion of an immense wheel which carries me away in +spite of myself. How can I loosen myself from the gear? Can I do it? Can I +defy such a scandal? My honour, my dignity as a man.... + +--Ah, you are appealing to your honour now ... but, sir, your duty, is not +that your honour? And what is your duty? Stay, you are a wretch.... + +As she uttered these words, a young girl's head, fair, charming, rosy +looked inquisitively through the half-open door. Suzanne saw it and grew +pale. Her brows contracted and a bitter smile passed across her lips. + +--I understand, she said, I understand your hesitation, your honour and +your scruples. Farewell, sir.... + +And she went out, without turning her head, stifling her sobs. + +Marcel followed her with his eyes, and ran to the door: + +--Suzanne, Mademoiselle, to-morrow you shall have an answer. Another +word... + +She made no reply and he heard the street-door close. + +A tear rolled to the edge of his eyelid. + +He rushed to the window to call her back, but a hand laid hold of his and +the fair girl stood before him. + +--Well, Monsieur my uncle, well! And who is that handsome dark girl? + +--Ah, my poor Zulma, do not be jealous of her. + +--I am jealous of everything, and I want to know. + + + + +XCVI. + + +FINIS CORONAT OPUS. + + "No mortal can foresee his fate + Let none despair. Comrades, good night." + + BYRON (_Mazeppa_). + +The following evening, the canal toll-collector on the Malzeville road +discerned a black shadow which, despite the icy rain, remained for a long +time leaning on the parapet of the turn-bridge, then all at once +disappeared. He called for help and, a few minutes afterwards, they drew +out of the water the body of a young girl of remarkable beauty. + +A portion of a letter was found upon her which at first aroused a thousand +comments. + +This is what was written: + +"I have just celebrated the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and during the +Elevation, I prayed God to inspire me with a good idea. I likewise asked of +the Queen of Angels what I could do for this unfortunate one. The +All-pitying God and the Mother chaste and pure hearkened to me. Let my +sister in Jesus Christ whose image will never be effaced from the heart of +her spiritual friend, go and knock at the gate of the Convent of Our Lady +of the Seven Sorrows, in the parish of St. Marie; there, the cares which +her interesting condition demand, will be afforded her. It will be easy to +explain her temporary absence, and, in case of need, to obtain the +permission of a parent who wished to place an obstacle in the way of this +pious necessity. Divine Providence will assist in this as it assists all +those who have recourse to it. The ladies of the Seven Sorrows are +informed, and they await the new sheep with mothers' and sisters' hearts. + +"Let it be thus done in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the +Holy Ghost: + +"Jesus, Mary, Joseph." + + +On applying at the Convent of the Seven Sorrows, the good sisters said that +in fact they had received a letter, sealed with the episcopal arms, +announcing the arrival of a young lady. They were unable to say more. + +Monseigneur, when questioned, summoned the Abbe Marcel who gave the +examining magistrate the most satisfactory explanations, acknowledging that +he was the author of the letter, and that she was a young girl whose honour +he desired to save. + +This event did the greatest good to the reputation of the former Cure of +Althausen. His discretion, his wisdom and his virtue were lauded more than +ever. + + + + +[Illustration] + + + +Afterword. + + +OTHER WORKS IN ENGLISH +BY HECTOR FRANCE + +MANSOUR'S CHASTISEMENT; +THE ATTACK ON THE BROTHELS; +MUSK, HASHISH AND BLOOD; +THE DAUGHTER OF THE CHRIST; +UNDER THE BURNOUS. + + + + +THE AUTHOR AND HIS WORKS. + + +Hector France alighted upon this planet some fifty years ago and chose his +home in the midst of a family renowned for generations as fighters. From +this preliminary statement we may deduce two facts: firstly, that baby +Hector was not destined by his stern-visaged, paternal sire for any other +than the martial profession, and secondly, that the squealing youngster of +those days is now a man in the prime of life. + +Strongly-built, upright and vigorous, Hector France looks every inch just +what he really is--a Soldier and a Gentleman, as ready to handle the Sword +as to smite smooth-faced Lie and Hypocrisy with the Pen. + +The qualities of his mind are faithfully delineated in his features. He has +the same leonine look that distinguished the famous English iconoclast, +Charles Bradlaugh. The massive brow, the firm, determined jaw, the large, +luminous eyes, the wavy hair and big shoulders would anywhere mark him out +at once, though unknown, as a Philosopher, Fighter, Orator and Leader of +men. The career of the two men also offers points in common. + +If Charles Bradlaugh was a soldier so was Hector France, with the +difference that the latter really did face sabre-flash and cannon-smoke +whereas his English prototype early bought himself out of the Service. Both +men, too, mixed in the game of Politics, only Bradlaugh's luck landed him +at last in Parliament while France led a forlorn hope that ended, after +many a narrow escape for life, in twenty years of weary exile from his +beloved country. Finally both men hold nearly identical opinions with +regard to Religious Questions, only Bradlaugh imagined he had a special +mission to assail the world's historic faiths, and Hector France, like +Ernest Renan, smiles in a curious Oriental way, when these things are +broached, quite content for you to believe anything you please so that you +do not bother him overmuch with your reasons. + +Hector France must not be confounded, as is often done by ignorant persons, +with the gentleman who has elected to call himself "Anatole France", and +who writes under that name. The real patronym of M. "Anatole France" is, I +am informed, Monsieur Chaussepied, which interpreted into English means +"Mr. Shoe-horn". It is unnecessary to state that Hector France is content +with his own name, and would not have changed it even had it been less +noble than it really is, believing with us that a man's work are sufficient +title to nobility, however odd may be the cognomen bequeathed him from +bygone sires. + +The appearance of this book in English will prove a godsend to Protestants +who may see in it only an attack on Catholicism. Let them hug no such +flattering unction to their souls. M. Hector France is no savage iconoclast +gone mad with sectarian hatred. He recognizes the good in all religions as +answering a temporary need in the evolution of Humanity, and for none has +he a more profound respect than the Catholic Church. Indeed the pomp and +magnificence, the architectural grandeur, the vast learning, wealth and +influence of this institution appeal to the imagination of both ignorant +and cultured alike. The aim of the distinguished writer of the "Grip of +Desire" is far removed from that of vulgar and gratuitous image-breaking. +He seeks to show the danger to human character that comes through meddling +with one of the most imperious of natural instincts. If in the +"Chastisement of Mansour" he bodies forth the consequences of unbridled +Libertinism, in the "Grip of Desire" he demonstrates the evils attendant on +a life of forced Celibacy. In the first we have the autocratic Reign of the +Flesh, in the second the Subjection of legitimate Carnal Desire. + +The union of the female to the male is a law of Nature, as solid as the +granite bases of the world. No normally constituted man can disregard that +law without doing violence to himself and to his kind. + +Kant says: "Man and woman constitute, when united, the whole and entire +being, one sex completes the other." + +Schopenhauer asserts: "The sexual impulse is the most complete expression +of the will to live, in other words, it is the concentration of all +volition." And in another passage: "The affirmation of the will to live +concentrates itself in the act of procreation, which is its most positive +expression." Mainlaender gives utterance to the opinion when he says: "The +sexual impulse is the centre of gravity for human existence. It alone +secures to the individual the life which he above all desires ... man +devotes himself more seriously to the business of procreation than to any +other; in the achievement of nothing else does he condense and concentrate +the intensity of his will in so remarkable a manner as in the act of +generation." And before all those, Buddha wrote: "Sexual desire is sharper +than the hook with which wild elephants are tamed; hotter than flame; it is +like an arrow that is shot into the heart of man." + +The present work, if it teach anything at all, teaches that Celibacy is a +crime, and the Mother of crime, just as a venomous plant is a producer of +poison. The needs of his organization torment the single man until he robs +from others that which he lacks. Hence Seduction, Rape, Adultery, the +Invasion of trouble into families, and furious Jealousies with all their +prolific brood of Wrong-doing and Woe. + +This is not the place to praise or to blame the book before us. Each man +will judge it according to his individual tastes, temperament and +character. The embryonic, thin-lipped man may consider it bold, far too +outspoken. The full-blooded reader more conversant with the realities of +life, will be inclined to look upon it with larger charity, having regard +to what the Author has _refrained from saying_, rather than to what he has +said. + +"At the outset," says Camille Lemonnier, himself a well-known writer, +"these pages are conspicuously chaste; Temptation takes the form of +Mystical Sensuality, at first beaten back and then surging forwards +victorious; then, as the fire of passion grows more intense, the lamp of +the tabernacle dies gradually out; and Humanity, with the unchaining of +instinct, breaks forth, cries and howls like a mad gorilla from his cage." +Here again we witness the triumph of Eve; entangled in her long, flaxen +tresses she sweeps away the sinner's conscience, and while the Church +closes the door against them both, Nature opens out wide her own with a +kindly, + +"Come in, my Children." +CHARLES CARRINGTON. +PARIS, 1st JUNE, 1898. + + + +[Illustration] + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GRIP OF DESIRE*** + + +******* This file should be named 10963.txt or 10963.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/1/0/9/6/10963 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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