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diff --git a/14200-0.txt b/14200-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5f36db5 --- /dev/null +++ b/14200-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13124 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14200 *** + +ABBÉ MOURET’S TRANSGRESSION + + +By Émile Zola + + +Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +‘LA FAUTE DE L’ABBÉ MOURET’ was, with respect to the date of +publication, the fourth volume of M. Zola’s ‘Rougon-Macquart’ series; +but in the amended and final scheme of that great literary undertaking, +it occupies the ninth place. It proceeds from the sixth volume of the +series, ‘The Conquest of Plassans;’ which is followed by the two works +that deal with the career of Octave Mouret, Abbé Serge Mouret’s elder +brother. In ‘The Conquest of Plassans,’ Serge and his half-witted +sister, Desirée, are seen in childhood at their home in Plassans, which +is wrecked by the doings of a certain Abbé Faujas and his relatives. +Serge Mouret grows up, is called by an instinctive vocation to the +priesthood, and becomes parish priest of Les Artaud, a well-nigh pagan +hamlet in one of those bare, burning stretches of country with which +Provence abounds. And here it is that ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret’ opens +in the old ruinous church, perched upon a hillock in full view of the +squalid village, the arid fields, and the great belts of rock which shut +in the landscape all around. + +There are two elements in this remarkable story, which, from the +standpoint of literary style, has never been excelled by anything that +M. Zola has since written; and one may glance at it therefore from two +points of view. Taking it under its sociological and religious aspect, +it will be found to be an indirect indictment of the celibacy of the +priesthood; that celibacy, contrary to Nature’s fundamental law, which +assuredly has largely influenced the destinies of the Roman Catholic +Church. To that celibacy, and to all the evils that have sprang from +it, may be ascribed much of the irreligion current in France to-day. +The periodical reports on criminality issued by the French Ministers of +Justice since the foundation of the Republic in 1871, supply materials +for a most formidable indictment of that vow of perpetual chastity which +Rome exacts from her clergy. Nowadays it is undoubtedly too late for +Rome to go back upon that vow and thereby transform the whole of her +sacerdotal organisation; but, perhaps, had she done so in past times, +before the spirit of inquiry and free examination came into being, she +might have assured herself many more centuries of supremacy than have +fallen to her lot. But she has ever sought to dissociate the law of the +Divinity from the law of Nature, as though indeed the latter were but +the invention of the Fiend. + +Abbé Mouret, M. Zola’s hero, finds himself placed between the law of +the Divinity and the law of Nature: and the struggle waged within him by +those two forces is a terrible one. That which training has implanted +in his mind proves the stronger, and, so far as the canons of the Church +can warrant it, he saves his soul. But the problem is not quite frankly +put by M. Zola; for if Abbé Mouret transgresses he does so unwittingly, +at a time when he is unconscious of his priesthood and has no memory of +any vow. When the truth flashes upon him he is horrified with himself, +and forthwith returns to the Church. A further struggle between the +contending forces then certainly ensues, and ends in the final victory +of the Church. But it must at least be said that in the lapses which +occur in real life among the Roman priesthood, the circumstances are +altogether different from those which M. Zola has selected for his +story. + +The truth is that in ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret,’ betwixt lifelike +glimpses of French rural life, the author transports us to a realm of +poesy and imagination. This is, indeed, so true that he has introduced +into his work all the ideas on which he had based an early unfinished +poem called ‘Genesis.’ He carries us to an enchanted garden, +the Paradou--a name which one need hardly say is Provencal for +Paradise*--and there Serge Mouret, on recovering from brain fever, +becomes, as it were, a new Adam by the side of a new Eve, the fair and +winsome Albine. All this part of the book, then, is poetry in prose. +The author has remembered the ties which link Rousseau to the realistic +school of fiction, and, as in the pages of Jean-Jacques, trees, springs, +mountains, rocks, and flowers become animated beings and claim their +place in the world’s mechanism. One may indeed go back far beyond +Rousseau, even to Lucretius himself; for more than once we are +irresistibly reminded of Lucretian scenes, above which through M. Zola’s +pages there seems to hover the pronouncement of Sophocles: + + No ordinance of man shall override + The settled laws of Nature and of God; + Not written these in pages of a book, + Nor were they framed to-day, nor yesterday; + We know not whence they are; but this we know, + That they from all eternity have been, + And shall to all eternity endure. + + + * There is a village called Paradou in Provence, between + Les Baux and Arles. + +And if we pass to the young pair whose duo of love is sung amidst the +varied voices of creation, we are irresistibly reminded of the Paul +and Virginia of St. Pierre, and the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus. Beside +them, in their marvellous garden, lingers a memory too of Manon and +Des Grieux, with a suggestion of Lauzun and a glimpse of the art of +Fragonard. All combine, all contribute--from the great classics to the +eighteenth century _petits maitres_--to build up a story of love’s rise +in the human breast in answer to Nature’s promptings. + +M. Zola wrote ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret’ one summer under the trees of +his garden, mindful the while of gardens that he had known in childhood: +the flowery expanse which had stretched before his grandmother’s home +at Pont-au-Beraud and the wild estate of Galice, between Roquefavour and +Aix-en-Provence, through which he had roamed as a lad with friends then +boys like himself: Professor Baille and Cezanne, the painter. And into +his description of the wondrous Paradou he has put all his remembrance +of the gardens and woods of Provence, where many a plant and flower +thrive with a luxuriance unknown to England. True, in order to refresh +his memory and avoid mistakes, he consulted various horticultural +manuals whilst he was writing; of which circumstance captious critics +have readily laid hold, to proclaim that the description of the Paradou +is a mere florist’s catalogue. + +But it is nothing of the kind. The florist who might dare to offer +such a catalogue to the public would be speedily assailed by all the +horticultural journalists of England and all the customers of villadom. +For M. Zola avails himself of a poet’s license to crowd marvel upon +marvel, to exaggerate nature’s forces, to transform the tiniest blooms +into giant examples of efflorescence, and to mingle even the seasons +one with the other. But all this was premeditated; there was a picture +before his mind’s eye, and that picture he sought to trace with his pen, +regardless of all possible objections. It is the poet’s privilege to +do this and even to be admired for it. It would be easy for some learned +botanist, some expert zoologist, to demolish Milton from the standpoint +of their respective sciences, but it would be absurd to do so. We ask of +the poet the flowers of his imagination, and the further he carries us +from the sordid realities, the limited possibilities of life, the more +are we grateful to him. + +And M. Zola’s Paradou is a flight of fancy, even as its mistress, the +fair, loving, guileless Albine, whose smiles and whose tears alike go +to our hearts, is the daughter of imagination. She is a flower--the very +flower of life’s youth--in the midst of all the blossoms of her +garden. She unfolds to life and to love even as they unfold; she loves +rapturously even as they do under the sun and the azure; and she dies +with them when the sun’s caress is gone and the chill of winter has +fallen. At the thought of her, one instinctively remembers Malherbe’s +‘Ode A Du Perrier:’ + + She to this earth belonged, where beauty fast + To direst fate is borne: + A rose, she lasted, as the roses last, + Only for one brief morn. + + +French painters have made subjects of many episodes in M. Zola’s +works, but none has been more popular with them than Albine’s pathetic, +perfumed death amidst the flowers. I know several paintings of great +merit which that touching incident has inspired. + +Albine, if more or less unreal, a phantasm, the spirit as it were of +Nature incarnate in womanhood, is none the less the most delightful of +M. Zola’s heroines. She smiles at us like the vision of perfect beauty +and perfect love which rises before us when our hearts are yet young and +full of illusions. She is the ideal, the very quintessence of woman. + +In Serge Mouret, her lover, we find a man who, in more than one respect, +recalls M. Zola’s later hero, the Abbé Froment of ‘Lourdes’ and ‘Rome.’ +He has the same loving, yearning nature; he is born--absolutely like +Abbé Froment--of an unbelieving father and a mother of mystical mind. +But unlike Froment he cannot shake off the shackles of his priesthood. +Reborn to life after his dangerous illness, he relapses into the +religion of death, the religion which regards life as impurity, which +denies Nature’s laws, and so often wrecks human existence, as if +indeed that had been the Divine purpose in setting man upon earth. His +struggles suggest various passages in ‘Lourdes’ and ‘Rome.’ In fact, in +writing those works, M. Zola must have had his earlier creation in +mind. There are passages in ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret’ culled from the +writings of the Spanish Jesuit Fathers and the ‘Imitation’ of Thomas +à Kempis that recur almost word for word in the Trilogy of the Three +Cities. Some might regard this as evidence of the limitation of M. +Zola’s powers, but I think differently. I consider that he has in both +instances designedly taken the same type of priest in order to show how +he may live under varied circumstances; for in the earlier instance +he has led him to one goal, and in the later one to another. And the +passages of prayer, entreaty, and spiritual conflict simply recur +because they are germane, even necessary, to the subject in both cases. + +Of the minor characters that figure in ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret’ the +chief thing to be said is that they are lifelike. If Serge is almost +wholly spiritual, if Albine is the daughter of poesy, they, the others, +are of the earth earthy. As a result of their appearance on the scene, +there are some powerful contrasting passages in the book. Archangias, +the coarse and brutal Christian Brother who serves as a foil to Abbé +Mouret; La Teuse, the priest’s garrulous old housekeeper; Desirée, his +‘innocent’ sister, a grown woman with the mind of a child and an almost +crazy affection for every kind of bird and beast, are all admirably +portrayed. Old Bambousse, though one sees but little of him, stands +out as a genuine type of the hard-headed French peasant, who invariably +places pecuniary considerations before all others. And Fortune and +Rosalie, Vincent and Catherine, and their companions, are equally true +to nature. It need hardly be said that there is many a village in France +similar to Les Artaud. That hamlet’s shameless, purely animal life has +in no wise been over-pictured by M. Zola. Those who might doubt him need +not go as far as Provence to find such communities. Many Norman hamlets +are every whit as bad, and, in Normandy, conditions are aggravated by a +marked predilection for the bottle, which, as French social-scientists +have been pointing out for some years now, is fast hastening the +degenerescence of the peasantry, both morally and physically. + +With reference to the English version of ‘La Faute de l’Abbé Mouret’ +herewith presented, I may just say that I have subjected it to +considerable revision and have retranslated all the more important +passages myself. + + MERTON, SURREY. E. A. V. + + + + + +ABBÉ MOURET’S TRANSGRESSION + + + + +BOOK I + + + + +I + +As La Teuse entered the church she rested her broom and feather-brush +against the altar. She was late, as she had that day began her +half-yearly wash. Limping more than ever in her haste and hustling the +benches, she went down the church to ring the _Angelus_. The bare, worn +bell-rope dangled from the ceiling near the confessional, and ended in a +big knot greasy from handling. Again and again, with regular jumps, she +hung herself upon it; and then let her whole bulky figure go with it, +whirling in her petticoats, her cap awry, and her blood rushing to her +broad face. + +Having set her cap straight with a little pat, she came back breathless +to give a hasty sweep before the altar. Every day the dust persistently +settled between the disjoined boards of the platform. Her broom rummaged +among the corners with an angry rumble. Then she lifted the altar cover +and was sorely vexed to find that the large upper cloth, already darned +in a score of places, was again worn through in the very middle, so +as to show the under cloth, which in its turn was so worn and so +transparent that one could see the consecrated stone, embedded in the +painted wood of the altar. La Teuse dusted the linen, yellow from long +usage, and plied her feather-brush along the shelf against which she set +the liturgical altar-cards. Then, climbing upon a chair, she removed the +yellow cotton covers from the crucifix and two of the candlesticks. The +brass of the latter was tarnished. + +‘Dear me!’ she muttered, ‘they really want a clean! I must give them a +polish up!’ + +Then hopping on one leg, swaying and stumping heavily enough to drive in +the flagstones, she hastened to the sacristy for the Missal, which +she placed unopened on the lectern on the Epistle side, with its edges +turned towards the middle of the altar. And afterwards she lighted the +two candles. As she went off with her broom, she gave a glance round +her to make sure that the abode of the Divinity had been put in proper +order. All was still, save that the bell-rope near the confessional +still swung between roof and floor with a sinuous sweep. + +Abbé Mouret had just come down to the sacristy, a small and chilly +apartment, which a passage separated from his dining-room. + +‘Good morning, Monsieur le Curé,’ said La Teuse, laying her broom aside. +‘Oh! you have been lazy this morning! Do you know it’s a quarter past +six?’ And without allowing the smiling young priest sufficient time to +reply, she added ‘I’ve a scolding to give you. There’s another hole in +the cloth again. There’s no sense in it. We have only one other, and +I’ve been ruining my eyes over it these three days in trying to mend it. +You will leave our poor Lord quite bare, if you go on like this.’ + +Abbé Mouret was still smiling. ‘Jesus does not need so much linen, my +good Teuse,’ he cheerfully replied. ‘He is always warm, always royally +received by those who love Him well.’ + +Then stepping towards a small tap, he asked: ‘Is my sister up yet? I +have not seen her.’ + +‘Oh, Mademoiselle Desirée has been down a long time,’ answered the +servant, who was kneeling before an old kitchen sideboard in which the +sacred vestments were kept. ‘She is already with her fowls and rabbits. +She was expecting some chicks to be hatched yesterday, and it didn’t +come off. So you can guess her excitement.’ Then the worthy woman broke +off to inquire: ‘The gold chasuble, eh?’ + +The priest, who had washed his hands and stood reverently murmuring a +prayer, nodded affirmatively. The parish possessed only three chasubles: +a violet one, a black one, and one in cloth-of-gold. The last had to be +used on the days when white, red, or green was prescribed by the ritual, +and it was therefore an all important garment. La Teuse lifted it +reverently from the shelf covered with blue paper, on which she laid +it after each service; and having placed it on the sideboard, she +cautiously removed the fine cloths which protected its embroidery. A +golden lamb slumbered on a golden cross, surrounded by broad rays of +gold. The gold tissue, frayed at the folds, broke out in little slender +tufts; the embossed ornaments were getting tarnished and worn. There was +perpetual anxiety, fluttering concern, at seeing it thus go off spangle +by spangle. The priest had to wear it almost every day. And how on earth +could it be replaced--how would they be able to buy the three chasubles +whose place it took, when the last gold threads should be worn out? + +Upon the chasuble La Teuse next laid out the stole, the maniple, the +girdle, alb and amice. But her tongue still wagged while she crossed +the stole with the maniple, and wreathed the girdle so as to trace the +venerated initial of Mary’s holy name. + +‘That girdle is not up to much now,’ she muttered; ‘you will have to +make up your mind to get another, your reverence. It wouldn’t be very +hard; I could plait you one myself if I only had some hemp.’ + +Abbé Mouret made no answer. He was dressing the chalice at a small +table. A large old silver-gilt chalice it was with a bronze base, which +he had just taken from the bottom of a deal cupboard, in which the +sacred vessels and linen, the Holy Oils, the Missals, candlesticks, and +crosses were kept. Across the cup he laid a clean purificator, and on +this set the silver-gilt paten, with the host in it, which he covered +with a small lawn pall. As he was hiding the chalice by gathering +together the folds in the veil of cloth of gold matching the chasuble, +La Teuse exclaimed: + +‘Stop, there’s no corporal in the burse. Last night I took all the +dirty purificators, palls, and corporals to wash them--separately, of +course--not with the house-wash. By-the-bye, your reverence, I didn’t +tell you: I have just started the house-wash. A fine fat one it will be! +Better than the last.’ + +Then while the priest slipped a corporal into the burse and laid the +latter on the veil, she went on quickly: + +‘By-the-bye, I forgot! that gadabout Vincent hasn’t come. Do you wish me +to serve your mass, your reverence?’ + +The young priest eyed her sternly. + +‘Well, it isn’t a sin,’ she continued, with her genial smile. ‘I did +serve a mass once, in Monsieur Caffin’s time. I serve it better, too, +than ragamuffins who laugh like heathens at seeing a fly buzzing about +the church. True I may wear a cap, I may be sixty years old, and as +round as a tub, but I have more respect for our Lord than those imps of +boys whom I caught only the other day playing at leap-frog behind the +altar.’ + +The priest was still looking at her and shaking his head. + +‘What a hole this village is!’ she grumbled. ‘Not a hundred and fifty +people in it! There are days, like to-day, when you wouldn’t find a +living soul in Les Artaud. Even the babies in swaddling clothes are +gone to the vineyards! And goodness knows what they do among such +vines--vines that grow under the pebbles and look as dry as thistles! A +perfect wilderness, three miles from any highway! Unless an angel comes +down to serve your mass, your reverence, you’ve only got me to help you, +on my honour! or one of Mademoiselle Desirée’s rabbits, no offence to +your reverence!’ + +Just at that moment, however, Vincent, the Brichets’ younger son, gently +opened the door of the sacristy. His shock of red hair and his little, +glistening, grey eyes exasperated La Teuse. + +‘Oh! the wretch!’ she cried. ‘I’ll bet he’s just been up to some +mischief! Come on, you scamp, since his reverence is afraid I might +dirty our Lord!’ + +On seeing the lad, Abbé Mouret had taken up the amice. He kissed the +cross embroidered in the centre of it, and for a second laid the cloth +upon his head; then lowering it over the collar-band of his cassock, he +crossed it and fastened the tapes, the right one over the left. He next +donned the alb, the symbol of purity, beginning with the right sleeve. +Vincent stooped and turned around him, adjusting the alb, in order +that it should fall evenly all round him to a couple of inches from +the ground. Then he presented the girdle to the priest, who fastened +it tightly round his loins, as a reminder of the bonds wherewith the +Saviour was bound in His Passion. + +La Teuse remained standing there, feeling jealous and hurt and +struggling to keep silence; but so great was the itching of her tongue, +that she soon broke out once more: ‘Brother Archangias has been here. +He won’t have a single child at school to-day. He went off again like a +whirlwind to pull the brats’ ears in the vineyards. You had better see +him. I believe he has got something to say to you.’ + +Abbé Mouret silenced her with a wave of the hand. Then he repeated the +usual prayers while he took the maniple--which he kissed before slipping +it over his left forearm, as a symbol of the practice of good works--and +while crossing on his breast the stole, the symbol of his dignity +and power. La Teuse had to help Vincent in the work of adjusting the +chasuble, which she fastened together with slender tapes, so that it +might not slip off behind. + +‘Holy Virgin! I had forgotten the cruets!’ she stammered, rushing to the +cupboard. ‘Come, look sharp, lad!’ + +Thereupon Vincent filled the cruets, phials of coarse glass, while +she hastened to take a clean finger-cloth from a drawer. Abbé Mouret, +holding the chalice by its stem with his left hand, the fingers of his +right resting meanwhile on the burse, then bowed profoundly, but without +removing his biretta, to a black wooden crucifix, which hung over the +side-board. The lad bowed too, and, bearing the cruets covered with the +finger-cloth, led the way out of the sacristy, followed by the priest, +who walked on with downcast eyes, absorbed in deep and prayerful +meditation. + + + + + +II + +The empty church was quite white that May morning. The bell-rope near +the confessional hung motionless once more. The little bracket light, +with its stained glass shade, burned like a crimson splotch against the +wall on the right of the tabernacle. Vincent, having set the cruets on +the credence, came back and knelt just below the altar step on the left, +while the priest, after rendering homage to the Holy Sacrament by a +genuflexion, went up to the altar and there spread out the corporal, +on the centre of which he placed the chalice. Then, having opened the +Missal, he came down again. Another bend of the knee followed, and, +after crossing himself and uttering aloud the formula, ‘In the name of +the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,’ he raised his joined hands to +his breast, and entered on the great divine drama, with his countenance +blanched by faith and love. + +‘_Introibo ad altare Dei_.’ + +‘_Ad Deum qui loetificat juventutem meam_,’ gabbled Vincent, who, +squatting on his heels, mumbled the responses of the antiphon and the +psalm, while watching La Teuse as she roved about the church. + +The old servant was gazing at one of the candles with a troubled look. +Her anxiety seemed to increase while the priest, bowing down with hands +joined again, recited the _Confiteor_. She stood still, in her turn +struck her breast, her head bowed, but still keeping a watchful eye on +the taper. For another minute the priest’s grave voice and the server’s +stammers alternated: + +‘_Dominus vobiscum_.’ + +‘_Et cum spiritu tuo_.’ + +Then the priest, spreading out his hands and afterwards again joining +them, said with devout compunction: ‘_Oremus_’ (Let us pray). + +La Teuse could now stand it no longer, but stepped behind the altar, +reached the guttering candle, and trimmed it with the points of her +scissors. Two large blobs of wax had already been wasted. When she came +back again putting the benches straight on her way, and making sure that +there was holy-water in the fonts, the priest, whose hands were resting +on the edge of the altar-cloth, was praying in subdued tones. And at +last he kissed the altar. + +Behind him, the little church still looked wan in the pale light of +early morn. The sun, as yet, was only level with the tiled roof. The +_Kyrie Eleisons_ rang quiveringly through that sort of whitewashed +stable with flat ceiling and bedaubed beams. On either side three lofty +windows of plain glass, most of them cracked or smashed, let in a raw +light of chalky crudeness. + +The free air poured in as it listed, emphasising the naked poverty of +the God of that forlorn village. At the far end of the church, above +the big door which was never opened and the threshold of which was +green with weeds, a boarded gallery--reached by a common miller’s +ladder--stretched from wall to wall. Dire were its creakings on festival +days beneath the weight of wooden shoes. Near the ladder stood the +confessional, with warped panels, painted a lemon yellow. Facing it, +beside the little door, stood the font--a former holy-water stoup +resting on a stonework pedestal. To the right and to the left, halfway +down the church, two narrow altars stood against the wall, surrounded +by wooden balustrades. On the left-hand one, dedicated to the Blessed +Virgin, was a large gilded plaster statue of the Mother of God, wearing +a regal gold crown upon her chestnut hair; while on her left arm sat +the Divine Child, nude and smiling, whose little hand raised the +star-spangled orb of the universe. The Virgin’s feet were poised on +clouds, and beneath them peeped the heads of winged cherubs. Then the +right-hand altar, used for the masses for the dead, was surmounted by a +crucifix of painted papier-mache--a pendant, as it were, to the Virgin’s +effigy. The figure of Christ, as large as a child of ten years old, +showed Him in all the horror of His death-throes, with head thrown back, +ribs projecting, abdomen hollowed in, and limbs distorted and splashed +with blood. There was a pulpit, too--a square box reached by a five-step +block--near a clock with running weights, in a walnut case, whose thuds +shook the whole church like the beatings of some huge heart concealed, +it might be, under the stone flags. All along the nave the fourteen +Stations of the Cross, fourteen coarsely coloured prints in narrow black +frames, bespeckled the staring whiteness of the walls with the yellow, +blue, and scarlet of scenes from the Passion. + +‘_Deo Gratias_,’ stuttered out Vincent at the end of the Epistle. + +The mystery of love, the immolation of the Holy Victim, was about +to begin. The server took the Missal and bore it to the left, or +Gospel-side, of the altar, taking care not to touch the pages of the +book. Each time he passed before the tabernacle he made a genuflexion +slantwise, which threw him all askew. Returning to the right-hand side +once more, he stood upright with crossed arms during the reading of the +Gospel. The priest, after making the sign of the cross upon the Missal, +next crossed himself: first upon his forehead--to declare that he +would never blush for the divine word; then on his mouth--to show his +unchanging readiness to confess his faith; and finally on his heart--to +mark that it belonged to God alone. + +‘_Dominus vobiscum_,’ said he, turning round and facing the cold white +church. + +‘_Et cum spiritu tuo_,’ answered Vincent, who once more was on his +knees. + +The Offertory having been recited, the priest uncovered the chalice. For +a moment he held before his breast the paten containing the host, which +he offered up to God, for himself, for those present, and for all the +faithful, living and dead. Then, slipping it on to the edge of the +corporal without touching it with his fingers, he took up the chalice +and carefully wiped it with the purificator. Vincent had in the +meanwhile fetched the cruets from the credence table, and now presented +them in turn, first the wine and then the water. The priest then offered +up on behalf of the whole world the half-filled chalice, which he next +replaced upon the corporal and covered with the pall. Then once again +he prayed, and returned to the side of the altar where the server let a +little water dribble over his thumbs and forefingers to purify him +from the slightest sinful stain. When he had dried his hands on +the finger-cloth, La Teuse--who stood there waiting--emptied the +cruet-salver into a zinc pail at the corner of the altar. + +‘_Orate, fratres_,’ resumed the priest aloud as he faced the empty +benches, extending and reclasping his hands in a gesture of appeal to +all men of good-will. And turning again towards the altar, he continued +his prayer in a lower tone, while Vincent began to mutter a long Latin +sentence in which he eventually got lost. Now it was that the yellow +sunbeams began to dart through the windows; called, as it were, by the +priest, the sun itself had come to mass, throwing golden sheets of light +upon the left-hand wall, the confessional, the Virgin’s altar, and the +big clock. + +A gentle creak came from the confessional; the Mother of God, in a halo, +in the dazzlement of her golden crown and mantle smiled tenderly with +tinted lips upon the infant Jesus; and the heated clock throbbed out +the time with quickening strokes. It seemed as if the sun peopled the +benches with the dusty motes that danced in his beams, as if the +little church, that whitened stable, were filled with a glowing throng. +Without, were heard the sounds that told of the happy waking of the +countryside, the blades of grass sighed out content, the damp leaves +dried themselves in the warmth, the birds pruned their feathers and took +a first flit round. And indeed the countryside itself seemed to enter +with the sun; for beside one of the windows a large rowan tree shot +up, thrusting some of its branches through the shattered panes and +stretching out leafy buds as if to take a peep within; while through +the fissures of the great door the weeds on the threshold threatened to +encroach upon the nave. Amid all this quickening life, the big Christ, +still in shadow, alone displayed signs of death, the sufferings of +ochre-daubed and lake-bespattered flesh. A sparrow raised himself up for +a moment at the edge of a hole, took a glance, then flew away; but +only to reappear almost immediately when with noiseless wing he +dropped between the benches before the Virgin’s altar. A second sparrow +followed; and soon from all the boughs of the rowan tree came others +that calmly hopped about the flags. + +‘_Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth_,’ said the priest in +a low tone, whilst slightly stooping. + +Vincent rang the little bell thrice; and the sparrows, scared by the +sudden tinkling, flew off with such a mighty buzz of wings that La +Teuse, who had just gone back into the sacristy, came out again, +grumbling; ‘The little rascals! they will mess everything. I’ll bet that +Mademoiselle Desirée has been here again to scatter bread-crumbs for +them.’ + +The dread moment was at hand. The body and the blood of a God were about +to descend upon the altar. The priest kissed the altar-cloth, clasped +his hands, and multiplied signs of the cross over host and chalice. +The prayers of the canon of the mass now fell from his lips in a very +ecstasy of humility and gratitude. His attitude, his gestures, the +inflections of his voice, all expressed his consciousness of his +littleness, his emotion at being selected for so great a task. Vincent +came and knelt beside him, lightly lifted the chasuble with his left +hand, the bell ready in his right; and the priest, his elbows resting on +the edge of the altar, holding the host with the thumbs and forefingers +of both hands, pronounced over it the words of consecration: _Hoc est +enim corpus meum_. Then having bowed the knee before it, he raised it +slowly as high as his hands could reach, following it upwards with +his eyes, while the kneeling server rang the bell thrice. Then he +consecrated the wine--_Hic est enim calix_--leaning once more upon his +elbows, bowing, raising the cup aloft, his right hand round the stem, +his left holding its base, and his eyes following it aloft. Again the +server rang the bell three times. The great mystery of the Redemption +had once more been repeated, once more had the adorable Blood flowed +forth. + +‘Just you wait a bit,’ growled La Teuse, as she tried to scare away the +sparrows with outstretched fist. + +But the sparrows were now fearless. They had come back even while the +bell was ringing, and, unabashed, were fluttering about the benches. The +repeated tinklings even roused them into liveliness, and they answered +back with little chirps which crossed amid the Latin words of prayer, +like the rippling laughs of free urchins. The sun warmed their plumage, +the sweet poverty of the church captivated them. They felt at home +there, as in some barn whose shutters had been left open, and screeched, +fought, and squabbled over the crumbs they found upon the floor. One +flew to perch himself on the smiling Virgin’s golden veil; another, +whose daring put the old servant in a towering rage, made a hasty +reconnaissance of La Teuse’s skirts. And at the altar, the priest, with +every faculty absorbed, his eyes fixed upon the sacred host, his thumbs +and forefingers joined, did not even hear this invasion of the warm +May morning, this rising flood of sunlight, greenery and birds, which +overflowed even to the foot of the Calvary where doomed nature was +wrestling in the death-throes. + +‘_Per omnia soecula soeculorum_,’ he said. + +‘Amen,’ answered Vincent. + +The _Pater_ ended, the priest, holding the host over the chalice, +broke it in the centre. Detaching a particle from one of the halves, he +dropped it into the precious blood, to symbolise the intimate union into +which he was about to enter with God. He said the _Agnus Dei_ aloud, +softly recited the three prescribed prayers, and made his act of +unworthiness, and then with his elbows resting on the altar, and with +the paten beneath his chin, he partook of both portions of the host +at once. After a fervent meditation, with his hands clasped before +his face, he took the paten and gathered from the corporal the sacred +particles of the host that had fallen, and dropped them into the +chalice. One particle which had adhered to his thumb he removed with his +forefinger. And, crossing himself, chalice in hand, with the paten once +again below his chin, he drank all the precious blood in three draughts, +never taking his lips from the cup’s rim, but imbibing the divine +Sacrifice to the last drop. + +Vincent had risen to fetch the cruets from the credence table. But +suddenly the door of the passage leading to the parsonage flew open +and swung back against the wall, to admit a handsome child-like girl of +twenty-two, who carried something hidden in her apron. + +‘Thirteen of them,’ she called out. ‘All the eggs were good.’ And she +opened out her apron and revealed a brood of little shivering chicks, +with sprouting down and beady black eyes. ‘Do just look,’ said she; +‘aren’t they sweet little pets, the darlings! Oh, look at the little +white one climbing on the others’ backs! and the spotted one already +flapping his tiny wings! The eggs were a splendid lot; not one of them +unfertile.’ + +La Teuse, who was helping to serve the mass in spite of all +prohibitions, and was at that very moment handing the cruets to Vincent +for the ablutions, thereupon turned round and loudly exclaimed: ‘Do be +quiet, Mademoiselle Desirée! Don’t you see we haven’t finished yet?’ + +Through the open doorway now came the strong smell of a farmyard, +blowing like some generative ferment into the church amidst the warm +sunlight that was creeping over the altar. Desirée stood there for a +moment delighted with the little ones she carried, watching Vincent +pour, and her brother drink, the purifying wine, in order that nought of +the sacred elements should be left within his mouth. And she stood there +still when he came back to the side of the altar, holding the chalice in +both hands, so that Vincent might pour over his forefingers and thumbs +the wine and water of ablution, which he likewise drank. But when the +mother hen ran up clucking with alarm to seek her little ones, and +threatened to force her way into the church, Desirée went off, +talking maternally to her chicks, while the priest, after pressing the +purificator to his lips, wiped first the rim and next the interior of +the chalice. + +Then came the end, the act of thanksgiving to God. For the last time the +server removed the Missal, and brought it back to the right-hand side. +The priest replaced the purificator, paten, and pall upon the chalice; +once more pinched the two large folds of the veil together, and laid +upon it the burse containing the corporal. His whole being was now one +act of ardent thanksgiving. He besought from Heaven the forgiveness of +his sins, the grace of a holy life, and the reward of everlasting +life. He remained as if overwhelmed by this miracle of love, the +ever-recurring immolation, which sustained him day by day with the blood +and flesh of his Savior. + +Having read the final prayers, he turned and said: ‘_Ite, missa est_.’ + +‘_Deo gratias_,’ answered Vincent. + +And having turned back to kiss the altar, the priest faced round anew, +his left hand just below his breast, his right outstretched whilst +blessing the church, which the gladsome sunbeams and noisy sparrows +filled. + +‘_Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus_.’ + +‘_Amen_,’ said the server, as he crossed himself. + +The sun had risen higher, and the sparrows were growing bolder. While +the priest read from the left-hand altar-card the passage of the Gospel +of St. John, announcing the eternity of the Word, the sunrays set the +altar ablaze, whitened the panels of imitation marble, and dimmed the +flame of the two candles, whose short wicks were now merely two dull +spots. The victorious orb enveloped with his glory the crucifix, the +candlesticks, the chasuble, the veil of the chalice--all the gold work +that paled beneath his beams. And when at last the priest, after taking +the chalice in his hands and making a genuflexion, covered his head and +turned from the altar to follow the server, laden with the cruets and +finger-cloth, to the sacristy, the planet remained sole master of the +church. Its rays in turn now rested on the altar-cloth, irradiating the +tabernacle-door with splendour, and celebrating the fertile powers +of May. Warmth rose from the stone flags. The daubed walls, the tall +Virgin, the huge Christ, too, all seemed to quiver as with shooting sap, +as if death had been conquered by the earth’s eternal youth. + + + + +III + +Le Teuse hastily put out the candles, but lingered to make one last +attempt to drive away the sparrows, and so when she returned to the +sacristy with the Missal she no longer found Abbé Mouret there. Having +washed his hands and put away the sacred vessels and vestments, he was +now standing in the dining room, breakfasting off a cup of milk. + +‘You really ought to prevent your sister from scattering bread in the +church,’ said La Teuse on coming in. ‘It was last winter she hit upon +that pretty prank. She said the sparrows were cold, and that God might +well give them some food. You see, she’ll end by making us sleep with +all her fowls and rabbits.’ + +‘We should be all the warmer,’ pleasantly replied the young priest. ‘You +are always grumbling, La Teuse. Do let our poor Desirée pet her animals. +She has no other pleasure, poor innocent!’ + +The servant took her stand in the centre of the room. + +‘I do believe you yourself wouldn’t mind a bit if the magpies actually +built their nests in the church. You never can see anything, everything +seems just what it ought to be to you. Your sister is precious lucky +in having had you to take charge of her when you left the seminary. No +father, no mother. I should like to know who would let her mess about as +she does in a farmyard.’ + +Then softening, she added in a gentler tone: ‘To be sure, it would be +a pity to cross her. She hasn’t a touch of malice in her. She’s like +a child of ten, although she’s one of the finest grown girls in the +neighbourhood. And I have to put her to bed, as you know, every night, +and send her to sleep with stories, just like a little child.’ + +Abbé Mouret had remained standing, finishing the cup of milk he +held between his fingers, which were slightly reddened by the chill +atmosphere of the dining-room--a large room with painted grey walls, a +floor of square tiles, and having no furniture beyond a table and a few +chairs. La Teuse picked up a napkin which she had laid at a corner of +the table in readiness for breakfast. + +‘It isn’t much linen you dirty,’ she muttered. ‘One would think you +could never sit down, that you are always just about to start off. Ah! +if you had known Monsieur Caffin, the poor dead priest whose place +you have taken! What a man he was for comfort! Why, he couldn’t have +digested his food, if he had eaten standing. A Norman he was, from +Canteleu, like myself. I don’t thank him, I tell you, for having brought +me to such a wild-beast country as this. When first we came, O, Lord! +how bored we were! But the poor priest had had some uncomfortable tales +going about him at home.... Why, sir, didn’t you sweeten your milk, +then? Aren’t those the two lumps of sugar?’ + +The priest put down his cup. + +‘Yes, I must have forgotten, I believe,’ he said. + +La Teuse stared at him and shrugged her shoulders. She folded up inside +the napkin a slice of stale home-made bread which had also been left +untouched on the table. Then just as the priest was about to go out, +she ran after him and knelt down at his feet, exclaiming: ‘Stop, your +shoe-laces are not even fastened. I cannot imagine how your feet can +stand those peasant shoes, you’re such a little, tender man and look as +if you had been preciously spoilt! Ah, the bishop must have known a deal +about you, to go and give you the poorest living in the department.’ + +‘But it was I who chose Les Artaud,’ said the priest, breaking into +another smile. ‘You are very bad-tempered this morning, La Teuse. Are we +not happy here? We have got all we want, and our life is as peaceful as +if in paradise.’ + +She then restrained herself and laughed in her turn, saying: ‘You are a +holy man, Monsieur le Curé. But come and see what a splendid wash I have +got. That will be better than squabbling with one another.’ + +The priest was obliged to follow, for she might prevent him going out +at all if he did not compliment her on her washing. As he left the +dining-room he stumbled over a heap of rubbish in the passage. + +‘What is this?’ he asked. + +Oh, nothing,’ said La Teuse in her grimest tone. ‘It’s only the +parsonage coming down. However, you are quite content, you’ve got all +you want. Good heavens! there are holes and to spare. Just look at that +ceiling, now. Isn’t it cracked all over? If we don’t get buried alive +one of these days, we shall owe a precious big taper to our guardian +angel. However, if it suits you--It’s like the church. Those broken +panes ought to have been replaced these two years. In winter our Lord +gets frozen with the cold. Besides, it would keep out those rascally +sparrows. I shall paste paper over the holes. You see if I don’t.’ + +‘A capital idea,’ murmured the priest, ‘they might very well be pasted +over. As to the walls, they are stouter than we think. In my room, the +floor has only given way slightly in front of the window. The house will +see us all buried.’ + +On reaching the little open shed near the kitchen, in order to please +La Teuse he went into ecstasies over the washing; he even had to dip +his fingers into it and feel it. This so pleased the old woman that +her attentions became quite motherly. She no longer scolded, but ran +to fetch a clothes-brush, saying: ‘You surely are not going out with +yesterday’s mud on your cassock! If you had left it out on the banister, +it would be clean now--it’s still a good one. But do lift it up well +when you cross any field. The thistles tear everything.’ + +While speaking she kept turning him round like a child, shaking him from +head to foot with her energetic brushing. + +‘There, there, that will do,’ he said, escaping from her at last. ‘Take +care of Desirée, won’t you? I will tell her I am going out.’ + +But at this minute a fresh clear voice called to him: ‘Serge! Serge!’ + +Desirée came flying up, her cheeks ruddy with glee, her head bare, +her black locks twisted tightly upon her neck, and her hands and arms +smothered up to the elbows with manure. She had been cleaning out her +poultry house. When she caught sight of her brother just about to go out +with his breviary under his arm, she laughed aloud, and kissed him on +his mouth, with her arms thrown back behind her to avoid soiling him. + +‘No, no,’ she hurriedly exclaimed, ‘I should dirty you. Oh! I am having +such fun! You must see the animals when you come back.’ + +Thereupon she fled away again. Abbé Mouret then said that he would be +back about eleven for luncheon, and as he started, La Teuse, who had +followed him to the doorstep, shouted after him her last injunctions. + +‘Don’t forget to see Brother Archangias. And look in also at the +Brichets’; the wife came again yesterday about that wedding. Just +listen, Monsieur le Curé! I met their Rosalie. She’d ask nothing better +than to marry big Fortune. Have a talk with old Bambousse; perhaps he +will listen to you now. And don’t come back at twelve o’clock, like the +other day. Come, say you’ll be back at eleven, won’t you?’ + +But the priest turned round no more. So she went in again, growling +between her teeth: + +‘When does he ever listen to me? Barely twenty-six years old and does +just as he likes. To be sure, he’s an old man of sixty for holiness; but +then he has never known life; he knows nothing, it’s no trouble to him +to be as good as a cherub!’ + + + + +IV + +When Abbé Mouret had got beyond all hearing of La Teuse he stopped, +thankful to be alone at last. The church was built on a hillock, which +sloped down gently to the village. With its large gaping windows and +bright red tiles, it stretched out like a deserted sheep-cote. The +priest turned round and glanced at the parsonage, a greyish building +springing from the very side of the church; but as if fearful that +he might again be overtaken by the interminable chatter that had been +buzzing in his ears ever since morning, he turned up to the right again, +and only felt safe when he at last stood before the great doorway, where +he could not be seen from the parsonage. The front of the church, quite +bare and worn by the sunshine and rain of years, was crowned by a narrow +open stone belfry, in which a small bell showed its black silhouette, +whilst its rope disappeared through the tiles. Six broken steps, on +one side half buried in the earth, led up to the lofty arched door, now +cracked, smothered with dust and rust and cobwebs, and so frailly hung +upon its outwrenched hinges that it seemed as if the first slight puff +would secure free entrance to the winds of heaven. Abbé Mouret, who had +an affection for this dilapidated door, leaned against one of its leaves +as he stood upon the steps. Thence he could survey the whole country +round at a glance. And shading his eyes with his hands he scanned the +horizon. + +In the month of May exuberant vegetation burst forth from that stony +soil. Gigantic lavenders, juniper bushes, patches of rank herbage +swarmed over the church threshold, and scattered clumps of dark greenery +even to the very tiles. It seemed as if the first throb of shooting sap +in the tough matted underwood might well topple the church over. At that +early hour, amid all the travail of nature’s growth, there was a hum of +vivifying warmth, and the very rocks quivered as with a long and silent +effort. But the Abbé failed to comprehend the ardour of nature’s painful +labour; he simply thought that the steps were tottering, and thereupon +leant against the other side of the door. + +The countryside stretched away for a distance of six miles, bounded by +a wall of tawny hills speckled with black pine-woods. It was a fearful +landscape of arid wastes and rocky spurs rending the soil. The few +patches of arable ground were like scattered pools of blood, red fields +with rows of lean almond trees, grey-topped olive trees and long lines +of vines, streaking the soil with their brown stems. It was as if some +huge conflagration had swept by there, scattering the ashes of forests +over the hill-tops, consuming all the grass of the meadow lands, and +leaving its glare and furnace-like heat behind in the hollows. Only here +and there was the softer note of a pale green patch of growing corn. The +landscape generally was wild, lacking even a threadlet of water, dying +of thirst, and flying away in clouds of dust at the least breath of +wind. But at the farthest point where the crumbling hills on the horizon +had left a breach one espied some distant fresh moist greenery, a +stretch of the neighbouring valley fertilised by the Viorne, a river +flowing down from the gorges of the Seille. + +The priest lowered his dazzled glance upon the village, whose few +scattered houses straggled away below the church--wretched hovels they +were of rubble and boards strewn along a narrow path without sign of +streets. There were about thirty of them altogether, some squatting +amidst muck-heaps, and black with woeful want; others roomier and more +cheerful-looking with their roofs of pinkish tiles. Strips of garden, +victoriously planted amidst stony soil, displayed plots of vegetables +enclosed by quickset hedges. At this hour Les Artaud was empty, not a +woman was at the windows, not a child was wallowing in the dust; parties +of fowls alone went to and fro, ferreting among the straw, seeking food +up to the very thresholds of the houses, whose open doors gaped in the +sunlight. A big black dog seated on his haunches at the entrance to the +village seemed to be mounting guard over it. + +Languor slowly stole over Abbé Mouret. The rising sun steeped him in +such warmth that he leant back against the church door pervaded by a +feeling of happy restfulness. His thoughts were dwelling on that hamlet +of Les Artaud, which had sprung up there among the stones like one of +the knotty growths of the valley. All its inhabitants were related, +all bore the same name, so that from their very cradle they were +distinguished among themselves by nicknames. An Artaud, their ancestor, +had come hither and settled like a pariah in this waste. His family had +grown with all the wild vitality of the herbage that sucked life from +the rocky boulders. It had at last become a tribe, a rural community, +in which cousin-ships were lost in the mists of centuries. They +intermarried with shameless promiscuity. Not an instance could be cited +of any Artaud taking himself a wife from any neighbouring village; only +some of the girls occasionally went elsewhere. The others were born and +died fixed to that spot, leisurely increasing and multiplying on their +dunghills with the irreflectiveness of trees, and with no definite +notion of the world that lay beyond the tawny rocks, in whose midst they +vegetated. And yet there were already rich and poor among them; fowls +having at times disappeared, the fowl-houses were now closed at night +with stout padlocks; moreover one Artaud had killed another Artaud one +evening behind the mill. These folk, begirt by that belt of desolate +hills, were truly a people apart--a race sprung from the soil, a +miniature replica of mankind, three hundred souls all told, beginning +the centuries yet once again. + +Over the priest the sombre shadows of seminary life still hovered. For +years he had never seen the sun. He perceived it not even now, his +eyes closed and gazing inwards on his soul, and with no feeling for +perishable nature, fated to damnation, save contempt. For a long time +in his hours of devout thought he had dreamt of some hermit’s desert, +of some mountain hole, where no living thing--neither being, plant, +nor water--should distract him from the contemplation of God. It was an +impulse springing from the purest love, from a loathing of all physical +sensation. There, dying to self, and with his back turned to the light +of day, he would have waited till he should cease to be, till nothing +should remain of him but the sovereign whiteness of the soul. To him +heaven seemed all white, with a luminous whiteness as if lilies there +snowed down upon one, as if every form of purity, innocence, and +chastity there blazed. But his confessor reproved him whenever he +related his longings for solitude, his cravings for an existence of +Godlike purity; and recalled him to the struggles of the Church, the +necessary duties of the priesthood. Later on, after his ordination, the +young priest had come to Les Artaud at his own request, there hoping to +realise his dream of human annihilation. In that desolate spot, on that +barren soil, he might shut his ears to all worldly sounds, and live the +dreamy life of a saint. For some months past, in truth, his existence +had been wholly undisturbed, rarely had any thrill of the village-life +disturbed him; and even the sun’s heat scarcely brought him any glow +of feeling as he walked the paths, his whole being wrapped in heaven, +heedless of the unceasing travail of life amidst which he moved. + +The big black dog watching over Les Artaud had determined to come up to +Abbé Mouret, and now sat upon its haunches at the priest’s feet; but the +unconscious man remained absorbed amidst the sweetness of the morning. +On the previous evening he had begun the exercises of the Rosary, and +to the intercession of the Virgin with her Divine Son he attributed the +great joy which filled his soul. How despicable appeared all the good +things of the earth! How thankfully he recognised his poverty! When he +entered into holy orders, after losing on the same day both his father +and his mother through a tragedy the fearful details of which were even +now unknown to him,* he had relinquished all his share of their property +to an elder brother. His only remaining link with the world was +his sister; he had undertaken the care of her, stirred by a kind of +religious affection for her feeble intelligence. The dear innocent was +so childish, such a very little girl, that she recalled to him the poor +in spirit to whom the Gospel promises the kingdom of heaven. Of late, +however, she had somewhat disturbed him; she was growing too lusty, too +full of health and life. But his discomfort was yet of the slightest. +His days were spent in that inner life he had created for himself, for +which he had relinquished all else. He closed the portals of his senses, +and sought to free himself from all bodily needs, so that he might be +but a soul enrapt in contemplation. To him nature offered only snares +and abominations; he gloried in maltreating her, in despising her, in +releasing himself from his human slime. And as the just man must be +a fool according to the world, he considered himself an exile on this +earth; his thoughts were solely fixed upon the favours of Heaven, +incapable as he was of understanding how an eternity of bliss could be +weighed against a few hours of perishable enjoyment. His reason +duped him and his senses lied; and if he advanced in virtue it was +particularly by humility and obedience. His wish was to be the last of +all, one subject to all, in order that the divine dew might fall upon +his heart as upon arid sand; he considered himself overwhelmed with +reproach and with confusion, unworthy of ever being saved from sin. He +no longer belonged to himself--blind, deaf, dead to the world as he was. +He was God’s thing. And from the depth of the abjectness to which he +sought to plunge, Hosannahs suddenly bore him aloft, above the happy and +the mighty into the splendour of never-ending bliss. + + * This forms the subject of M. Zola’s novel, _The Conquest of + Plassans_. ED. + +Thus, at Les Artaud, Abbé Mouret had once more experienced, each time he +read the ‘Imitation,’ the raptures of the cloistered life which he had +longed for at one time so ardently. As yet he had not had to fight +any battle. From the moment that he knelt down, he became perfect, +absolutely oblivious of the flesh, unresisting, undisturbed, as if +overpowered by the Divine grace. Such ecstasy at God’s approach is well +known to some young priests: it is a blissful moment when all is hushed, +and the only desire is but a boundless craving for purity. From no human +creature had he sought his consolations. He who believes a certain thing +to be all in all cannot be troubled: and he did believe that God was all +in all, and that humility, obedience, and chastity were everything. +He could remember having heard temptation spoken of as an abominable +torture that tries the holiest. But he would only smile: God had +never left him. He bore his faith about him thus like a breast-plate +protecting him from the slightest breath of evil. He could recall how +he had hidden himself and wept for very love; he knew not whom he loved, +but he wept for love, for love of some one afar off. The recollection +never failed to move him. Later on he had decided on becoming a priest +in order to satisfy that craving for a superhuman affection which was +his sole torment. He could not see where greater love could be. In that +state of life he satisfied his being, his inherited predisposition, his +youthful dreams, his first virile desires. If temptation must come, he +awaited it with the calmness of the seminarist ignorant of the world. He +felt that his manhood had been killed in him: it gladdened him to feel +himself a creature set apart, unsexed, turned from the usual paths of +life, and, as became a lamb of the Lord, marked with the tonsure. + + + + +V + +While the priest pondered the sun was heating the big church-door. +Gilded flies buzzed round a large flower that was blooming between two +of the church-door steps. Abbé Mouret, feeling slightly dazed, was +at last about to move away, when the big black dog sprang, barking +violently, towards the iron gate of the little graveyard on the left of +the church. At the same time a harsh voice called out: ‘Ah! you young +rascal! So you stop away from school, and I find you in the graveyard! +Oh, don’t say no: I have been watching you this quarter of an hour.’ + +As the priest stepped forward he saw Vincent, whom a Brother of +the Christian Schools was clutching tightly by the ear. The lad was +suspended, as it were, over a ravine skirting the graveyard, at the +bottom of which flowed the Mascle, a mountain torrent whose crystal +waters plunged into the Viorne, six miles away. + +‘Brother Archangias!’ softly called the priest, as if to appease the +fearful man. + +The Brother, however, did not release the boy’s ear. + +‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur le Curé?’ he growled. ‘Just fancy, this rascal +is always poking his nose into the graveyard. I don’t know what he can +be up to here. I ought to let go of him and let him smash his skull down +there. It would be what he deserves.’ + +The lad remained dumb, with his cunning eyes tight shut as he clung to +the bushes. + +‘Take care, Brother Archangias,’ continued the priest, ‘he might slip.’ + +And he himself helped Vincent to scramble up again. + +‘Come, my young friend, what were you doing there?’ he asked. ‘You must +not go playing in graveyards.’ + +The lad had opened his eyes, and crept away, fearfully, from the +Brother, to place himself under the priest’s protection. + +‘I’ll tell you,’ he said in a low voice, as he raised his bushy head. +‘There is a tomtit’s nest in the brambles there, under that rock. +For over ten days I’ve been watching it, and now the little ones are +hatched, so I came this morning after serving your mass.’ + +‘A tomtit’s nest!’ exclaimed Brother Archangias. ‘Wait a bit! wait a +bit!’ + +Thereupon he stepped aside, picked a clod of earth off a grave and flung +it into the brambles. But he missed the nest. Another clod, however, +more skilfully thrown upset the frail cradle, and precipitated the +fledglings into the torrent below. + +‘Now, perhaps,’ he continued, clapping his hands to shake off the earth +that soiled them, ‘you won’t come roaming here any more, like a heathen; +the dead will pull your feet at night if you go walking over them +again.’ + +Vincent, who had laughed at seeing the nest dive into the stream, looked +round him and shrugged his shoulders like one of strong mind. + +‘Oh, I’m not afraid,’ he said. ‘Dead folk don’t stir.’ + +The graveyard, in truth, was not a place to inspire fear. It was a +barren piece of ground whose narrow paths were smothered by rank weeds. +Here and there the soil was bossy with mounds. A single tombstone, that +of Abbé Caffin, brand-new and upright, could be perceived in the centre +of the ground. Save this, all around there were only broken fragments +of crosses, withered tufts of box, and old slabs split and moss-eaten. +There were not two burials a year. Death seemed to make no dwelling in +that waste spot, whither La Teuse came every evening to fill her apron +with grass for Desirée’s rabbits. A gigantic cypress tree, standing +near the gate, alone cast shadow upon the desert field. This cypress, +a landmark visible for nine miles around, was known to the whole +countryside as the Solitaire. + +‘It’s full of lizards,’ added Vincent, looking at the cracks of the +church-wall. ‘One could have a fine lark--’ + +But he sprang out with a bound on seeing the Brother lift his foot. The +latter proceeded to call the priest’s attention to the dilapidated state +of the gate, which was not only eaten up with rust, but had one hinge +off, and the lock broken. + +‘It ought to be repaired,’ said he. + +Abbé Mouret smiled, but made no reply. Addressing Vincent, who was +romping with the dog: ‘I say, my boy,’ he asked, ‘do you know where old +Bambousse is at work this morning?’ + +The lad glanced towards the horizon. ‘He must be at his Olivettes field +now,’ he answered, pointing towards the left. ‘But Voriau will show +your reverence the way. He’s sure to know where his master is.’ And he +clapped his hands and called: ‘Hie! Voriau! hie!’ + +The big black dog paused a moment, wagging his tail, and seeking to read +the urchin’s eyes. Then, barking joyfully, he set off down the slope to +the village. Abbé Mouret and Brother Archangias followed him, chatting. +A hundred yards further Vincent surreptitiously bolted, and again glided +up towards the church, keeping a watchful eye upon them, and ready +to dart behind a bush if they should look round. With adder-like +suppleness, he once more glided into the graveyard, that paradise full +of lizards, nests, and flowers. + +Meantime, while Voriau led the way before them along the dusty road, +Brother Archangias was angrily saying to the priest: ‘Let be! Monsieur +le Curé, they’re spawn of damnation, those toads are! They ought to +have their backs broken, to make them pleasing to God. They grow up in +irreligion, like their fathers. Fifteen years have I been here, and +not one Christian have I been able to turn out. The minute they quit +my hands, good-bye! They think of nothing but their land, their vines, +their olive-trees. Not one ever sets foot in church. Brute beasts they +are, struggling with their stony fields! Guide them with the stick, +Monsieur le Curé, yes, the stick!’ + +Then, after drawing breath, he added with a terrific wave of his hands: + +‘Those Artauds, look you, are like the brambles over-running these +rocks. One stem has been enough to poison the whole district. They cling +on, they multiply, they live in spite of everything. Nothing short of +fire from heaven, as at Gomorrha, will clear it all away.’ + +‘We should never despair of sinners,’ said Abbé Mouret, all inward +peacefulness, as he leisurely walked on. + +‘But these are the devil’s own,’ broke in the Brother still more +violently. ‘I’ve been a peasant, too. Up to eighteen I dug the earth; +and later on, when I was at the Training College, I had to sweep, pare +vegetables, do all the heavy work. It’s not their toilsome labour I find +fault with. On the contrary, for God prefers the lowly. But the Artauds +live like beasts! They are like their dogs, they never attend mass, and +make a mock of the commandments of God and of the Church. They think of +nothing but their plots of lands, so sweet they are on them!’ + +Voriau, his tail wagging, kept stopping and moving on again as soon as +he saw that they still followed him. + +‘There certainly are some grievous things going on,’ said Abbé Mouret. +‘My predecessor, Abbé Caffin--’ + +‘A poor specimen,’ interrupted the Brother. ‘He came here to us from +Normandy owing to some disreputable affair. Once here, his sole thought +was good living; he let everything go to rack and ruin.’ + +‘Oh, no, Abbé Caffin certainly did what he could; but I must own +that his efforts were all but barren in results. My own are mostly +fruitless.’ + +Brother Archangias shrugged his shoulders. He walked on for a minute +in silence, swaying his tall bony frame, which looked as if it had +been roughly fashioned with a hatchet. The sun beat down upon his neck, +shadowing his hard, sword-edged peasant’s face. + +‘Listen to me, Monsieur le Curé,’ he said at last. ‘I am too much +beneath you to lecture you; but still, I am almost double your age, I +know this part, and therefore I feel justified in telling you that you +will gain nothing by gentleness. The catechism, understand, is enough. +God has no mercy on the wicked. He burns them. Stick to that.’ + +Then, as Abbé Mouret, whose head remained bowed, did not open his mouth, +he went on: ‘Religion is leaving the country districts because it +is made over indulgent. It was respected when it spoke out like an +unforgiving mistress. I really don’t know what they can teach you now +in the seminaries. The new priests weep like children with their +parishioners. God no longer seems the same. I dare say, Monsieur le +Curé, that you don’t even know your catechism by heart now?’ + +But the priest, wounded by the imperiousness with which the Brother so +roughly sought to dominate him, looked up and dryly rejoined: + +‘That will do, your zeal is very praiseworthy. But haven’t you something +to tell me? You came to the parsonage this morning, did you not?’ + +Thereupon Brother Archangias plumply answered: ‘I had to tell you just +what I have told you. The Artauds live like pigs. Only yesterday I +learned that Rosalie, old Bambousse’s eldest daughter, is in the family +way. It happens with all of them before they get married. And they +simply laugh at reproaches, as you know.’ + +‘Yes,’ murmured Abbé Mouret, ‘it is a great scandal. I am just on my way +to see old Bambousse to speak to him about it; it is desirable that they +should be married as soon as possible. The child’s father, it seems, is +Fortune, the Brichets’ eldest son. Unfortunately the Brichets are poor.’ + +‘That Rosalie, now,’ continued the Brother, ‘is just eighteen. Not four +years since I still had her under me at school, and she was already a +gadabout. I have now got her sister Catherine, a chit of eleven, who +seems likely to become even worse than her elder. One comes across her +in every corner with that little scamp, Vincent. It’s no good, you may +pull their ears till they bleed, the woman always crops up in them. +They carry perdition about with them and are only fit to be thrown on a +muck-heap. What a splendid riddance if all girls were strangled at their +birth!’ + +His loathing, his hatred of woman made him swear like a carter. Abbé +Mouret, who had been listening to him with unmoved countenance, smiled +at last at his rabid utterances. He called Voriau, who had strayed into +a field close by. + +‘There, look there!’ cried Brother Archangias, pointing to a group of +children playing at the bottom of a ravine, ‘there are my young devils, +who play the truant under pretence of going to help their parents among +the vines! You may be certain that jade of a Catherine is among them.... +There, didn’t I tell you! Till to-night, Monsieur le Curé. Oh, just you +wait, you rascals!’ + +Off he went at a run, his dirty neckband flying over his shoulder, and +his big greasy cassock tearing up the thistles. Abbé Mouret watched him +swoop down into the midst of the children, who scattered like frightened +sparrows. But he succeeded in seizing Catherine and one boy by the ears +and led them back towards the village, clutching them tightly with his +big hairy fingers, and overwhelming them with abuse. + +The priest walked on again. Brother Archangias sometimes aroused strange +scruples in his mind. With his vulgarity and coarseness the Brother +seemed to him the true man of God, free from earthly ties, submissive in +all to Heaven’s will, humble, blunt, ready to shower abuse upon sin. He, +the priest, would then feel despair at his inability to rid himself +more completely of his body; he regretted that he was not ugly, unclean, +covered with vermin like some of the saints. Whenever the Brother had +wounded him by some words of excessive coarseness, or by some over-hasty +churlishness, he would blame himself for his refinement, his innate +shrinking, as if these were really faults. Ought he not to be dead to +all the weaknesses of this world? And this time also he smiled sadly as +he thought how near he had been to losing his temper at the Brother’s +roughly put lesson. It was pride, it seemed to him, seeking to work his +perdition by making him despise the lowly. However, in spite of himself, +he felt relieved at being alone again, at being able to walk on gently, +reading his breviary, free at last from the grating voice that had +disturbed his dream of heavenly love. + + + + +VI + +The road wound on between fallen rocks, among which the peasants had +succeeded here and there in reclaiming six or seven yards of chalky +soil, planted with old olive trees. Under the priest’s feet the dust in +the deep ruts crackled lightly like snow. At times, as he felt a warmer +puff upon his face, he would raise his eyes from his book, as if to seek +whence came this soft caress; but his gaze was vacant, straying without +perception over the glowing horizon, over the twisted outlines of that +passion-breathing landscape as it stretched out in the sun before him, +dry, barren, despairing of the fertilisation for which it longed. And +he would lower his hat over his forehead to protect himself against +the warm breeze and tranquilly resume his reading, his cassock raising +behind him a cloudlet of dust which rolled along the surface of the +road. + +‘Good morning, Monsieur le Curé,’ a passing peasant said to him. + +Sounds of digging alongside the cultivated strips of ground again +roused him from his abstraction. He turned his head and perceived big +knotty-limbed old men greeting him from among the vines. The Artauds +were eagerly satisfying their passion for the soil, in the sun’s full +blaze. Sweating brows appeared from behind the bushes, heaving chests +were slowly raised, the whole scene was one of ardent fructification, +through which he moved with the calm step born of ignorance. No +discomfort came to him from the great travail of love that permeated +that splendid morning. + +‘Steady! Voriau, you mustn’t eat people!’ some one gaily shouted in a +powerful voice by way of silencing the dog’s loud barks. + +Abbé Mouret looked up. + +‘Oh! it’s you. Fortune?’ he said, approaching the edge of the field in +which the young peasant was at work. ‘I was just on my way to speak to +you.’ + +Fortune was of the same age as the priest: a bigly built, bold-looking +young fellow, with skin already hardened. He was clearing a small plot +of stony heath. + +‘What about, Monsieur le Curé?’ he asked. + +‘About Rosalie and you,’ replied the priest. + +Fortune began to laugh. Perhaps he thought it droll that a priest should +interest himself in such a matter. + +‘Well,’ he muttered, ‘I’m not to blame in it nor she either. So much the +worse if old Bambousse refuses to let me have her. You saw yourself how +his dog was trying to bite me just now; he sets him on me.’ + +Then, as Abbé Mouret was about to continue, old Artaud, called Brichet, +whom he had not previously perceived, emerged from the shadow of a bush +behind which he and his wife were eating. He was a little man, withered +by age, with a cringing face. + +‘Your reverence must have been told a pack of lies,’ he exclaimed. +‘The youngster is quite ready to marry Rosalie. What’s happened isn’t +anybody’s fault. It has happened to others who got on all right just the +same. The matter doesn’t rest with us. You ought to speak to Bambousse. +He’s the one who looks down on us because he’s got money.’ + +‘Yes, we are very poor,’ whined his wife, a tall lachrymose woman, who +also rose to her feet. ‘We’ve only this scrap of ground where the very +devil seems to have been hailing stones. Not a bite of bread from it, +even. Without you, your reverence, life would be impossible.’ + +Brichet’s wife was the one solitary devotee of the village. Whenever she +had been to communion, she would hang about the parsonage, well knowing +that La Teuse always kept a couple of loaves for her from her last +baking. At times she was even able to carry off a rabbit or a fowl given +her by Desirée. + +‘There’s no end to the scandals,’ continued the priest. ‘The marriage +must take place without delay.’ + +‘Oh! at once! as soon as the others are agreeable,’ said the old woman, +alarmed about her periodical presents. ‘What do you say, Brichet? we are +not such bad Christians as to go against his reverence?’ + +Fortune sniggered. + +‘Oh, I’m quite ready,’ he said, ‘and so is Rosalie. I saw her yesterday +at the back of the mill. We haven’t quarrelled. We stopped there to have +a bit of a laugh.’ + +But Abbé Mouret interrupted him: ‘Very well, I am now going to speak to +Bambousse. He is over there, at Les Olivettes, I believe.’ + +The priest was going off when the mother asked him what had become of +her younger son Vincent, who had left in the early morning to serve +mass. There was a lad now who badly needed his reverence’s admonitions. +And she walked by the priest’s side for another hundred yards, bemoaning +her poverty, the failure of the potato crop, the frost which had nipped +the olive trees, the hot weather which threatened to scorch up the +scanty corn. Then, as she left him, she solemnly declared that her son +Fortune always said his prayers, both morning and evening. + +Voriau now ran on in front, and suddenly, at a turn in the road, he +bolted across the fields. The priest then struck into a small path +leading up a low hill. He was now at Les Olivettes, the most fertile +spot in the neighbourhood, where the mayor of the commune, Artaud, +otherwise Bambousse, owned several fields of corn, olive plantations, +and vines. The dog was now romping round the skirts of a tall brunette, +who burst into a loud laugh as she caught sight of the priest. + +‘Is your father here, Rosalie?’ the latter asked. + +‘Yes, just across there,’ she said, pointing with her hand and still +smiling. + +Leaving the part of the field she had been weeding, she walked on before +him with the vigorous springiness of a hard-working woman, her head +unshielded from the sun, her neck all sunburnt, her hair black and +coarse like a horse’s mane. Her green-stained hands exhaled the odour of +the weeds she had been pulling up. + +‘Father,’ she called out, ‘here’s Monsieur le Curé asking for you.’ + +And there she remained, bold, unblushing, with a sly smile still +hovering over her features. Bambousse, a stout, sweating, round-faced +man, left his work and gaily came towards the priest. + +‘I’d take my oath you are going to speak to me about the repairs of +the church,’ he exclaimed, as he clapped his earthy hands. ‘Well, then, +Monsieur le Curé, I can only say no, it’s impossible. The commune hasn’t +got the coin. If the Lord provides plaster and tiles, we’ll provide the +workmen.’ + +At this jest of his the unbelieving peasant burst into a loud guffaw, +slapped his thighs, coughed, and almost choked himself. + +‘It was not for the church I came,’ replied the Abbé Mouret. ‘I wanted +to speak to you about your daughter Rosalie.’ + +‘Rosalie? What has she done to you, then?’ inquired Bambousse, his eyes +blinking. + +The girl was boldly staring at the young priest, scrutinising his white +hands and slender, feminine neck, as if trying to make him redden. +He, however, bluntly and with unruffled countenance, as if speaking of +something quite indifferent, continued: + +‘You know what I mean, Bambousse. She must get married.’ + +‘Oh, that’s it, is it?’ muttered the old man, with a bantering look. +‘Many thanks for the message. The Brichets sent you, didn’t they? Mother +Brichet goes to mass, and so you give her a helping hand to marry her +son--it’s all very fine. But, I’ve got nothing to do with that. It +doesn’t suit me. That’s all.’ + +Thereupon the astonished priest represented to him that the scandal +must be stopped, and that he ought to forgive Fortune, as the latter was +willing to make reparation for his transgression, and that, lastly, his +daughter’s reputation demanded a speedy marriage. + +‘Ta, ta, ta,’ replied Bambousse, what a lot of words! I shall keep my +daughter, please understand it. All that’s got nothing to do with me. +That Fortune is a beggarly pauper, without a brass farthing. What an +easy job, if one could marry a girl like that! At that rate we should +have all the young things marrying off morning and night. Thank Heaven! +I’m not worried about Rosalie: everybody knows what has happened; but +it makes no difference. She can marry any one she chooses in the +neighbourhood.’ + +‘But the child?’ interrupted the priest. + +‘The child indeed! There’ll be time enough to think of that when it’s +born.’ + +Rosalie, perceiving the turn the priest’s application was taking, now +thought it proper to ram her fists into her eyes and whimper. And she +even let herself fall upon the ground. + +‘Shut up, will you, you hussy!’ howled her father in a rage. And he +proceeded to revile her in the coarsest terms, which made her laugh +silently behind her clenched fists. + +‘You won’t shut up? won’t you? Just wait a minute then, you jade!’ +continued old Bambousse. And thereupon he picked up a clod of earth and +flung it at her. It burst upon her knot of hair, crumbling down her neck +and smothering her in dust. Dizzy from the blow, she bounded to her feet +and fled, sheltering her head between her hands. But Bambousse had time +to fling two more clods at her, and if the first only grazed her left +shoulder, the next caught her full on the base of the spine, with such +force that she fell upon her knees. + +‘Bambousse!’ cried the priest, as he wrenched from the peasant’s hand a +number of stones which he had just picked up. + +‘Let be, Monsieur le Curé,’ said the other. ‘It was only soft earth. +I ought to have thrown these stones at her. It’s easy to see that you +don’t know girls. Hard as nails, all of them. I might duck that one in +the well, I might break all her bones with a cudgel, and she’d still be +just the same. But I’ve got my eye on her, and if I catch her!... Ah! +well, they are all like that.’ + +He was already comforted. He took a good pull at a big flat bottle of +wine, encased in wicker-work, which lay warming on the hot ground. +And breaking once more into a laugh, he said: ‘If I only had a glass, +Monsieur le Curé, I would offer you some with pleasure.’ + +‘So then,’ again asked the priest, ‘this marriage?’ + +‘No, it can’t be; I should get laughed at. Rosalie is a stout wench. +She’s worth a man to me. I shall have to hire a lad the day she goes +off.... We can have another talk about it after the vintage. Besides, I +don’t want to be robbed. Give and take, say I. That’s fair. What do you +think?’ + +Nevertheless for another long half-hour did the priest remain there +preaching to Bambousse, speaking to him of God, and plying him with all +the reasons suited to the circumstances. But the old man had resumed +his work; he shrugged his shoulders, jested, and grew more and more +obstinate. At last, he broke out: ‘But if you asked me for a sack of +corn, you would give me money, wouldn’t you? So why do you want me to +let my daughter go for nothing?’ + +Much discomfited, Abbé Mouret left him. As he went down the path he saw +Rosalie rolling about under an olive tree with Voriau, who was licking +her face. With her arms whirling, she kept on repeating: ‘You tickle me, +you big stupid. Leave off!’ + +When she perceived the priest, she made an attempt at a blush, settled +her clothes, and once more raised her fists to her eyes. He, on his +part, sought to console her by promising to attempt some fresh efforts +with her father, adding that, in the meantime, she should do nothing +to aggravate her sin. And then, as she impudently smiled at him, he +pictured hell, where wicked women burn in torment. And afterwards he +left her, his duty done, his soul once more full of the serenity which +enabled him to pass undisturbed athwart the corruptions of the world. + + + + +VII + +The morning was becoming terribly hot. In that huge rocky amphitheatre +the sun kindled a furnace-like glare from the moment when the first +fine weather began. By the planet’s height in the sky Abbé Mouret now +perceived that he had only just time to return home if he wished to +get there by eleven o’clock and escape a scolding from La Teuse. Having +finished reading his breviary and made his application to Bambousse, he +swiftly retraced his steps, gazing as he went at his church, now a grey +spot in the distance, and at the black rigid silhouette which the +big cypress-tree, the Solitaire, set against the blue sky. Amidst the +drowsiness fostered by the heat, he thought of how richly that evening +he might decorate the Lady chapel for the devotions of the month of +Mary. Before him the road offered a carpet of dust, soft to the tread +and of dazzling whiteness. + +At the Croix-Verte, as the Abbé was about to cross the highway leading +from Plassans to La Palud, a gig coming down the hill compelled him +to step behind a heap of stones. Then, as he crossed the open space, a +voice called to him: ‘Hallo, Serge, my boy!’ + +The gig had pulled up and from it a man leant over. The priest +recognised him--he was an uncle of his, Doctor Pascal Rougon, or +Monsieur Pascal, as the poor folk of Plassans, whom he attended for +nothing, briefly styled him. Although barely over fifty, he was already +snowy white, with a big beard and abundant hair, amidst which his +handsome regular features took an expression of shrewdness and +benevolence.* + + * See M. Zola’s novels, _Dr. Pascal_ and _The Fortune of the + Rougons_.--ED. + +‘So you potter about in the dust at this hour of the day?’ he said +gaily, as he stooped to grasp the Abbé’s hands. ‘You’re not afraid of +sunstroke?’ + +‘No more than you are, uncle,’ answered the priest, laughing. + +‘Oh, I have the hood of my trap to shield me. Besides, sick folks won’t +wait. People die at all times, my boy.’ And he went on to relate that +he was now on his way to old Jeanbernat, the steward of the Paradou, who +had had an apoplectic stroke the night before. A neighbour, a peasant on +his way to Plassans market, had summoned him. + +‘He must be dead by this time,’ the doctor continued. ‘However, we must +make sure.... Those old demons are jolly tough, you know.’ + +He was already raising his whip, when Abbé Mouret stopped him. + +‘Stay! what o’clock do you make it, uncle?’ + +‘A quarter to eleven.’ + +The Abbé hesitated; he already seemed to hear La Teuse’s terrible voice +bawling in his ears that his luncheon was getting cold. But he plucked +up courage and added swiftly: ‘I’ll go with you, uncle. The unhappy man +may wish to reconcile himself to God in his last hour.’ + +Doctor Pascal could not restrain a laugh. + +‘What, Jeanbernat!’ he said; ‘ah, well! if ever you convert him! Never +mind, come all the same. The sight of you is enough to cure him.’ + +The priest got in. The doctor, apparently regretting his jest, displayed +an affectionate warmth of manner, whilst from time to time clucking his +tongue by way of encouraging his horse. And out of the corner of his eye +he inquisitively observed his nephew with the keenness of a scientist +bent on taking notes. In short kindly sentences he inquired about his +life, his habits, and the peaceful happiness he enjoyed at Les Artaud. +And at each satisfactory reply he murmured, as if to himself in a tone +of reassurance: ‘Come, so much the better; that’s just as it should be!’ + +He displayed peculiar anxiety about the young priest’s state of health. +And Serge, greatly surprised, assured him that he was in splendid +trim, and had neither fits of giddiness or of nausea, nor headaches +whatsoever. + +‘Capital, capital,’ reiterated his uncle Pascal. ‘In spring, you see, +the blood is active. But you are sound enough. By-the-bye, I saw your +brother Octave at Marseilles last month. He is off to Paris, where he +will get a fine berth in a high-class business. The young beggar, a nice +life he leads.’ + +‘What life?’ innocently inquired the priest. + +To avoid replying the doctor chirruped to his horse, and then went on: +‘Briefly, everybody is well--your aunt Felicite, your uncle Rougon, and +the others. Still, that does not hinder our needing your prayers. You +are the saint of the family, my lad; I rely upon you to save the whole +lot.’ + +He laughed, but in such a friendly, good-humoured way that Serge himself +began to indulge in jocularity. + +‘You see,’ continued Pascal, ‘there are some among the lot whom it won’t +be easy to lead to Paradise. Some nice confessions you’d hear if all +came in turn. For my part, I can do without their confessions; I +watch them from a distance; I have got their records at home among my +botanical specimens and medical notes. Some day I shall be able to draw +up a wondrously interesting diagram. We shall see; we shall see!’ + +He was forgetting himself, carried away by his enthusiasm for science. A +glance at his nephew’s cassock pulled him up short. + +‘As for you, you’re a parson,’ he muttered; ‘you did well; a parson’s a +very happy man. The calling absorbs you, eh? And so you’ve taken to the +good path. Well! you would never have been satisfied otherwise. Your +relatives, starting like you, have done a deal of evil, and still they +are unsatisfied. It’s all logically perfect, my lad. A priest completes +the family. Besides, it was inevitable. Our blood was bound to run +to that. So much the better for you; you have had the most luck.’ +Correcting himself, however, with a strange smile, he added: ‘No, it’s +your sister Desirée who has had the best luck of all.’ + +He whistled, whipped up his horse, and changed the conversation. The +gig, after climbing a somewhat steep slope, was threading its way +through desolate ravines; at last it reached a tableland, where the +hollow road skirted an interminable and lofty wall. Les Artaud had +disappeared; they found themselves in the heart of a desert. + +‘We are getting near, are we not?’ asked the priest. + +‘This is the Paradou,’ replied the doctor, pointing to the wall. +‘Haven’t you been this way before, then? We are not three miles from Les +Artaud. A splendid property it must have been, this Paradou. The park +wall this side alone is quite a mile and a half long. But for over a +hundred years it’s all been running wild.’ + +‘There are some fine trees,’ observed the Abbé, as he looked up in +astonishment at the luxuriant mass of foliage which jutted over. + +‘Yes, that part is very fertile. In fact, the park is a regular forest +amidst the bare rocks which surround it. The Mascle, too, rises there; I +have heard four or five springs mentioned, I fancy.’ + +In short sentences, interspersed with irrelevant digressions, he then +related the story of the Paradou, according to the current legend of +the countryside. In the time of Louis XV., a great lord had erected +a magnificent palace there, with vast gardens, fountains, trickling +streams, and statues--a miniature Versailles hidden away among the +stones, under the full blaze of the southern sun. But he had there spent +but one season with a lady of bewitching beauty, who doubtless died +there, as none had ever seen her leave. Next year the mansion was +destroyed by fire, the park doors were nailed up, the very loopholes of +the walls were filled with mould; and thus, since that remote time, not +a glance had penetrated that vast enclosure which covered the whole of +one of the plateaux of the Garrigue hills. + +‘There can be no lack of nettles there,’ laughingly said Abbé Mouret. +‘Don’t you find that the whole wall reeks of damp, uncle?’ + +A pause followed, and he asked: + +‘And whom does the Paradou belong to now?’ + +‘Why, nobody knows,’ the doctor answered. ‘The owner did come here once, +some twenty years ago. But he was so scared by the sight of this +adders’ nest that he has never turned up since. The real master is the +caretaker, that old oddity, Jeanbernat, who has managed to find quarters +in a lodge where the stones still hang together. There it is, see--that +grey building yonder, with its windows all smothered in ivy.’ + +The gig passed by a lordly iron gate, ruddy with rust, and lined inside +with a layer of boards. The wide dry throats were black with brambles. A +hundred yards further on was the lodge inhabited by Jeanbernat. It stood +within the park, which it overlooked. But the old keeper had apparently +blocked up that side of his dwelling, and had cleared a little garden +by the road. And there he lived, facing southwards, with his back +turned upon the Paradou, as if unaware of the immensity of verdure that +stretched away behind him. + +The young priest jumped down, looking inquisitively around him and +questioning the doctor, who was hurriedly fastening the horse to a ring +fixed in the wall. + +‘And the old man lives all alone in this out-of-the-way hole?’ he asked. + +‘Yes, quite alone,’ replied his uncle, adding, however, the next minute: +‘Well, he has with him a niece whom he had to take in, a queer girl, +a regular savage. But we must make haste. The whole place looks +death-like.’ + + + + +VIII + +The house with its shutters closed seemed wrapped in slumber as it stood +there in the midday sun, amidst the hum of the big flies that swarmed +all up the ivy to the roof tiles. The sunlit ruin was steeped in happy +quietude. When the doctor had opened the gate of the narrow garden, +which was enclosed by a lofty quickset hedge, there, in the shadow cast +by a wall, they found Jeanbernat, tall and erect, and calmly smoking his +pipe, as in the deep silence he watched his vegetables grow. + +‘What, are you up then, you humbug?’ exclaimed the astonished doctor. + +‘So you were coming to bury me, were you?’ growled the old man harshly. +‘I don’t want anybody. I bled myself.’ + +He stopped short as he caught sight of the priest, and assumed so +threatening an expression that the doctor hastened to intervene. + +‘This is my nephew,’ he said; ‘the new Curé of Les Artaud--a good +fellow, too. Devil take it, we haven’t been bowling over the roads at +this hour of the day to eat you, Jeanbernat.’ + +The old man calmed down a little. + +‘I don’t want any shavelings here,’ he grumbled. ‘They’re enough to make +one croak. Mind, doctor, no priests, and no physics when I go off, or we +shall quarrel. Let him come in, however, as he is your nephew.’ + +Abbé Mouret, struck dumb with amazement, could not speak a word. He +stood there in the middle of the path scanning that strange solitaire, +with scorched, brick-tinted face, and limbs all withered and twisted +like a bundle of ropes, who seemed to bear the burden of his eighty +years with a scornful contempt for life. When the doctor attempted to +feel his pulse, his ill-humour broke out afresh. + +‘Do leave me in peace! I bled myself with my knife, I tell you. It’s all +over, now. Who was the fool of a peasant who disturbed you? The doctor +here, and the priest as well, why not the mutes too! Well, it can’t be +helped, people will be fools. It won’t prevent us from having a drink, +eh?’ + +He fetched a bottle and three glasses, and stood them on an old table +which he brought out into the shade. Then, having filled the glasses +to the brim, he insisted on clinking them. His anger had given place to +jeering cheerfulness. + +‘It won’t poison you, Monsieur le Curé,’ he said. ‘A glass of good +wine isn’t a sin. Upon my word, however, this is the first time I ever +clinked a glass with a cassock, but no offence to you. That poor Abbé +Caffin, your predecessor, refused to argue with me. He was afraid.’ + +Jeanbernat gave vent to a hearty laugh, and then went on: ‘Just fancy, +he had pledged himself that he would prove to me that God exists. +So, whenever I met him, I defied him to do it; and he sloped off +crestfallen, I can tell you.’ + +‘What, God does not exist!’ cried Abbé Mouret, roused from his silence. + +‘Oh! just as you please,’ mockingly replied Jeanbernat. ‘We’ll begin +together all over again, if it’s any pleasure to you. But I warn you +that I’m a tough hand at it. There are some thousands of books in one of +the rooms upstairs, which were rescued from the fire at the Paradou: all +the philosophers of the eighteenth century, a whole heap of old books +on religion. I’ve learned some fine things from them. I’ve been reading +them these twenty years. Marry! you’ll find you’ve got some one who can +talk, Monsieur le Curé.’ + +He had risen, slowly waving his hand towards the surrounding horizon, +to the earth and to the sky, and repeating solemnly: ‘There’s nothing, +nothing, nothing. When the sun is snuffed out, all will be at an end.’ + +Doctor Pascal nudged Abbé Mouret with his elbow. With blinking eyes he +was curiously observing the old man and nodding approvingly in order to +induce him to talk. ‘So you are a materialist, Jeanbernat?’ he said. + +‘Oh, I am only a poor man,’ replied the old fellow, relighting his pipe. +‘When Count de Corbiere, whose foster-brother I was, died from a fall +from his horse, his children sent me here to look after this park of the +Sleeping Beauty, in order to get rid of me. I was sixty years old then, +and I thought I was about done. But death forgot me; and I had to make +myself a burrow. If one lives all alone, look you, one gets to see +things in rather a queer fashion. The trees are no longer trees, the +earth puts on the ways of a living being, the stones seem to tell you +tales. A parcel of rubbish, eh? But I know some secrets that would +fairly stagger you. Besides, what do you think there is to do in +this devilish desert? I read the old books; it was more amusing than +shooting. The Count, who used to curse like a heathen, was always saying +to me: “Jeanbernat, my boy, I fully expect to meet you again in the hot +place, so that you will be able to serve me there as you have up here.”’ + +Once more he waved his hand to the horizon and added: ‘You hear, +nothing; there’s nothing. It’s all foolery.’ + +Dr. Pascal began to laugh. + +‘A pleasant piece of foolery, at any rate,’ he said. ‘Jeanbernat, you +are a deceiver. I suspect you are in love, in spite of your affectation +of being _blasé_. You were speaking very tenderly of the trees and +stones just now.’ + +‘Oh, no, I assure you,’ murmured the old man, ‘I have done with that. +At one time, it’s true, when I first knew you and used to go herborising +with you, I was stupid enough to love all sorts of things I came across +in that huge liar, the country. Fortunately, the old volumes have killed +all that. I only wish my garden was smaller; I don’t go out into the +road twice a year. You see that bench? That’s where I spend all my time, +just watching my lettuces grow.’ + +‘And what about your rounds in the park?’ broke in the doctor. + +‘In the park!’ repeated Jeanbernat, with a look of profound surprise. +‘Why, it’s more than twelve years since I set foot in it! What do you +suppose I could do inside that cemetery? It’s too big. It’s stupid, what +with those endless trees and moss everywhere and broken statues, and +holes in which one might break one’s neck at every step. The last time I +went in there, it was so dark under the trees, there was such a stink of +wild flowers, and such queer breezes blew along the paths, that I felt +almost afraid. So I have shut myself up to prevent the park coming in +here. A patch of sunlight, three feet of lettuce before me, and a +big hedge shutting out all the view, why, that’s more than enough for +happiness. Nothing, that’s what I’d like, nothing at all, something so +tiny that nothing from outside could come to disturb me. Seven feet of +earth, if you like, just to be able to croak on my back.’ + +He struck the table with his fist, and suddenly raised his voice to call +out to Abbé Mouret: ‘Come, just another glass, your reverence. The old +gentleman isn’t at the bottom of the bottle, you know.’ + +The priest felt ill at ease. To lead back to God that singular old man, +whose reason seemed to him to be strangely disordered, appeared a task +beyond his powers. He now remembered certain bits of gossip he had +heard from La Teuse about the Philosopher, as the peasants of Les Artaud +dubbed Jeanbernat. Scraps of scandalous stories vaguely floated in his +memory. He rose, making a sign to the doctor that he wished to leave +this house, where he seemed to inhale an odour of damnation. But, in +spite of his covert fears, a strange feeling of curiosity made him +linger. He simply walked to the end of the garden, throwing a searching +glance into the vestibule, as if to see beyond it, behind the walls. All +he could perceive, however, through the gaping doorway, was the black +staircase. So he came back again, and sought for some hole, some glimpse +of that sea of foliage which he knew was near by the mighty murmur that +broke upon the house, like the sound of waves. + +‘And is the little one well?’ asked the doctor, taking up his hat. + +‘Pretty well,’ answered Jeanbernat. ‘She’s never here. She often +disappears all day long--still, she may be in the upstair rooms.’ + +He raised his head and called: ‘Albine! Albine!’ Then with a shrug of +his shoulders, he added: ‘Yes, my word, she is a nice hussy.... Well, +till next time, Monsieur le Curé. I’m always at your disposal.’ + +Abbé Mouret, however, had no time to accept the Philosopher’s challenge. +A door suddenly opened at the end of the vestibule; a dazzling breach +was made in the black darkness of the wall, and through the breach came +a vision of a virgin forest, a great depth of woodland, beneath a +flood of sunbeams. In that sudden blaze of light the priest distinctly +perceived certain far-away things: a large yellow flower in the middle +of a lawn, a sheet of water falling from a lofty rock, a colossal tree +filled with a swarm of birds; and all this steeped, lost, blazing in +such a tangle of greenery, such riotous luxuriance of vegetation, that +the whole horizon seemed one great burst of shooting foliage. The door +banged to, and everything vanished. + +‘Ah! the jade!’ cried Jeanbernat, ‘she was in the Paradou again!’ + +Albine was now laughing on the threshold of the vestibule. She wore +an orange-coloured skirt, with a large red kerchief fastened round her +waist, thus looking like some gipsy in holiday garb. And she went on +laughing, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with mirth, delighted +with her flowers, wild flowers which she had plaited into her fair hair, +fastened to her neck, her bodice, and her bare slender golden arms. She +seemed like a huge nosegay, exhaling a powerful perfume. + +‘Ay, you are a beauty!’ growled the old man. ‘You smell of weeds enough +to poison one--would any one think she was sixteen, that doll?’ + +Albine remained unabashed, however, and laughed still more heartily. +Doctor Pascal, who was her great friend, let her kiss him. + +‘So you are not frightened in the Paradou?’ he asked. + +‘Frightened? What of?’ she said, her eyes wide open with astonishment. +‘The walls are too high, no one can get in. There’s only myself. It is +my garden, all my very own. A fine big one, too. I haven’t found out +where it ends yet.’ + +‘And the animals?’ interrupted the doctor. + +‘The animals? Oh! they don’t hurt; they all know me well.’ + +‘But it is very dark under the trees?’ + +‘Course! there’s shade: if there were none, the sun would burn my face +up. It is very pleasant in the shade among the leaves.’ + +She flitted about, filling the little garden with the rustling sweep of +her skirts, and scattering round the pungent odour of wild flowers which +clung to her. She had smiled at Abbé Mouret without trace of shyness, +without heed of the astonished look with which he observed her. The +priest had stepped aside. That fair-haired maid, with long oval face, +glowing with life, seemed to him to be the weird mysterious offspring of +the forest of which he had caught a glimpse in a sheet of sunlight. + +‘I say, I have got some blackbird nestlings; would you like them?’ +Albine asked the doctor. + +‘No, thanks,’ he answered, laughing. ‘You should give them to the Curé’s +sister; she is very fond of pets. Good day, Jeanbernat.’ + +Albine, however, had fastened on the priest. + +‘You are the vicar of Les Artaud, aren’t you? You have a sister? I’ll go +and see her. Only you must not speak to me about God. My uncle will not +have it.’ + +‘You bother us, be off,’ exclaimed Jeanbernat, shrugging his shoulders. +Then bounding away like a goat, dropping a shower of flowers behind her, +she disappeared. The slam of a door was heard, and from behind the +house came bursts of laughter, which died away in the distance like the +scampering rush of some mad animal let loose among the grass. + +‘You’ll see, she will end by sleeping in the Paradou,’ muttered the old +man with indifference. + +And as he saw his visitors off, he added: ‘If you should find me dead +one of these fine days, doctor, just do me the favour of pitching me +into the muck-pit there, behind my lettuces. Good evening, gentlemen.’ + +He let the wooden gate which closed the hedge fall to again, and the +house assumed once more its aspect of happy peacefulness in the noonday +sunlight, amidst the buzzing of the big flies that swarmed all up the +ivy even to the roof tiles. + + + + +IX + +The gig once more rolled along the road skirting the Paradou’s +interminable wall. Abbé Mouret, still silent, scanned with upturned eyes +the huge boughs which stretched over that wall, like the arms of giants +hidden there. All sorts of sounds came from the park: rustling of wings, +quivering of leaves, furtive bounds at which branches snapped, mighty +sighs that bowed the young shoots--a vast breath of life sweeping over +the crests of a nation of trees. At times, as he heard a birdlike note +that seemed like a human laugh, the priest turned his head, as if he +felt uneasy. + +‘A queer girl!’ said his uncle as he eased the reins a little. ‘She was +nine years old when she took up her quarters with that old heathen. Some +brother of his had ruined himself, though in what I can’t remember. The +little one was at school somewhere when her father killed himself. She +was even quite a little lady, up to reading, embroidery, chattering, and +strumming on the piano. And such a coquette too! I saw her arrive with +open-worked stockings, embroidered skirts, frills, cuffs, a heap of +finery. Ah, well! the finery didn’t last long!’ + +He laughed. A big stone nearly upset the gig. + +‘It will be lucky if I don’t leave a wheel in this cursed road!’ he +muttered. ‘Hold on, my boy.’ + +The wall still stretched beside them: the priest still listened. + +‘As you may well imagine,’ continued the doctor, ‘the Paradou, what with +its sun, its stones, and its thistles, would wreck a whole outfit every +day. Three or four mouthfuls, that’s all it made of all the little one’s +beautiful dresses. She used to come back naked. Now she dresses like +a savage. To-day she was rather presentable; but sometimes she has +scarcely anything on beyond her shoes and chemise. Did you hear her? The +Paradou is hers. The very day after she came she took possession of it. +She lives in it; jumps out of the window when Jeanbernat locks the door, +bolts off in spite of all, goes nobody knows whither, buries herself in +some invisible burrows known only to herself. She must have a fine time +in that wilderness.’ + +‘Hark, uncle!’ interrupted Abbé Mouret. ‘Isn’t that some animal running +behind the wall?’ + +Uncle Pascal listened. + +‘No,’ he said after a minute’s silence, ‘it is the rattle of the trap on +the stones. No, the child doesn’t play the piano now. I believe she has +even forgotten how to read. Just picture to yourself a young lady gone +back to a state of primevalness, turned out to play on a desert island. +My word, if ever you get to know of a girl who needs proper bringing up, +I advise you not to entrust her to Jeanbernat. He has a most primitive +way of letting nature alone. When I ventured to speak to him about +Albine he answered me that he must not prevent trees from growing +as they pleased. He says he is for the normal development of +temperaments.... All the same, they are very interesting, both of them. +I never come this way without paying them a visit.’ + +The gig was now emerging from the hollowed road. At this point the wall +of the Paradou turned and wound along the crest of the hills as far +as one could see. As Abbé Mouret turned to take a last look at that +grey-hued barrier, whose impenetrable austerity had at last begun to +annoy him, a rustling of shaken boughs was heard and a clump of young +birch trees seemed to bow in greeting from above the wall. + +‘I knew some animal was running behind,’ said the priest. + +But, although nobody could be seen, though nothing was visible in the +air above save the birches rocking more and more violently, they heard a +clear, laughing voice call out: ‘Good-bye, doctor! good-bye, Monsieur le +Curé! I am kissing the tree, and the tree is sending you my kisses.’ + +‘Why! it is Albine,’ exclaimed Doctor Pascal. ‘She must have followed +the trap at a run. Jumping over bushes is mere play to her, the little +elf!’ + +And he in his turn shouted out: + +‘Good-bye, my pet! How tall you must be to bow like that.’ + +The laughter grew louder, the birches bowed still lower, scattering +their leaves around even on the hood of the gig. + +‘I am as tall as the trees; all the leaves that fall are kisses,’ +replied the voice now mellowed by distance, so musical, so merged into +the rippling whispers of the park, that the young priest was thrilled. + +The road grew better. On coming down the slope Les Artaud reappeared in +the midst of the scorched plain. When the gig reached the turning to +the village, Abbé Mouret would not let his uncle drive him back to the +vicarage. He jumped down, saying: + +‘No, thanks, I prefer to walk: it will do me good.’ + +‘Well, just as you like,’ at last answered the doctor. And with a clasp +of the hand, he added: ‘Well, if you only had such parishioners as that +old brute Jeanbernat, you wouldn’t often be disturbed. However, you +yourself wanted to come. And mind you keep well. At the slightest ache, +night or day, send for me. You know I attend all the family gratis.... +There, good-bye, my boy.’ + + + + +X + +Abbé Mouret felt more at ease when he found himself again alone, walking +along the dusty road. The stony fields brought him back to his dream of +austerity, of an inner life spent in a desert. From the trees all along +the sunken road disturbing moisture had fallen on his neck, which now +the burning sun was drying. The sight of the lean almond trees, the +scanty corn crops, the weak vines, on either side of the way, soothed +him, delivered him from the perturbation into which the lusty atmosphere +of the Paradou had thrown him. Amid the blinding glare that flowed from +heaven over the bare land, Jeanbernat’s blasphemies no longer cast even +a shadow. A thrill of pleasure ran through the priest as he raised his +head and caught sight of the solitaire’s motionless bar-like silhouette +and the pink patch of tiles on the church. + +But, as he walked on, fresh anxiety beset the Abbé. La Teuse would give +him a fine reception; for his luncheon must have been waiting nearly two +hours for him. He pictured her terrible face, the flood of words with +which she would greet him, the angry clatter of kitchen ware which he +would hear the whole afternoon. When he had got through Les Artaud, +his fear became so lively that he hesitated, full of trepidation, and +wondered if it would not be better to go round and reach the parsonage +by way of the church. But, while he deliberated, La Teuse herself +appeared on the doorstep of the parsonage, her cap all awry, and her +hands on her hips. With drooping head he had perforce to climb the +slope under her storm-laden gaze, which he could feel weighing upon his +shoulders. + +‘I believe I am rather late, my good Teuse,’ he stammered, as he turned +the path’s last bend. + +La Teuse waited till he stood quite close before her. She then gave him +a furious glance, and, without a word, turned and stalked before him +into the dining-room, banging her big heels upon the floor-tiles and so +rigid with ire that she hardly limped at all. + +‘I have had so many things to do,’ began the priest, scared by this dumb +reception. ‘I have been running about all the morning.’ + +But she cut him short with another look, so fixed, so full of anger, +that he felt his legs give way under him. He sat down, and began to eat. +She waited on him in the sharp, mechanical manner of an automaton, all +but breaking the plates with the violence with which she set them down. +The silence became so awful that, choking with emotion, he was unable to +swallow his third mouthful. + +‘My sister has had her luncheon?’ he asked. ‘Quite right of her. +Luncheon should always be served whenever I am kept out.’ + +No answer came. La Teuse stood there waiting to remove his plate as +soon as he should have emptied it. Thereupon, feeling that he could +not possibly eat with those implacable eyes crushing him, he pushed his +plate away. This angry gesture acted on La Teuse like a whip stroke, +rousing her from her obstinate stiffness. She fairly jumped. + +‘Ah! that’s how it is!’ she exclaimed. ‘There you are again, losing your +temper! Very well, I am off; you can pay my fare, so that I may go back +home. I have had enough of Les Artaud, and your church, and everything +else!’ + +She took off her apron with trembling hands. + +‘You must have seen that I didn’t wish to say anything to you. A nice +life, indeed! Only mountebanks do such things, Monsieur le Curé! This +is eleven o’clock, ain’t it! Aren’t you ashamed of sitting at table when +it’s almost two o’clock? It’s not like a Christian, no, it is not like a +Christian!’ + +And, taking her stand before him, she went on: ‘Well, where do you come +from? whom have you seen? what business can have kept you? If only you +were a child you would have the whip. It isn’t the place for a priest to +be, on the roads in the blazing sun like a tramp without a roof to put +over his head. A fine state you are in, with your shoes all white and +your cassock smothered in dust! Who will brush your cassock for you? +Who will buy you another one? Speak out, will you; tell me what you have +been doing! My word! if everybody didn’t know you, they would end by +thinking queer things about you. And shall I tell you? Why, I won’t say +but what you may have been up to something wrong. When folks lunch at +such hours they are capable of anything!’ + +Abbé Mouret let the storm blow over him. At the old servant’s wrathful +words he experienced a kind of relief. + +‘Come, my good Teuse,’ he said, ‘you will first put your apron on +again.’ + +‘No, no,’ she cried, ‘it’s all over, I am going.’ + +But he got up and, laughing, tied her apron round her waist. She +struggled against him and stuttered: ‘I tell you no! You are a wheedler. +I can see through your game, I see you want to come it over me with your +honeyed words. Where did you go? We’ll see afterwards.’ + +He gaily sat down to table again like a man who has gained a victory. + +‘First, I must be allowed to eat. I am dying with hunger,’ said he. + +‘No doubt,’ she murmured, her pity moved. ‘Is there any common sense +in it? Would you like me to fry you a couple of eggs? It would not take +long. Well, if you have enough. But everything is cold! And I had taken +such pains with your aubergines! Nice they are now! They look like old +shoe-leather. Luckily you haven’t got a tender tooth like poor Monsieur +Caffin. Yes, you have some good points, I don’t deny it.’ + +Thus chattering, she waited on him with all a mother’s care. After he +had finished she ran to the kitchen to see if the coffee was still warm. +She frisked about and limped most outrageously in her delight at having +made things up with him. As a rule Abbé Mouret fought shy of coffee, +which always upset his nervous system; but on this occasion, to ratify +the conclusion of peace, he took the cup she brought him. And as he +lingered at table she sat down opposite him and repeated gently, like a +woman tortured by curiosity: + +‘Where have you been, Monsieur le Curé?’ + +‘Well,’ he answered with a smile, ‘I have seen the Brichets, I have +spoken to Bambousse.’ + +Thereupon he had to relate to her what the Brichets had said, what +Bambousse had decided, and how they looked, and where they were at work. +When he repeated to her the answer of Rosalie’s father, ‘Of course!’ she +exclaimed, ‘if the child should die her mishap would go for nothing.’ +And clasping her hands with a look of envious admiration she added, ‘How +you must have chattered, your reverence! More than half the day spent +to obtain such a fine result! You took it easy coming home? It must have +been very hot on the road?’ + +The Abbé, who by this time had risen, made no answer. He had been on +the point of speaking about the Paradou, and asking for some information +concerning it. But a fear of being flooded with eager questions, and a +kind of vague unavowed shame, made him keep silence respecting his visit +to Jeanbernat. He cut all further questions short by asking: + +‘Where is my sister? I don’t hear her.’ + +‘Come along, sir,’ said La Teuse, beginning to laugh, and raising her +finger to her lips. + +They went into the next room, a country drawing-room, hung with faded +wall-paper showing large grey flowers, and furnished with four armchairs +and a sofa, covered with horse-hair. On the sofa now slept Desirée, +stretched out at full length, with her head resting on her clenched +hands. The pronounced curve of her bosom was raised somewhat by her +upstretched arms, bare to the elbows. She was breathing somewhat +heavily, her red lips parted, and thus showing her teeth. + +‘Lord! isn’t she sleeping sound!’ whispered La Teuse. ‘She didn’t even +hear you pitching into me just now. Well, she must be precious tired. +Just fancy, she was cleaning up her yard till nearly noon. And when she +had eaten something, she came and dropped down there like a shot. She +has not stirred since.’ + +For a moment the priest gazed lovingly at her. ‘We must let her have as +much rest as she wants,’ he said. + +‘Of course. Isn’t it a pity she’s such an innocent? Just look at those +big arms! Whenever I dress her I always think what a fine woman she +would have made. Ay, she would have brought you some splendid +nephews, sir. Don’t you think she is like that stone lady in Plassans +corn-market?’ + +She spoke thus of a Cybele stretched upon sheaves of wheat, the work +of one of Puget’s pupils, which was carved on the frontal of the market +building. Without replying, however, Abbé Mouret gently pushed her out +of the room, and begged her to make as little noise as possible. Till +evening, therefore, perfect silence settled on the parsonage. La Teuse +finished her washing in the shed. The priest, seated at the bottom of +the little garden, his breviary fallen on his lap, remained absorbed +in pious thoughts, while all around him rosy petals rained from the +blossoming peach-trees. + + + + +XI + +About six o’clock there came a sudden wakening. A noise of doors opening +and closing, accompanied by bursts of laughter, shook the whole house. +Desirée appeared, her hair all down and her arms still half bare. + +‘Serge! Serge!’ she called. + +And catching sight of her brother in the garden, she ran up to him and +sat down for a minute on the ground at his feet, begging him to follow +her: + +‘Do come and see the animals! You haven’t seen the animals yet, have +you? If you only knew how beautiful they are now!’ + +She had to beg very hard, for the yard rather scared him. But when he +saw tears in Desirée’s eyes, he yielded. She threw herself on his neck +in a sudden puppy-like burst of glee, laughing more than ever, without +attempting to dry her cheeks. + +‘Oh! how nice you are!’ she stammered, as she dragged him off. ‘You +shall see the hens, the rabbits, the pigeons, and my ducks which have +got fresh water, and my goat, whose room is as clean as mine now. I have +three geese and two turkeys, you know. Come quick. You shall see all.’ + +Desirée was then twenty-two years old. Reared in the country by her +nurse, a peasant woman of Saint-Eutrope, she had grown up anyhow. Her +brain void of all serious thoughts, she had thriven on the fat soil +and open air of the country, developing physically but never mentally, +growing into a lovely animal--white, with rosy blood and firm skin. She +was not unlike a high-bred donkey endowed with the power of laughter. +Although she dabbled about from morning till night, her delicate hands +and feet, the supple outlines of her hips, the bourgeois refinement of +her maiden form remained unimpaired; so that she was in truth a creature +apart--neither lady nor peasant--but a girl nourished by the soil, with +the broad shoulders and narrow brow of a youthful goddess. + +Doubtless it was by reason of her weak intellect that she was drawn +towards animals. She was never happy save with them; she understood +their language far better than that of mankind, and looked after them +with motherly affection. Her reasoning powers were deficient, but +in lieu thereof she had an instinct which put her on a footing of +intelligence with them. At their very first cry of pain she knew what +ailed them; she would choose dainties upon which they would pounce +greedily. A single gesture from her quelled their squabbles. She seemed +to know their good or their evil character at a glance; and related +such long tales about the tiniest chick, with such an abundance and +minuteness of detail, as to astound those to whom one chicken was +exactly like any other. Her farmyard had thus become a country, as it +were, over which she reigned; a country complex in its organisation, +disturbed by rebellions, peopled by the most diverse creatures whose +records were known to her alone. So accurate was her instinct that she +detected the unfertile eggs in a sitting, and foretold the number of a +litter of rabbits. + +When, at sixteen, Desirée became a young woman, she retained all her +wonted health; and rapidly developed, with round, free-swaying bust, +broad hips like those of an antique statue, the full growth indeed of +a vigorous animal. One might have thought that she had sprung from the +rich soil of her poultry-yard, that she absorbed the sap with her sturdy +legs, which were as firm as young trees. And nought disturbed her +amidst all this plenitude. She found continuous satisfaction in being +surrounded by birds and animals which ever increased and multiplied, +their fruitfulness filling her with delight. Nothing could have been +healthier. She innocently feasted on the odour and warmth of life, +knowing no depraved curiosity, but retaining all the tranquillity of a +beautiful animal, simply happy at seeing her little world thus multiply, +feeling as if she thereby became a mother, the common natural mother of +one and all. + +Since she had been living at Les Artaud, she had spent her days in +complete beatitude. At last she was satisfying the dream of her life, +the only desire which had worried her amidst her weak-minded puerility. +She had a poultry-yard, a nook all to herself, where she could breed +animals to her heart’s content. And she almost lived there, building +rabbit-hutches with her own hands, digging out a pond for the ducks, +knocking in nails, fetching straw, allowing no one to assist her. All +that La Teuse had to do was to wash her afterwards. The poultry-yard was +situated behind the cemetery; and Desirée often had to jump the wall, +and run hither and thither among the graves after some fowl whom +curiosity had led astray. Right at the end was a shed giving +accommodation to the fowls and the rabbits; to the right was a little +stable for the goat. Moreover, all the animals lived together; the +rabbits ran about with the fowls, the nanny-goat would take a footbath +in the midst of the ducks; the geese, the turkeys, the guinea-fowls, +and the pigeons all fraternised in the company of three cats. Whenever +Desirée appeared at the wooden fence which prevented her charges from +making their way into the church, a deafening uproar greeted her. + +‘Eh! can’t you hear them?’ she said to her brother, as they reached the +dining-room door. + +But, when she had admitted him and closed the gate behind them, she was +assailed so violently that she almost disappeared. The ducks and the +geese, opening and shutting their beaks, tugged at her skirts; the +greedy hens sprang up and pecked her hands; the rabbits squatted on her +feet and then bounded up to her knees; whilst the three cats leapt upon +her shoulders, and the goat bleated in its stable at being unable to +reach her. + +‘Leave me alone, do! all you creatures!’ she cried with a hearty +sonorous laugh, feeling tickled by all the feathers, claws, and beaks +and paws rubbing against her. + +However, she did not attempt to free herself. As she often said, she +would have let herself be devoured; it seemed so sweet to feel all this +life cling to her and encompass her with the warmth of eider-down. At +last only one cat persisted in remaining on her back. + +‘It’s Moumou,’ she said. ‘His paws are like velvet.’ Then, calling her +brother’s attention to the yard, she proudly added: ‘See, how clean it +is!’ + +The yard had indeed been swept out, washed, and raked over. But the +disturbed water and the forked-up litter exhaled so fetid and powerful +an odour that Abbé Mouret half choked. The dung was heaped against the +graveyard wall in a huge smoking mound. + +‘What a pile, eh?’ continued Desirée, leading her brother into the +pungent vapour, ‘I put it all there myself, nobody helped me. Go on, it +isn’t dirty. It cleans. Look at my arms.’ + +As she spoke she held out her arms, which she had merely dipped into +a pail of water--regal arms they were, superbly rounded, blooming like +full white roses amidst the manure. + +‘Yes, yes,’ gently said the priest, ‘you have worked hard. It’s very +nice now.’ + +Then he turned towards the wicket, but she stopped him. + +‘Do wait a bit. You shall see them all. You have no idea--’ And so +saying, she dragged him to the rabbit house under the shed. + +‘There are young ones in all the hutches,’ she said, clapping her hands +in glee. + +Then at great length she proceeded to explain to him all about the +litters. He had to crouch down and come close to the wire netting, +whilst she gave him minute details. The mother does, with big restless +ears, eyed him askance, panting and motionless with fear. Then, in +one hutch, he saw a hairy cavity wherein crawled a living heap, an +indistinct dusky mass heaving like a single body. Close by some young +ones, with enormous heads, ventured to the edge of the hole. A little +farther were yet stronger ones, who looked like young rats, ferreting +and leaping about with their raised rumps showing their white scuts. +Others, white ones with pale ruby eyes, and black ones with jet eyes, +galloped round their hutches with playful grace. Now a scare would make +them bolt off swiftly, revealing at every leap their slender reddened +paws. Next they would squat down all in a heap, so closely packed that +their heads could no longer be seen. + +‘It is you they are frightened at,’ Desirée kept on saying. ‘They know +me well.’ + +She called them and drew some bread-crust from her pocket. The little +rabbits then became more confident, and, with puckered noses, kept +sidling up, and rearing against the netting one by one. She kept them +like that for a minute to show her brother the rosy down upon their +bellies, and then gave her crust to the boldest one. Upon this the whole +of them flocked up, sliding forward and squeezing one another, but never +quarreling. At one moment three little ones were all nibbling the same +piece of crust, but others darted away, turning to the wall so as to +eat in peace, while their mothers in the rear remained snuffing +distrustfully and refused the crusts. + +‘Oh! the greedy little things!’ exclaimed Desirée. ‘They would eat like +that till to-morrow morning! At night, even, you can bear them crunching +the leaves they have overlooked in the day-time.’ + +The priest had risen as if to depart, but she never wearied of smiling +on her dear little ones. + +‘You see the big one there, that’s all white, with black ears--Well! he +dotes on poppies. He is very clever at picking them out from the other +weeds. The other day he got the colic. So I took him and kept him warm +in my pocket. Since then he has been quite frisky.’ + +She poked her fingers through the wire netting and stroked the rabbits’ +backs. + +‘Wouldn’t you say it was satin?’ she continued. ‘They are dressed like +princes. And ain’t they coquettish! Look, there’s one who is always +cleaning himself. He wears the fur off his paws.... If only you knew how +funny they are! I say nothing, but I see all their little games. That +grey one looking at us, for instance, used to hate a little doe, which +I had to put somewhere else. There were terrible scenes between them. +It would take too long to tell you all, but the last time he gave her +a drubbing, when I came up in a rage, what do you think I saw? Why that +rascal huddled up at the back there as if he was just at his last gasp. +He wanted to make me believe that it was he who had to complain of her.’ + +Then Desirée paused to apostrophise the rabbit. ‘Yes, you may listen to +me; you’re a rogue!’ And turning towards her brother, ‘He understands +all I say,’ she added softly, with a wink. + +But Abbé Mouret could stand it no longer. He was perturbed by the heat +that emanated from the litters, the life that crawled under the hair +plucked from the does’ bellies, exhaling powerful emanations. On the +other hand, Desirée, as if slowly intoxicated, was growing brighter and +pinker. + +‘But there’s nothing to take you away!’ she cried; ‘you always seem +anxious to go off. You must see my little chicks! They were born last +night.’ + +She took some rice and threw a handful before her. The hen gravely drew +near, clucking to the little band of chickens that followed her chirping +and scampering as if in bewilderment. When they were fairly in the +middle of the scattered rice the hen eagerly pecked at it, and threw +down the grains she cracked, while her little ones hastily began to +feed. All the charm of infancy was theirs. Half-naked as it were, with +round heads, eyes sparkling like steel needles, beaks so queerly set, +and down so quaintly ruffled up, they looked like penny toys. Desirée +laughed with enjoyment at sight of them. + +‘What little loves they are!’ she stammered. + +She took up two of them, one in each hand, and smothered them with eager +kisses. And then the priest had to inspect them all over, while she +coolly said to him: + +‘It isn’t easy to tell the cocks. But I never make a mistake. This one +is a hen, and this one is a hen too.’ + +Then she set them on the ground again. Other hens were now coming up +to eat the rice. A large ruddy cock with flaming plumage followed them, +lifting his large feet with majestic caution. + +‘Alexander is getting splendid,’ said the Abbé, to please his sister. + +Alexander was the cock’s name. He looked up at the young girl with his +fiery eye, his head turned round, his tail outspread, and then installed +himself close by her skirts. + +‘He is very fond of me,’ she said. ‘Only I can touch him. He is a good +bird. There are fourteen hens, and never do I find a bad egg in the +nests. Do I, Alexander?’ + +She stooped; the bird did not fly from her caress. A rush of blood +seemed to set his comb aflame; flapping his wings, and stretching out +his neck, he burst into a long crow which rang out like a blast from a +brazen throat. Four times did he repeat his crow while all the cocks of +Les Artaud answered in the distance. Desirée was greatly amused by her +brother’s startled looks. + +‘He deafens one, eh?’ she said. ‘He has a splendid voice. But he’s +not vicious, I assure you, though the hens are--You remember the +big speckled one, that used to lay yellow eggs? Well, the day before +yesterday she hurt her foot. When the others saw the blood they went +quite mad. They all followed her, pecking at her and drinking her blood, +so that by the evening they had eaten up her foot. I found her with her +head behind a stone, like an idiot, saying nothing, and letting herself +be devoured.’ + +The remembrance of the fowls’ voracity made her laugh. She calmly +related other cruelties of theirs: young chickens devoured, of which she +had only found the necks and wings, and a litter of kittens eaten up in +the stable in a few hours. + +‘You might give them a human being,’ she continued, ‘they’d finish him. +And aren’t they tough livers! They get on with a broken limb even. They +may have wounds, big holes in their bodies, and still they’ll gobble +their victuals. That’s what I like them for; their flesh grows again +in two days; they are always as warm as if they had a store of sunshine +under their feathers. When I want to give them a treat, I cut them up +some raw meat. And worms too! Wait, you’ll see how they love them.’ + +She ran to the dungheap, and unhesitatingly picked up a worm she found +there. The fowls darted at her hands; but to amuse herself with the +sight of their greediness she held the worm high above them. At last +she opened her fingers, and forthwith the fowls hustled one another and +pounced upon the worm. One of them fled with it in her beak, pursued +by the others; it was thus taken, snatched away, and retaken many times +until one hen, with a mighty gulp, swallowed it altogether. At that +they all stopped short with heads thrown back, and eyes on the alert for +another worm. Desirée called them by their names, and talked pettingly +to them; while Abbé Mouret retreated a few steps from this display of +voracious life. + +‘No, I am not at all comfortable,’ he said to his sister, when she tried +to make him feel the weight of a fowl she was fattening. ‘It always +makes me uneasy to touch live animals.’ + +He tried to smile, but Desirée taxed him with cowardice. + +‘Ah well, what about my ducks, and geese, and turkeys?’ said she. ‘What +would you do if you had all those to look after? Ducks are dirty, if you +like. Do you hear them shaking their bills in the water? And when they +dive, you can only see their tails sticking straight up like ninepins. +Geese and turkeys, too, are not easy to manage. Isn’t it fun to see them +walking along with their long necks, some quite white and others quite +black? They look like ladies and gentlemen. And I wouldn’t advise you +to trust your finger to them. They would swallow it at a gulp. But my +fingers, they only kiss--see!’ + +Her words were cut short by a joyous bleat from the goat, which had at +last forced the door of the stable open. Two bounds and the animal was +close to her, bending its forelegs, and affectionately rubbing its horns +against her. To the priest, with its pointed beard and obliquely set +eyes, it seemed to wear a diabolical grin. But Desirée caught it round +the neck, kissed its head, played and ran with it, and talked about how +she liked to drink its milk. She often did so, she said, when she was +thirsty in the stable. + +‘See, it has plenty of milk,’ she added, pointing to the animal’s udder. + +The priest lowered his eyes. He could remember having once seen in +the cloister of Saint-Saturnin at Plassans a horrible stone gargoyle, +representing a goat and a monk; and ever since he had always looked on +goats as dissolute creatures of hell. His sister had only been allowed +to get one after weeks of begging. For his part, whenever he came to +the yard, he shunned all contact with the animal’s long silky coat, and +carefully guarded his cassock from the touch of its horns. + +‘All right, I’ll let you go now,’ said Desirée, becoming aware of his +growing discomfort. ‘But you must just let me show you something else +first. Promise not to scold me, won’t you? I have not said anything to +you about it, because you wouldn’t have allowed it.... But if you only +knew how pleased I am!’ + +As she spoke she put on an entreating expression, clasped her hands, and +laid her head upon her brother’s shoulder. + +‘Another piece of folly, no doubt,’ he murmured, unable to refrain from +smiling. + +‘You won’t mind, will you?’ she continued, her eyes glistening with +delight. ‘You won’t be angry?--He is so pretty!’ + +Thereupon she ran to open the low door under the shed, and forthwith a +little pig bounded into the middle of the yard. + +‘Oh! isn’t he a cherub?’ she exclaimed with a look of profound rapture +as she saw him leap out. + +The little pig was indeed charming, quite pink, his snout washed clean +by the greasy slops placed before him, though incessant routing in his +trough had left a ring of dirt about his eyes. He trotted about, hustled +the fowls, rushing to gobble up whatever was thrown them, and upsetting +the little yard with his sudden turns and twists. His ears flapped over +his eyes, his snout went snorting over the ground, and with his slender +feet he resembled a toy animal on wheels. From behind, his tail looked +like a bit of string that served to hang him up by. + +‘I won’t have this beast here!’ exclaimed the priest, terribly put out. + +‘Oh, Serge, dear old Serge,’ begged Desirée again, ‘don’t be so unkind. +See, what a harmless little thing he is! I’ll wash him, I’ll keep him +very clean. La Teuse went and had him given her for me. We can’t send +him back now. See, he is looking at you; he wants to smell you. Don’t be +afraid, he won’t eat you.’ + +But she broke off, seized with irresistible laughter. The little pig had +blundered in a dazed fashion between the goat’s legs, and tripped her +up. And he was now madly careering round, squeaking, rolling, scaring +all the denizens of the poultry-yard. To quiet him Desirée had to get +him an earthen pan full of dish-water. In this he wallowed up to his +ears, splashing and grunting, while quick quivers of delight coursed +over his rosy skin. And now his uncurled tail hung limply down. + +The stirring of this foul water put a crowning touch to Abbé Mouret’s +disgust. Ever since he had been there, he had choked more and more; his +hands and chest and face were afire, and he felt quite giddy. The odour +of the fowls and rabbits, the goat, and the pig, all mingled in one +pestilential stench. The atmosphere, laden with the ferments of life, +was too heavy for his maiden shoulders. And it seemed to him that +Desirée had grown taller, expanding at the hips, waving huge arms, +sweeping the ground with her skirts, and stirring up all that powerful +odour which overpowered him. He had only just time to open the wicket. +His feet clung to the stone flags still dank with manure, in such wise +that it seemed as if he were held there by some clasp of the soil. +And suddenly, despite himself, there came back to him a memory of +the Paradou, with its huge trees, its black shadows, its penetrating +perfumes. + +‘There, you are quite red now,’ Desirée said to him as she joined him +outside the wicket. ‘Aren’t you pleased to have seen everything? Do you +hear the noise they are making?’ + +On seeing her depart, the birds and animals had thrown themselves +against the trellis work emitting piteous cries. The little pig, +especially, gave vent to prolonged whines that suggested the sharpening +of a saw. Desirée, however, curtsied to them and kissed her finger-tips +to them, laughing at seeing them all huddled together there, like so +many lovers of hers. Then, hugging her brother, as she accompanied him +to the garden, she whispered into his ear with a blush: ‘I should so +like a cow.’ + +He looked at her, with a ready gesture of disapproval. + +‘No, no, not now,’ she hurriedly went on. ‘We’ll talk about it again +later on---- But there would be room in the stable. A lovely white cow +with red spots. You’d soon see what nice milk we should have. A goat +becomes too little in the end. And when the cow has a calf!’ + +At the mere thought of this she skipped and clapped her hands with glee; +and to the priest she seemed to have brought the poultry-yard away with +her in her skirts. So he left her at the end of the garden, sitting in +the sunlight on the ground before a hive, whence the bees buzzed like +golden berries round her neck, along her bare arms and in her hair, +without thought of stinging her. + + + + +XII + +Brother Archangias dined at the parsonage every Thursday. As a rule he +came early so as to talk over parish matters. It was he who, for the +last three months, had kept the Abbé informed of all the affairs of the +valley. That Thursday, while waiting till La Teuse should call them, +they strolled about in front of the church. The priest, on relating his +interview with Bambousse, was surprised to find that the Brother thought +the peasant’s reply quite natural. + +‘The man’s right,’ said the Ignorantin.* ‘You don’t give away chattels +like that. Rosalie is no great bargain, but it’s always hard to see your +own daughter throw herself away on a pauper.’ + + * A popular name in France for a Christian Brother.--ED. + +‘Still,’ rejoined Abbé Mouret, ‘a marriage is the only way of stopping +the scandal.’ + +The Brother shrugged his big shoulders and laughed aggravatingly. +‘Do you think you’ll cure the neighbourhood with that marriage?’ he +exclaimed. ‘Before another two years Catherine will be following her +sister’s example. They all go the same way, and as they end by marrying, +they snap their fingers at every one. These Artauds flourish in it all, +as on a congenial dungheap. There is only one possible remedy, as I +have told you before: wring all the girls’ necks if you don’t want the +country to be poisoned. No husbands, Monsieur le Curé, but a good thick +stick!’ + +Then calming down a bit, he added: ‘Let every one do with their own as +they think best.’ + +He went on to speak about fixing the hours for the catechism classes; +but Abbé Mouret replied in an absent-minded way, his eyes dwelling on +the village at his feet in the setting sun. The peasants were wending +their way homewards, silently and slowly, with the dragging steps of +wearied oxen returning to their sheds. Before the tumble-down houses +stood women calling to one another, carrying on bawling conversations +from door to door, while bands of children filled the roadway with the +riot of their big clumsy shoes, grovelling and rolling and pushing +each other about. A bestial odour ascended from that heap of tottering +houses, and the priest once more fancied himself in Desirée’s +poultry-yard, where life ever increased and multiplied. Here, too, was +the same incessant travail, which so disturbed him. Since morning his +mind had been running on that episode of Rosalie and Fortune, and now +his thoughts returned to it, to the foul features of existence, the +incessant, fated task of Nature, which sowed men broadcast like grains +of wheat. The Artauds were a herd penned in between four ranges of +hills, increasing, multiplying, spreading more and more thickly over the +land with each successive generation. + +‘See,’ cried Brother Archangias, interrupting his discourse to point +to a tall girl who was letting her sweetheart snatch a kiss, ‘there is +another hussy over there!’ + +He shook his long black arms at the couple and made them flee. In the +distance, over the crimson fields and the peeling rocks, the sun was +dying in one last flare. Night gradually came on. The warm fragrance +of the lavender became cooler on the wings of the light evening breeze +which now arose. From time to time a deep sigh fell on the ear as if +that fearful land, consumed by ardent passions, had at length grown +calm under the soft grey rain of twilight. Abbé Mouret, hat in hand, +delighted with the coolness, once more felt quietude descend upon him. + +‘Monsieur le Curé! Brother Archangias!’ cried La Teuse. ‘Come quick! The +soup is on the table.’ + +It was cabbage soup, and its odoriferous steam filled the parsonage +dining-room. The Brother seated himself and fell to, slowly emptying the +huge plate that La Teuse had put down before him. He was a big eater, +and clucked his tongue as each mouthful descended audibly into his +stomach. Keeping his eyes on his spoon, he did not speak a word. + +‘Isn’t my soup good, then, Monsieur le Curé?’ the old servant asked the +priest. ‘You are only fiddling with your plate.’ + +‘I am not a bit hungry, my good Teuse,’ Serge replied, smiling. + +‘Well! how can one wonder at it when you go on as you do! But you would +have been hungry, if you hadn’t lunched at past two o’clock.’ + +Brother Archangias, tilting into his spoon the last few drops of soup +remaining in his plate, said gravely: ‘You should be regular in your +meals, Monsieur le Curé.’ + +At this moment Desirée, who also had finished her soup, sedately and in +silence, rose and followed La Teuse to the kitchen. The Brother, then +left alone with Abbé Mouret, cut himself some long strips of bread, +which he ate while waiting for the next dish. + +‘So you made a long round to-day?’ he asked the priest. But before +the other could reply a noise of footsteps, exclamations, and ringing +laughter, arose at the end of the passage, in the direction of the yard. +A short altercation apparently took place. A flute-like voice which +disturbed the Abbé rose in vexed and hurried accents, which finally died +away in a burst of glee. + +‘What can it be?’ said Serge, rising from his chair. + +But Desirée bounded in again, carrying something hidden in her +gathered-up skirt. And she burst out excitedly: ‘Isn’t she queer? She +wouldn’t come in at all. I caught hold of her dress; but she is awfully +strong; she soon got away from me.’ + +‘Whom on earth is she talking about?’ asked La Teuse, running in from +the kitchen with a dish of potatoes, across which lay a piece of bacon. + +The girl sat down, and with the greatest caution drew from her skirt a +blackbird’s nest in which three wee fledglings were slumbering. She +laid it on her plate. The moment the little birds felt the light, they +stretched out their feeble necks and opened their crimson beaks to ask +for food. Desirée clapped her hands, enchanted, seized with strange +emotion at the sight of these hitherto unknown creatures. + +‘It’s that Paradou girl!’ exclaimed the Abbé suddenly, remembering +everything. + +La Teuse had gone to the window. ‘So it is,’ she said. ‘I might have +known that grasshopper’s voice---- Oh! the gipsy! Look, she’s stopped +there to spy on us.’ + +Abbé Mouret drew near. He, too, thought that he could see Albine’s +orange-coloured skirt behind a juniper bush. But Brother Archangias, in +a towering passion, raised himself on tiptoe behind him, and, stretching +out his fist and wagging his churlish head, thundered forth: ‘May the +devil take you, you brigand’s daughter! I will drag you right round the +church by your hair if ever I catch you coming and casting your evil +spells here!’ + +A peal of laughter, fresh as the breath of night, rang out from the +path, followed by light hasty footsteps and the swish of a dress +rustling through the grass like an adder. Abbé Mouret, standing at +the window, saw something golden glide through the pine trees like a +moonbeam. The breeze, wafted in from the open country, was now laden +with that penetrating perfume of verdure, that scent of wildflowers, +which Albine had scattered from her bare arms, unfettered bosom, and +streaming tresses at the Paradou. + +‘An accursed soul! a child of perdition!’ growled Brother Archangias, +as he reseated himself at the dinner table. He fell greedily upon his +bacon, and swallowed his potatoes whole instead of bread. La Teuse, +however, could not persuade Desirée to finish her dinner. That big baby +was lost in ecstasy over the nestlings, asking questions, wanting to +know what food they ate, if they laid eggs, and how the cockbirds could +be known. + +The old servant, however, was troubled by a suspicion, and taking her +stand on her sound leg, she looked the young curé in the face. + +‘So you know the Paradou people?’ she said. + +Thereupon he simply told the truth, relating the visit he had paid to +old Jeanbernat. La Teuse exchanged scandalised glances with Brother +Archangias. At first she answered nothing, but went round and round the +table, limping frantically and stamping hard enough with her heels to +split the flooring. + +‘You might have spoken to me of those people these three months past,’ +said the priest at last. ‘I should have known at any rate what sort of +people I was going to call upon.’ + +La Teuse stopped short as if her legs had just broken. + +‘Don’t tell falsehoods, Monsieur le Curé,’ she stuttered, ‘don’t tell +them; you will only make your sin still worse. How dare you say I +haven’t spoken to you of the Philosopher, that heathen who is the +scandal of the whole neighbourhood? The truth is, you never listen to me +when I talk. It all goes in at one ear and out at the other. Ah, if you +did listen to me, you’d spare yourself a good deal of trouble!’ + +‘I, too, have spoken to you about those abominations,’ affirmed the +Brother. + +Abbé Mouret lightly shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I didn’t remember +it,’ he said. It was only when I found myself at the Paradou that I +fancied I recollected certain tales. Besides, I should have gone to that +unhappy man all the same as I thought him in danger of death.’ + +Brother Archangias, his mouth full, struck the table violently with his +knife, and roared: ‘Jeanbernat is a dog; he ought to die like a dog.’ +Then seeing the priest about to protest he cut him short: ‘No, no, for +him there is no God, no penitence, no mercy. It would be better to throw +the host to the pigs than carry it to that scoundrel.’ + +Then he helped himself to more potatoes, and with his elbows on the +table, his chin in his plate, began chewing furiously. La Teuse, her +lips pinched, quite white with anger, contented herself with saying +dryly: ‘Let it be, his reverence will have his own way. He has secrets +from us now.’ + +Silence reigned. For a moment one only heard the working of Brother +Archangias’s jaws, and the extraordinary rumbling of his gullet. +Desirée, with her bare arms round the nest in her plate, smiled to the +little ones, talking to them slowly and softly in a chirruping of her +own which they seemed to understand. + +‘People say what they have done when they have nothing to hide,’ +suddenly cried La Teuse. + +And then silence reigned again. What exasperated the old servant was the +mystery the priest seemed to make about his visit to the Paradou. She +deemed herself a woman who had been shamefully deceived. Her curiosity +smarted. She again walked round the table, not looking at the Abbé, not +addressing anybody, but comforting herself with soliloquy. + +‘That’s it; that’s why we have lunch so late! We go gadding about till +two o’clock in the afternoon. We go into such disreputable houses that +we don’t even dare to tell what we’ve done. And then we tell lies, we +deceive everybody.’ + +‘But nobody,’ gently interrupted Abbé Mouret, who was forcing himself to +eat a little more, so as to prevent La Teuse from getting crosser than +ever, ‘nobody asked me if I had been to the Paradou. I have not had to +tell any lies.’ + +La Teuse, however, went on as if she had never heard him. + +‘Yes, we go ruining our cassock in the dust, we come home rigged up like +a thief. And if some kind person takes an interest in us, and +questions us for our own good, we push her about and treat her like +a good-for-nothing woman, whom we can’t trust. We hide things like +a slyboots, we’d rather die than breathe a word; we’re not even +considerate enough to enliven our home by relating what we’ve seen.’ + +She turned to the priest, and looked him full in the face. + +‘Yes, you take that to yourself. You are a close one, you’re a bad man!’ + +Thereupon she fell to crying and the Abbé had to soothe her. + +‘Monsieur Caffin used to tell me everything,’ she moaned out. + +However, she soon grew calmer. Brother Archangias was finishing a big +piece of cheese, apparently quite unruffled by the scene. In his opinion +Abbé Mouret really needed being kept straight, and La Teuse was right +in making him feel the reins. Having drunk a last glassful of the weak +wine, the Brother threw himself back in his chair to digest his meal. + +‘Well now,’ finally asked the old servant, ‘what did you see at the +Paradou? Tell us, at any rate.’ + +Abbé Mouret smiled and related in a few words how strangely Jeanbernat +had received him. La Teuse, after overwhelming him with questions, broke +out into indignant exclamations, while Brother Archangias clenched his +fists and brandished them aloft. + +‘May Heaven crush him!’ said he, ‘and burn both him and his witch!’ + +In his turn the Abbé then endeavoured to elicit some fresh particulars +about the people at the Paradou, and listened intently to the Brother’s +monstrous narrative. + +‘Yes, that little she-devil came and sat down in the school. It’s a long +time ago now, she might then have been about ten. Of course, I let +her come; I thought her uncle was sending her to prepare for her first +communion. But for two months she utterly revolutionised the whole +class. She made herself worshipped, the minx! She knew all sorts of +games, and invented all sorts of finery with leaves and shreds of rags. +And how quick and clever she was, too, like all those children of hell! +She was the top one at catechism. But one fine morning the old man burst +in just in the middle of our lessons. He was going to smash everything, +and shouted that the priests had taken his child from him. We had to get +the rural policeman to turn him out. As to the little one, she bolted. +I could see her through the window, in a field opposite, laughing at her +uncle’s frenzy. She had been coming to school for the last two months +without his even suspecting it. He had regularly scoured the country +after her.’ + +‘She’s never taken her first communion,’ exclaimed La Teuse below her +breath with a slight shudder. + +‘No, never,’ rejoined Brother Archangias. ‘She must be sixteen now. +She’s growing up like a brute beast. I have seen her running on all +fours in a thicket near La Palud.’ + +‘On all fours,’ muttered the servant, turning towards the window with +superstitious anxiety. + +Abbé Mouret attempted to express some doubt, but the Brother burst out: +‘Yes, on all fours! And she jumped like a wild cat. If I had only had +a gun I could have put a bullet in her. We kill creatures that are far +more pleasing to God than she is. Besides, every one knows she comes +caterwauling every night round Les Artaud. She howls like a beast. If +ever a man should fall into her clutches, she wouldn’t leave him a scrap +of skin on his bones, I know.’ + +The Brother’s hatred of womankind was boiling over. He banged the table +with his fist, and poured forth all his wonted abuse. + +‘The devil’s in them. They reek of the devil! And that’s what bewitches +fools.’ + +The priest nodded approvingly. Brother Archangias’s outrageous violence +and La Teuse’s loquacious tyranny were like castigation with thongs, +which it often rejoiced him to find lashing his shoulders. He took a +pious delight in sinking into abasement beneath their coarse speech. +He seemed to see the peace of heaven behind contempt of the world +and degradation of his whole being. It was delicious to inflict +mortification upon his body, to drag his susceptible nature through a +gutter. + +‘There is nought but filth,’ he muttered as he folded up his napkin. + +La Teuse began to clear the table and wished to remove the plate on +which Desirée had laid the blackbird’s nest. You are not going to bed +here, I suppose, mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘Do leave those nasty things.’ + +Desirée, however, defended her plate. She covered the nest with her bare +arms, no longer gay, but cross at being disturbed. + +‘I hope those birds are not going to be kept,’ exclaimed Brother +Archangias. ‘It would bring bad luck. You must wring their necks.’ + +And he already stretched out his big hands; but the girl rose and +stepped back quivering, hugging the nest to her bosom. She stared +fixedly at the Brother, her lips curling upwards, like those of a wolf +about to bite. + +‘Don’t touch the little things,’ she stammered. ‘You are ugly.’ + +With such singular contempt did she emphasise that last word that Abbé +Mouret started as if the Brother’s ugliness had just struck him for the +first time. The latter contented himself with growling. He had always +felt a covert hatred for Desirée, whose lusty physical development +offended him. When she had left the room, still walking backwards, and +never taking her eyes from him, he shrugged his shoulders and muttered +between his teeth some coarse abuse which no one heard. + +‘She had better go to bed,’ said La Teuse. ‘She would only bore us +by-and-by in church.’ + +‘Has any one come yet?’ asked Abbé Mouret. + +‘Oh, the girls have been outside a long time with armfuls of boughs. I +am just going to light the lamps. We can begin whenever you like.’ + +A few seconds later she could be heard swearing in the sacristy because +the matches were damp. Brother Archangias, who remained alone with the +priest, sourly inquired: ‘For the month of Mary, eh?’ + +‘Yes,’ replied Abbé Mouret. ‘The last few days the girls about here were +hard at work and couldn’t come as usual to decorate the Lady Chapel. So +the ceremony was postponed till to-night.’ + +‘A nice custom,’ muttered the Brother. ‘When I see them all putting up +their boughs I feel inclined to knock them down and make them confess +their misdeeds before touching the altar. It’s a shame to allow women to +rustle their dresses so near the holy relics.’ + +The Abbé made an apologetic gesture. He had only been at Les Artaud a +little while, he must follow the customs. + +‘Whenever you like, Monsieur le Curé, we’re ready!’ now called out La +Teuse. + +But Brother Archangias detained him a minute. ‘I am off,’ he said. +‘Religion isn’t a prostitute that it should be decorated with flowers +and laces.’ + +He walked slowly to the door. Then once more he stopped, and lifting one +of his hairy fingers added: ‘Beware of your devotion to the Virgin.’ + + + + +XIII + +On entering the church Abbé Mouret found nine or ten big girls awaiting +him with boughs of ivy, laurel, and rosemary. Few garden flowers grew +on the rocks of Les Artaud, so the custom was to decorate the Lady altar +with a greenery which might last throughout the month of May. Thereto +La Teuse would add a few wallflowers whose stems were thrust into old +decanters. + +‘Will you let me do it, Monsieur le Curé?’ she asked. ‘You are not used +to it---- Come, stand there in front of the altar. You can tell me if +the decorations please you.’ + +He consented, and it was she who really directed the arrangements. +Having climbed upon a pair of steps she bullied the girls as they came +up to her in turn with their leafy contributions. + +‘Not so fast, now! You must give me time to fix the boughs. We can’t +have all these bundles coming down on his reverence’s head---- Come on, +Babet, it’s your turn. What’s the good of staring at me like that with +your big eyes? Fine rosemary yours is, my word! as yellow as a thistle. +You next, La Rousse. Ah, well, that is splendid laurel! You got that out +of your field at Croix-Verte, I know.’ + +The big girls laid their branches on the altar, which they kissed; and +there they lingered for a while, handing up the greenery to La Teuse. +The sly look of devotion they had assumed on stepping on to the altar +steps was quickly set aside, and soon they were laughing, digging each +other with their knees, swaying their hips against the altar’s edge, and +thrusting their bosoms against the tabernacle itself. Over them the tall +Virgin in gilded plaster bent her tinted face, and smiled with her rosy +lips upon the naked Jesus she bore upon her left arm. + +‘That’s it, Lisa!’ cried La Teuse; ‘why don’t you sit on the altar while +you’re about it? Just pull your petticoats straight, will you? Aren’t +you ashamed of behaving like that?--If any one of you lolls about I’ll +lay her boughs across her face.--Can’t you hand me the things quietly?’ + +Then turning round, she asked: + +‘Do you like it, sir? Do you think it will do?’ + +She had converted the space behind the Virgin’s statue into a verdant +niche, whence leafy sprays projected on either side, forming a bower, +and drooping over in front like palm leaves. The priest expressed his +approval, but ventured to remark: ‘I think there ought to be a cluster +of more delicate foliage up above.’ + +‘No doubt,’ grumbled La Teuse. ‘But they only bring me laurel and +rosemary--I should like to know who has brought an olive branch. Not +one, you bet! They are afraid of losing a single olive, the heathens!’ + +At this, however, Catherine came up laden with an enormous olive bough +which completely hid her. + +‘Oh, you’ve got some, you minx!’ continued the old servant. + +‘Of course,’ one of the other girls exclaimed, ‘she stole it. I saw +Vincent breaking it off while she kept a look-out.’ + +But Catherine flew into a rage and swore it was not true. She turned, +and thrusting her auburn head through the greenery, which she still +tightly held, she started lying with marvellous assurance, inventing +quite a long story to prove that the olive bough was really hers. + +‘Besides,’ she added, ‘all the trees belong to the Blessed Virgin.’ + +Abbé Mouret was about to intervene, but La Teuse sharply inquired if +they wanted to make game of her and keep her arms up there all night. +At last she proceeded to fasten the olive bough firmly, while Catherine, +holding on to the steps behind her, mimicked the clumsy manner in which +she turned her huge person about with the help of her sound leg. Even +the priest could not forbear to smile. + +‘There,’ said La Teuse, as she came down and stood beside him to get +a good view of her work, ‘there’s the top done. Now we will put some +clumps between the candlesticks, unless you would prefer a garland all +along the altar shelf.’ + +The priest decided in favour of some big clumps. + +‘Very good; come on, then,’ continued the old servant, once more +clambering up the steps. ‘We can’t go to bed here. Just kiss the altar, +will you, Miette? Do you fancy you are in your stable? Monsieur le Curé, +do just see what they are up to over there! I can hear them laughing +like lunatics.’ + +On raising one of the two lamps the dark end of the church was lit up +and three of the girls were discovered romping about under the gallery; +one of them had stumbled and pitched head foremost into the holy water +stoup, which mishap had so tickled the others that they were rolling on +the ground to laugh at their ease. They all came back, however, looking +at the priest sheepishly, with lowered eyelids, but with their hands +swinging against their hips as if a scolding rather pleased them than +otherwise. + +However, the measure of La Teuse’s wrath was filled when she suddenly +perceived Rosalie coming up to the altar like the others with a bundle +of boughs in her arms. + +‘Get down, will you?’ she cried to her. ‘You are a cool one, and no +mistake, my lass!--Hurry up, off you go with your bundle.’ + +‘What for, I’d like to know?’ said Rosalie boldly. ‘You can’t say I have +stolen it.’ + +The other girls drew closer, feigning innocence and exchanging sparkling +glances. + +‘Clear out,’ repeated La Teuse, ‘you have no business here, do you +hear?’ + +Then, quite losing her scanty patience, she gave vent to a very coarse +epithet, which provoked a titter of delight among the peasant girls. + +‘Well, what next?’ said Rosalie. ‘Mind your own business. Is it any +concern of yours?’ + +Then she burst into a fit of sobbing and threw down her boughs, but let +the Abbé lead her aside and give her a severe lecture. He had already +tried to silence La Teuse; for he was beginning to feel uneasy amidst +the big shameless hussies who filled the church with their armfuls of +foliage. They were pushing right up to the altar step, enclosing him +with a belt of woodland, wafting in his face a rank perfume of aromatic +shoots. + +‘Let us make haste, be quick!’ he exclaimed, clapping his hands lightly. + +‘Goodness knows I would rather be in my bed,’ grumbled La Teuse. ‘It’s +not so easy as you think to fasten all these bits of stuff.’ + +Finally, however, she succeeded in setting some lofty plumes of foliage +between the candlesticks. Next she folded the steps, which were laid +behind the high altar by Catherine. And then she only had to arrange +two clumps of greenery at the sides of the altar table. The last boughs +sufficed for this, and indeed there were some left which the girls +strewed over the sanctuary floor up to the wooden rails. The Lady altar +now looked like a grove, a shrubbery with a verdant lawn before it. + +At present La Teuse was willing to make way for Abbé Mouret, who +ascended the altar steps, and, again lightly clapping his hands, +exclaimed: ‘Young ladies, to-morrow we will continue the devotions of +the month of Mary. Those who may be unable to come ought at least to say +their Rosary at home.’ + +He knelt, and the peasant girls, with a mighty rustle of skirts, sank +down and settled themselves on their heels. They followed his prayer +with a confused muttering, through which burst here and there a giggle. +One of them, on being pinched from behind, burst into a scream, which +she attempted to stifle with a sudden fit of coughing; and this so +diverted the others that for a moment after the Amen they remained +writhing with merriment, their noses close to the stone flags. + +La Teuse dismissed them; while the priest, after crossing himself, +remained absorbed before the altar, no longer hearing what went on +behind him. + +‘Come, now, clear out,’ muttered the old woman. ‘You’re a pack of +good-for-nothings, who can’t even respect God. It’s shameful, it’s +unheard of, for girls to roll about on the floor in church like beasts +in a meadow---- What are you doing there, La Rousse? If I see you +pinching any one, you’ll have to deal with me! Oh, yes, you may put out +your tongue at me; I’ll tell his reverence about it. Out you get; out +you get, you minxes!’ + +She drove them slowly towards the door, while running and bobbling round +them frantically. And she had succeeded, as she thought, in getting +every one of them outside, when she caught sight of Catherine and +Vincent calmly installed in the confessional, where they were eating +something with an air of great enjoyment. She drove them away; and as +she popped her head outside the church, before closing the door, she +espied Rosalie throwing her arm over the shoulder of Fortune, who had +been waiting for her. The pair of them vanished in the darkness amid a +faint sound of kisses. + +‘To think that such creatures dare to come to our Lady’s altar!’ La +Teuse stuttered as she shot the bolts. ‘The others are no better, I am +sure. If they came to-night with their boughs, it was only for a bit of +fun and to get kissed by the lads on going off! Not one of them will +put herself out of the way to-morrow; his reverence will have to say +his _Aves_ by himself---- We shall only see the jades who have got +assignations.’ + +Thus soliloquising, she thrust the chairs back into their places, and +looked round to see if anything suspicious was lying about before +going off to bed. In the confessional she picked up a handful of +apple-parings, which she threw behind the high altar. And she also found +a bit of ribbon torn from some cap, and a lock of black hair, which she +made up into a small parcel, with the view of opening an inquiry into +the matter. With these exceptions the church seemed to her tidy. There +was oil enough for the night in the bracket-lamp of the sanctuary, +and as to the flags of the choir, they could do without washing till +Saturday. + +‘It’s nearly ten o’clock, Monsieur le Curé,’ she said, drawing near the +priest, who was still on his knees. ‘You might as well come up now.’ + +He made no answer, but only bowed his head. + +‘All right, I know what that means,’ continued La Teuse. ‘In +another hour he will still be on the stones there, giving himself a +stomach-ache. I’m off, as I shall only bore him. All the same, I can’t +see much sense in it, eating one’s lunch when others are at dinner, +and going to bed when the fowls get up!---- I worry you, don’t I, your +reverence? Good-night. You’re not at all reasonable!’ + +She made ready to go, but suddenly came back to put out one of the two +lamps, muttering the while that such late prayers spelt ruination in +oil. Then, at last, she did go off, after passing her sleeve brushwise +over the cloth of the high altar, which seemed to her grey with dust. +Abbé Mouret, his eyes uplifted, his arms tightly clasped against his +breast, then remained alone. + + + + +XIV + +With only one lamp burning amid the verdure on the altar of the Virgin, +huge floating shadows filled the church at either end. From the pulpit a +sheet of gloom projected to the rafters of the ceiling. The confessional +looked quite black under the gallery, showing strange outlines +suggestive of a ruined sentry-box. All the light, softened and tinted as +it were by the green foliage, rested slumberingly upon the tall gilded +Virgin, who seemed to descend with queenly mien, borne upon the cloud +round which gambolled the winged cherubim. At sight of that round lamp +gleaming amid the boughs one might have thought the pallid moon +was rising on the verge of a wood, casting its light upon a regal +apparition, a princess of heaven, crowned and clothed with gold, who +with her nude and Divine Infant had come to stroll in the mysterious +woodland avenues. Between the leaves, along the lofty plumes of +greenery, within the large ogival arbour, and even along the branches +strewing the flagstones, star-like beams glided drowsily, like the milky +rain of light that filters through the bushes on moonlit nights. Vague +sounds and creakings came from the dusky ends of the church; the +large clock on the left of the chancel throbbed slowly, with the heavy +breathing of a machine asleep. And the radiant vision, the Mother with +slender bands of chestnut hair, as if reassured by the nocturnal quiet +of the nave, came lower and lower, scarce bending the blades of grass in +the clearings beneath the gentle flight of her cloudy chariot. + +Abbé Mouret gazed at her. This was the hour when he most loved the +church. He forgot the woeful figure on the cross, the Victim bedaubed +with carmine and ochre, who gasped out His life behind him, in the +chapel of the Dead. His thoughts were no longer distracted by the garish +light from the windows, by the gayness of morning coming in with the +sun, by the irruption of outdoor life--the sparrows and the boughs +invading the nave through the shattered panes. At that hour of night +Nature was dead; shadows hung the whitewashed walls with crape; a chill +fell upon his shoulders like a salutary penance-shirt. He could now +wholly surrender himself to the supremest love, without fear of any +flickering ray of light, any caressing breeze or scent, any buzzing of +an insect’s wing disturbing him amidst the delight of loving. Never +had his morning mass afforded him the superhuman joys of his nightly +prayers. + +With quivering lips Abbé Mouret now gazed at the tall Virgin. He +could see her coming towards him from the depths of her green bower in +ever-increasing splendour. No longer did a flood of moonlight seem to +float across the tree-tops. She seemed to him clothed with the sun; she +advanced majestically, glorious, colossal, and so all-powerful that he +was tempted at times to cast himself face downwards to shun the flaming +splendour of that gate opening into heaven. Then, amidst the adoration +of his whole being, which stayed his words upon his lips, he remembered +Brother Archangias’s final rebuke, as he might have remembered words +of blasphemy. The Brother often reproved him for his devotion to the +Virgin, which he declared was veritable robbery of devotion due to +God. In the Brother’s opinion it enervated the soul, put religion +into petticoats, created and fostered a state of sentimentalism quite +unworthy of the strong. He bore the Virgin a grudge for her womanhood, +her beauty, her maternity; he was ever on his guard against her, +possessed by a covert fear of feeling tempted by her gracious mien, of +succumbing to her seductive sweetness. ‘She will lead you far!’ he had +cried one day to the young priest, for in her he saw the commencement +of human passion. From contemplating her one might glide to delight in +lovely chestnut hair, in large bright eyes, and the mystery of garments +falling from neck to toes. His was the blunt rebellion of a saint who +roughly parted the Mother from the Son, asking as He did: ‘Woman, what +have we in common, thou and I?’ + +But Abbé Mouret thrust away such thoughts, prostrated himself, +endeavoured to forget the Brother’s harsh attacks. His rapture in the +immaculate purity of Mary alone raised him from the depths of lowliness +in which he sought to bury himself. Whenever, alone before the tall +golden Virgin, he so deceived himself as to imagine that he could see +her bending down for him to kiss her braided locks, he once more became +very young, very good, very strong, very just, full of tenderness. + +Abbé Mouret’s devotion to the Virgin dated from his early youth. Already +when he was quite a child, somewhat shy and fond of shrinking into +corners, he took pleasure in the thought that a lovely lady was watching +over him: that two blue eyes, so sweet, ever followed him with their +smile. When he felt at night a breath of air glide across his hair, he +would often say that the Virgin had come to kiss him. He had grown up +beneath this womanly caress, in an atmosphere full of the rustle of +divine robes. From the age of seven he had satisfied the cravings of his +affection by expending all the pence he received as pocket money in the +purchase of pious picture-cards, which he jealously concealed that he +alone might feast on them. But never was he tempted by the pictures of +Jesus and the Lamb, of Christ on the Cross, of God the Father, with a +mighty beard, stooping over a bank of clouds; his preference was always +for the winning portraits of Mary, with her tiny smiling mouth and +delicate outstretched hands. By degrees he had made quite a collection +of them all--of Mary between a lily and a distaff, Mary carrying her +child as if she were his elder sister, Mary crowned with roses, and +Mary crowned with stars. For him they formed a family of lovely young +maidens, alike in their attractiveness, in the grace, kindliness, and +sweetness of their countenances, so youthful beneath their veils, that +although they bore the name of ‘Mother of God,’ he had felt no awe of +them as he had often felt for grown-up persons. + +They seemed to him of his own age, little girls such as he wished to +meet with, little girls of heaven such as the little boys who die when +seven years old have for eternal playmates in some nook of Paradise. But +even at this early age he was self-contained; and full of the exquisite +bashfulness of adolescence he grew up without betraying the secret of +his religious love. Mary grew up with him, being invariably a year or +two older than himself, as should always be the case with one’s chiefest +friend. When he was eighteen, she was twenty; she no longer kissed his +forehead at night time, but stood a little further from him with folded +arms, chastely smiling, ravishingly sweet. And he--he only named her now +in a whisper, feeling as if he would faint each time the well-loved name +passed his lips in prayer. No more did he dream of childish games within +the garden of heaven, but of continual contemplation before that white +figure, whose perfect purity he feared to sully with his breath. Even +from his own mother did he conceal the fervour of his love for Mary. + +Then, a few years later, at the seminary, his beautiful affection for +her, seemingly so just, so natural, was disturbed by inward qualms. +Was the cult of Mary necessary for salvation? Was he not robbing God +by giving Mary a part, the greater part, of his love, his thoughts, his +heart, his entire being? Perplexing questions were these, provoking an +inward struggle which increased his passion, riveted his bonds. For he +dived into all the subtleties of his affection, found unknown joys +in discussing the lawfulness of his feelings. The books treating of +devotion to the Virgin brought him excuses, joyful raptures, a wealth of +arguments which he repeated with prayerful fervour. From them he learned +how, in Mary, to be the slave of Jesus. He went to Jesus through Mary. +He cited all kinds of proofs, he discriminated, he drew inferences. +Mary, whom Jesus had obeyed on earth, should be obeyed by all mankind; +Mary still retained her maternal power in heaven, where she was the +great dispenser of God’s treasures, the only one who could beseech Him, +the only one who allotted the heavenly thrones; and thus Mary, a mere +creature before God, but raised up to Him, became the human link between +heaven and earth, the intermediary of every grace, of every mercy; and +his conclusion always was that she should be loved above all else in God +himself. Another time he was attracted by more complicated theological +curiosities: the marriage of the celestial spouse, the Holy Ghost +sealing the Vase of Election, making of the Virgin Mary an everlasting +miracle, offering her inviolable purity to the devotion of mankind. She +was the Virgin overcoming all heresies, the irreconcilable foe of Satan, +the new Eve of whom it had been foretold that she should crush the +Serpent’s head, the august Gate of Grace, by which the Saviour had +already entered once and through which He would come again at the Last +Day--a vague prophecy, allotting a yet larger future role to Mary, which +threw Serge into a dreamy imagining of some immense expansion of divine +love. + +This entry of woman into the jealous, cruel heaven depicted by the +Old Testament, this figure of whiteness set at the feet of the awesome +Trinity, appeared to him the very grace itself of religion, the one +consolation for all the dread inspired by things of faith, the one +refuge when he found himself lost amidst the mysteries of dogma. And +when he had thus proved to himself, point by point, that she was the way +to Jesus--easy, short, perfect, and certain--he surrendered himself anew +to her, wholly and without remorse: he strove to be her true devotee, +dead to self and steeped in submission. + +It was an hour of divine voluptuousness! The books treating of devotion +to the Virgin burned his hands. They spoke to him in a language of love, +warm, fragrant as incense. Mary no longer seemed a young maiden veiled +in white, standing with crossed arms, a foot or two away from his +pillow. She came surrounded by splendour, even as John saw her, clothed +with the sun, crowned with twelve stars, and having the moon beneath her +feet. She perfumed him with her fragrance, inflamed him with longing for +heaven, ravished him even with the ardent glow of the planets flaming on +her brow. He threw himself before her and called himself her slave. No +word could have been sweeter than that word of slave, which he repeated, +which he relished yet more and more as it trembled on his stammering +tongue, whilst casting himself at her feet--to become her thing, her +mite, the dust lightly scattered by the waving of her azure robe. With +David he exclaimed: ‘Mary is made for me,’ and with the Evangelist +he added: ‘I have taken her for my all.’ He called her his ‘beloved +mistress,’ for words failed him, and he fell into the prattle of child +or lover, his breath breaking with intensity of passion. She was the +Blessed among women, the Queen of Heaven glorified by the nine Choirs +of Angels, the Mother of Predilection, the Treasure of the Lord. All the +vivid imagery of her cult unrolled itself before him comparing to her an +earthly paradise of virgin soil, with beds of flowering virtues, green +meadows of hope, impregnable towers of strength, and smiling dwellings +of confidence. Again she was a fountain sealed by the Holy Ghost, a +shrine and dwelling-place of the Holy Trinity, the Throne of God, the +City of God, the Altar of God, the Temple of God, and the World of God. +And he walked in that garden, in its shade, its sunlight, beneath its +enchanting greenery; he sighed after the water of that Fountain; he +dwelt within Mary’s beauteous precincts--resting, hiding, heedlessly +straying there, drinking in the milk of infinite love that fell drop by +drop from her virginal bosom. + +Every morning, on rising at the seminary, he greeted Mary with a hundred +bows, his face turned towards the strip of sky visible from his window. +And at night in like fashion he bade her farewell with his eyes fixed +upon the stars. Often, when he thus gazed out on fine bright nights, +when Venus gleamed golden and dreamy through the warm atmosphere, he +forgot himself, and then, like a soft song, would fall from his lips the +_Ave maris Stella_, that tender hymn which set before his eyes a distant +azure land, and a tranquil sea, scarce wrinkled by a caressing quiver, +and illuminated by a smiling star, a very sun in size. He recited, too, +the _Salve Regina_, the _Regina Coeli_, the _O gloriosa Domina_, all the +prayers and all the canticles. He would read the Office of the Virgin, +the holy books written in her honour, the little Psalter of St. +Bonaventura, with such devout tenderness, that he could not turn the +leaves for tears. He fasted and mortified himself, that he might offer +up to her his bruised and wounded flesh. Ever since the age of ten he +had worn her livery--the holy scapular, the twofold image of Mary sewn +on squares of cloth, whose warmth upon his chest and back thrilled him +with delight. Later on, he also took to wearing the little chain in +token of his loving slavery. But his greatest act of love was ever the +Angelic Salutation, the _Ave Maria_, his heart’s perfect prayer. ‘Hail, +Mary----’ and he saw her advancing towards him, full of grace, blessed +amongst women; and he cast his heart at her feet for her to tread on it +in sweetness. He multiplied and repeated that salutation in a hundred +different ways, ever seeking some more efficacious one. He would say +twelve _Aves_ to commemorate the crown of twelve stars that encircled +Mary’s brow; he would say fourteen in remembrance of her fourteen joys; +at another time he would recite seven decades of them in honour of the +years she lived on earth. For hours the beads of his Rosary would +glide between his fingers. Then, again, on certain days of mystical +assignation he would launch into the endless muttering of the Rosary. + +When, alone in his cell, with time to give to his love, he knelt upon +the floor, the whole of Mary’s garden with its lofty flowers of chastity +blossomed around him. Between his fingers glided the Rosary’s wreath of +_Aves_, intersected by _Paters_, like a garland of white roses mingled +with the lilies of the Annunciation, the blood-hued flowers of Calvary, +and the stars of the Coronation. He would slowly tread those fragrant +paths, pausing at each of the fifteen dizains of _Aves_, and dwelling on +its corresponding mystery; he was beside himself with joy, or grief, or +triumph, according as the mystery belonged to one or other of the three +series--the joyful, the sorrowful, or the glorious. What an incomparable +legend it was, the history of Mary, a complete human life, with all its +smiles and tears and triumph, which he lived over again from end to end +in a single moment! And first he entered into joy with the five glad +Mysteries, steeped in the serene calm of dawn. First the Archangel’s +salutation, the fertilising ray gliding down from heaven, fraught with +the spotless union’s adorable ecstasy; then the visit to Elizabeth on a +bright hope-laden morn, when the fruit of Mary’s womb for the first time +stirred and thrilled her with the shock at which mothers blench; then +the birth in a stable at Bethlehem, and the long string of shepherds +coming to pay homage to her Divine Maternity; then the new-born babe +carried into the Temple on the arms of his mother who smiled, still +weary, but already happy at offering her child to God’s justice, to +Simeon’s embrace, to the desires of the world; and lastly, Jesus at a +later age revealing Himself before the doctors, in whose midst He is +found by His anxious mother, now proud and comforted. + +But, after that tender radiant dawn, it seemed to Serge as if the sky +were suddenly overcast. His feet now trod on brambles, the beads of the +Rosary pricked his fingers; he cowered beneath the horror of the five +Sorrowful Mysteries: Mary, agonising in her Son in the garden of Olives, +suffering with Him from the scourging, feeling on her own brow the +wounds made by the crown of thorns, bearing the fearful weight of His +Cross, and dying at his feet on Calvary. Those inevitable sufferings, +that harrowing martyrdom of the queen he worshipped, and for whom +he would have shed his blood like Jesus, roused in him a feeling of +shuddering repulsion which ten years’ practice of the same prayers and +the same devotions had failed to weaken. But as the beads flowed on, +light suddenly burst upon the darkness of the Crucifixion, and the +resplendent glory of the five last Mysteries shone forth in all the +brightness of a cloudless sun. Mary was transfigured, and sang the +hallelujah of the Resurrection, the victory over Death and the eternity +of life. With outstretched hands, and dazed with admiration, she beheld +the triumph of her Son ascending into heaven on golden clouds, fringed +with purple. She gathered the Apostles round her, and, as on the day +of her conception, participated in the glow of the Spirit of Love, +descending now in tongues of fire. She, too, was carried up to heaven +by a flight of angels, borne aloft on their white wings like a spotless +ark, and tenderly set down amid the splendour of the heavenly thrones; +and there, in her supreme glory, amidst a splendour so dazzling that +the light of the sun was quenched, God crowned her with the stars of the +firmament. Impassioned love has but one word. In reciting a hundred and +fifty _Aves_ Serge had not once repeated himself. The monotonous murmur, +the ever recurring words, akin to the ‘I love you’ of lovers, assumed +each time a deeper and deeper meaning; and he lingered over it all, +expressed everything with the aid of the one solitary Latin sentence, +and learned to know Mary through and through, until, as the last bead of +his Rosary slipped from his hand, his heart grew faint with the thought +of parting from her. + +Many a night had the young man spent in this way. Daybreak had found +him still murmuring his prayers. It was the moon, he would say to cheat +himself, that was making the stars wane. His superiors had to reprove +him for those vigils, which left him languid and pale as if he had been +losing blood. On the wall of his cell had long hung a coloured engraving +of the Sacred Heart of Mary, an engraving which showed the Virgin +smiling placidly, throwing open her bodice, and revealing a crimson +fissure, wherein glowed her heart, pierced with a sword, and crowned +with white roses. That sword tormented him beyond measure, brought him +an intolerable horror of suffering in woman, the very thought of which +scattered his pious submissiveness to the winds. He erased the weapon, +and left only the crowned and flaming heart which seemed to be half torn +from that exquisite flesh, as if tendered as an offering to himself. And +it was then he felt beloved: Mary was giving him her heart, her living +heart, even as it throbbed in her bosom, dripping with her rosy blood. + +In all this there was no longer the imagery of devout passion, but a +material entity, a prodigy of affection which impelled him, when he was +praying before the engraving, to open out his hands in order that he +might reverently receive the heart that leaped from that immaculate +bosom. He could see it, hear it beat; he was loved, that heart was +beating for himself! His whole being quickened with rapture; he would +fain have kissed that heart, have melted in it, have lain beside it +within the depths of that open breast. Mary’s love for him was an active +one; she desired him to be near her, to be wholly hers in the eternity +to come; her love was efficacious, too, she was ever solicitous for him, +watching over him everywhere, guarding him from the slightest breach of +his fidelity. She loved him tenderly, more than the whole of womankind +together, with a love as azure, as deep, as boundless as the sky itself. +Where could he ever find so delightful a mistress? What earthly caress +could be compared to the air in which he moved, the breath of Mary? What +mundane union or enjoyment could be weighed against that everlasting +flower of desire which grew unceasingly, and yet was never over-blown? +At this thought the _Magnificat_ would exhale from his mouth, like a +cloud of incense. He sang the joyful song of Mary, her thrill of joy at +the approach of her Divine Spouse. He glorified the Lord who overthrew +the mighty from their thrones, and who sent Mary to him, poor destitute +child that he was, dying of love on the cold tiled floor of his cell. + +And when he had given all up to Mary--his body, his soul, his earthly +goods, and spiritual chattels--when he stood before her stripped, bare, +with all his prayers exhausted, there welled from his burning lips +the Virgin’s litanies, with their reiterated, persistent, impassioned +appeals for heavenly succour. He fancied himself climbing a flight of +pious yearnings, which he ascended step by step at each bound of his +heart. First he called her ‘Holy.’ Next he called her ‘Mother,’ most +pure, most chaste, amiable, and admirable. And with fresh ardour he six +times proclaimed her maidenhood; his lips cooled and freshened each time +that he pronounced that name of ‘Virgin,’ which he coupled with power, +goodness, and fidelity. And as his heart drew him higher up the ladder +of light, a strange voice from his veins spoke within him, bursting into +dazzling flowers of speech. He yearned to melt away in fragrance, to be +spread around in light, to expire in a sigh of music. As he named her +‘Mirror of Justice,’ ‘Seat of Wisdom,’ and ‘Source of Joy,’ he could +behold himself pale with ecstasy in that mirror, kneeling on the warmth +of the divine seat, quaffing intoxication in mighty draughts from the +holy Source. + +Again he would transform her, throwing off all restraint in his frantic +love, so as to attain to a yet closer union with her. She became a +‘Vessel of Honour,’ chosen of God, a ‘Bosom of Election,’ wherein he +desired to pour his being, and slumber for ever.* She was the ‘Mystical +Rose’--a great flower which bloomed in Paradise, with petals formed of +the angels clustering round their queen, a flower so fresh, so fragrant, +that he could inhale its perfume from the depths of his unworthiness +with a joyful dilation of his sides which stretched them to bursting. +She became changed into a ‘House of Gold,’ a ‘Tower of David,’ and a +‘Tower of Ivory,’ of inestimable richness, of a whiteness that swans +might envy, and of lofty, massive, rounded form, which he would +fain have encircled with his outstretched arms as with a girdle of +submissiveness. She stood on the distant skyline as the ‘Gate of +Heaven,’ a glimpse of which he caught behind her shoulders when a puff +of wind threw back the folds of her veil. She rose in splendour from +behind the mountain in the waning hour of night, like the ‘Morning Star’ +to help all travellers astray, like the very dawn of Love. And when he +had ascended to this height--scant of breath, yet still unsatiated--he +could only further glorify her with the title of ‘Queen,’ with which he +nine times hailed her, as with nine parting salutations from the censer +of his soul. His canticle died joyfully away in those last ejaculations +of triumph: ‘Queen of virgins, Queen of all saints. Queen conceived +without sin!’ She, ever before him, shone in splendour; and he, on +the topmost step, only reached by Mary’s intimates, remained there yet +another moment, swooning amidst the subtle atmosphere around him; still +too far away to kiss the edge of her azure robe, already feeling that +he was about to fall, but ever possessed by a desire to ascend again and +again, and seek that superhuman felicity. + + * Curiously enough I find no trace of ‘Bosom of Election’ in the + Litany of the Blessed Virgin as printed in English Catholic + works.--ED. + +How many times had not the Litany of the Virgin, recited in common in +the seminary chapel, left the young man with broken limbs and void head, +as if from some great fall! And since his departure from the seminary, +Abbé Mouret had grown to love the Virgin still more. He gave to her that +impassioned cult which to Brother Archangias savoured of heresy. In his +opinion it was she who would save the Church by some matchless prodigy +whose near appearance would entrance the world. She was the only miracle +of our impious age--the blue-robed lady that showed herself to little +shepherdesses, the whiteness that gleamed at night between two clouds, +her veil trailing over the low thatched roofs of peasant homes. When +Brother Archangias coarsely asked him if he had ever espied her, he +simply smiled and tightened his lips as if to keep his secret. Truth to +say, he saw her every night. She no longer seemed a playful sister or a +lovely pious maiden; she wore a bridal robe, with white flowers in +her hair; and from beneath her drooping eyelids fell moist glances of +hopeful promise that set his cheeks aglow. He could feel that she was +coming, that she was promising to delay no longer; that she said to him, +‘Here I am, receive me!’ Thrice a day when the _Angelus_ rang out--at +break of dawn, in the fulness of midday, and at the gentle fall of +twilight--he bared his head and said an _Ave_ with a glance around him +as if to ascertain whether the bell were not at last announcing Mary’s +coming. He was five-and-twenty. He awaited her. + +During the month of May the young priest’s expectation was fraught with +joyful hope. To La Teuse’s grumblings he no longer paid the slightest +attention. If he remained so late praying in the church, it was because +he entertained the mad idea that the great golden Virgin would at last +come down from her pedestal. And yet he stood in awe of that Virgin, so +like a princess in her mien. He did not love all the Virgins alike, and +this one inspired him with supreme respect. She was, indeed, the +Mother of God, she showed the fertile development of form, the majestic +countenance, the strong arms of the Divine Spouse bearing Jesus. He +pictured her thus, standing in the midst of the heavenly court, the +train of her royal mantle trailing among the stars; so far above him, +and of such exceeding might, that he would be shattered into dust should +she deign to cast her eyes upon him. She was the Virgin of his days of +weakness, the austere Virgin who restored his inward peace by an awesome +glimpse of Paradise. + +That night Abbé Mouret remained for over an hour on his knees in the +empty church. With folded hands and eyes fixed on the golden Virgin +rising planet-like amid the verdure, he sought the drowsiness of +ecstasy, the appeasement of the strange discomfort he had felt that day. +But he failed to find the semi-somnolence of prayer with the delightful +ease he knew so well. However glorious and pure Mary might reveal +herself, her motherhood, the maturity of her charms, and the bare infant +she bore upon her arm, disquieted him. It seemed as if in heaven itself +there were a repetition of the exuberant life, through which he had been +moving since the morning. Like the vines of the stony slopes, like the +trees of the Paradou, like the human troop of Artauds, Mary suggested +the blossoming, the begetting of life. Prayer came but slowly to his +lips; fancies made his mind wander. He perceived things he had never +seen before--the gentle wave of her chestnut hair, the rounded swell of +her rosy throat. She had to assume a sterner air and overwhelm him with +the splendour of her sovereign power to bring him back to the unfinished +sentences of his broken prayer. At last the sight of her golden crown, +her golden mantle, all the golden sheen which made of her a mighty +princess, reduced him once more to slavish submission, and his prayer +again flowed evenly, and his mind became wrapped in worship. + +In this ecstatic trance, half asleep, half awake, he remained till +eleven o’clock, heedless of his aching knees, fancying himself suspended +in mid air, rocked to and fro like a child, and yielding to restful +slumber, though conscious of some unknown weight that oppressed his +heart. Meanwhile the church around him filled with shadows, the lamp +grew dim, and the lofty sprays of leafage darkened the tall Virgin’s +varnished face. + +When the clock, about to strike, gave out a rending whine, a shudder +passed through Abbé Mouret. He had not hitherto felt the chill of the +church upon his shoulders, but now he was shivering from head to foot. +As he crossed himself a memory swiftly flashed through the stupor of his +wakening--the chattering of his teeth recalled to him the nights he had +spent on the floor of his cell before the Sacred Heart of Mary, when his +whole frame would quiver with fever. He rose up painfully, displeased +with himself. As a rule, he would leave the altar untroubled in his +flesh and with Mary’s sweet breath still fresh upon his brow. That +night, however, as he took the lamp to go up to his room he felt as if +his throbbing temples were bursting. His prayer had not profited him; +after a transient alleviation he still experienced the burning glow +which had been rising in his heart and brain since morning. When he +reached the sacristy door, he turned and mechanically raised the lamp +to take a last look at the tall Virgin. But she was now shrouded in the +deep shadows falling from the rafters, buried in the foliage around her +whence only the golden cross upon her crown emerged. + + + + +XV + +Abbé Mouret’s bedroom, which occupied a corner of the vicarage, was a +spacious one, having two large square windows; one of which opened above +Desirée’s farmyard, whilst the other overlooked the village, the valley +beyond, the belt of hills, the whole landscape. The yellow-curtained +bed, the walnut chest of drawers, and the three straw-bottomed chairs +seemed lost below that lofty ceiling with whitewashed joists. A faint +tartness, the somewhat musty odour of old country houses, ascended from +the tiled and ruddled floor that glistened like a mirror. On the chest +of drawers a tall statuette of the Immaculate Conception rose greyly +between some porcelain vases which La Teuse had filled with white lilac. + +Abbé Mouret set his lamp on the edge of the chest of drawers before the +Virgin. He felt so unwell that he determined to light the vine-stem fire +which was laid in readiness. He stood there, tongs in hand, watching +the kindling wood, his face illuminated by the flame. The house beneath +slumbered in unbroken stillness. The silence filled his ears with a hum, +which grew into a sound of whispering voices. Slowly and irresistibly +these voices mastered him and increased the feeling of anxiety which +had almost choked him several times that day. What could be the cause of +such mental anguish? What could be the strange trouble which had slowly +grown within him and had now become so unbearable? He had not fallen +into sin. It seemed as if but yesterday he had left the seminary with +all his ardent faith, and so fortified against the world that he moved +among men beholding God alone. And, suddenly, he fancied himself in his +cell at five o’clock in the morning, the hour for rising. The deacon +on duty passed his door, striking it with his stick, and repeating the +regulation summons-- + +‘_Benedicamus Domino_!’ + +‘_Deo gratias_!’ he answered half asleep, with his eyes still swollen +with slumber. + +And he jumped out upon his strip of carpet, washed himself, made his +bed, swept his room, and refilled his little pitcher. He enjoyed this +petty domestic work while the morning air sent a thrilling shiver +throughout his frame. He could hear the sparrows in the plane-trees +of the court-yard, rising at the same time as himself with a deafening +noise of wings and notes--their way of saying their prayers, thought he. +Then he went down to the meditation room, and stayed there on his knees +for half an hour after prayers, to con that reflection of St. Ignatius: +‘What profit be it to a man to gain the whole world if he lose his +soul?’ A subject, this, fertile in good resolutions, which impelled him +to renounce all earthly goods, and dwell on that fond dream of a desert +life, beneath the solitary wealth and luxury of a vast blue sky. When +ten minutes had passed, his bruised knees became so painful that his +whole being slowly swooned into ecstasy, in which he pictured himself as +a mighty conqueror, the master of an immense empire, flinging down his +crown, breaking his sceptre, trampling under foot unheard-of wealth, +chests of gold, floods of jewels, and rich stuffs embroidered with +precious stones, before going to bury himself in some Thebais, clothed +in rough drugget that rasped his back. Mass, however, snatched him from +these heated fancies, upon which he looked back as upon some beautiful +reality which might have been his lot in ancient times; and then, his +communion made, he chanted the psalm for the day unconscious of any +other voice than his own, which rang out with crystal purity, flying +upward till it reached the very ear of the Lord. + +When he returned to his room he ascended the stairs step by step, as +advised by St. Bonaventura and St. Thomas Aquinas. His gait was slow, +his mien grave; he kept his head bowed as he walked along, finding +ineffable delight in complying with the most trifling regulations. Next +came breakfast. It was pleasant in the refectory to see the hunks of +bread and the glasses of white wine, set out in rows. He had a good +appetite, and was of a joyous mood. He would say, for instance, that +the wine was truly Christian--a daring allusion to the water which the +bursar was taxed with putting in the bottles. Still his gravity at once +returned to him on going in to lectures. He took notes on his knees, +while the professor, resting his hands on the edge of his desk, talked +away in familiar Latin, interspersed with an occasional word in French, +when he was at fault for a better. A discussion would then follow in +which the students argued in a strange jargon, with never a smile upon +their faces. Then, at ten o’clock, there came twenty minutes’ reading +of Holy Writ. He fetched the Sacred Book, a volume richly bound and +gilt-edged. Having kissed it with especial reverence, he read it out +bare-headed, bowing every time he came upon the name of Jesus, Mary, or +Joseph. And with the arrival of the second meditation he was ready to +endure for love of God another and even longer spell of kneeling +than the first. He avoided resting on his heels for a second even. +He delighted in that examination of conscience which lasted for +three-quarters of an hour. He racked his memory for sins, and at times +even fancied himself damned for forgetting to kiss the pictures on his +scapular the night before, or for having gone to sleep upon his left +side--abominable faults which he would have willingly redeemed by +wearing out his knees till night; and yet happy faults, in that they +kept him busy, for without them he would have no occupation for his +unspotted heart, steeped in a life of purity. + +He would return to the refectory, as if relieved of some great crime. +The seminarists on duty, wearing blue linen aprons, and having their +cassock sleeves tucked up, brought in the vermicelli soup, the boiled +beef cut into little squares, and the helps of roast mutton and French +beans. Then followed a terrific rattling of jaws, a gluttonous silence, +a desperate plying of forks, only broken by envious greedy glances at +the horseshoe table, where the heads of the seminary ate more delicate +meats and drank ruddier wines. And all the while above the hubbub some +strong-lunged peasant’s son, with a thick voice and utter disregard for +punctuation, would hem and haw over the perusal of some letters from +missionaries, some episcopal pastoral, or some article from a religious +paper. To this he listened as he ate. Those polemical fragments, those +narratives of distant travels, surprised, nay, even frightened him, with +their revelations of bustling, boundless fields of action, of which +he had never dreamt, beyond the seminary walls. Eating was still in +progress when the wooden clapper announced the recreation hour. The +recreation-ground was a sandy yard, in which stood eight plane-trees, +which in summer cast cool shadows around. On the south side rose a wall, +seventeen feet high, and bristling with broken glass, above which all +that one saw of Plassans was the steeple of St. Mark, rising like a +stony needle against the blue sky. To and fro he slowly paced the court +with a row of fellow-students; and each time he faced the wall he eyed +that spire which to him represented the whole town, the whole +earth spread beneath the scudding clouds. Noisy groups waxed hot in +disputation round the plane-trees; friends would pair off in the +corners under the spying glance of some director concealed behind his +window-blind. Tennis and skittle matches would be quickly organised to +the great discomfort of quiet loto players who lounged on the ground +before their cardboard squares, which some bowl or ball would suddenly +smother with sand. But when the bell sounded the noise ceased, a flight +of sparrows rose from the plane-trees, and the breathless students +betook themselves to their lesson in plain-chant with folded arms and +hanging heads. And thus Serge’s day closed in peacefulness; he returned +to his work; then, at four o’clock, he partook of his afternoon snack, +and renewed his everlasting walk in sight of St. Mark’s spire. Supper +was marked by the same rattling of jaws and the same droning perusal as +the midday meal. And when it was over Serge repaired to the chapel to +attend prayers, and finally betook himself to bed at a quarter past +eight, after first sprinkling his pallet with holy water to ward off all +evil dreams. + +How many delightful days like these had he not spent in that ancient +convent of old Plassans, where abode the aroma of centuries of piety! +For five years had the days followed one another, flowing on with the +unvarying murmur of limpid water. In this present hour he recalled a +thousand little incidents which moved him. He remembered going with his +mother to purchase his first outfit, his two cassocks, his two waist +sashes, his half-dozen bands, his eight pairs of socks, his surplice, +and his three-cornered hat. And how his heart had beaten that mild +October evening when the seminary door had first closed behind him! +He had gone thither at twenty, after his school years, seized with a +yearning to believe and love. The very next day he had forgotten all, +as if he had fallen into a long sleep in that big silent house. He once +more saw the narrow cell in which he had lived through his two years as +student of philosophy--a little hutch with only a bed, a table, and a +chair, divided from the other cells by badly fitted partitions, in a +vast hall containing about fifty similar little dens. And he again +saw the cell he had dwelt in three years longer while in the theology +class--a larger one, with an armchair, a dressing-table, and a +bookcase--a happy room full of the dreams which his faith had evoked. +Down those endless passages, up those stairs of stone, in all sorts of +nooks, sudden inspirations, unexpected aid had come to him. From the +lofty ceilings fell the voices of guardian angels. There was not a +flagstone in the halls, not an ashlar of the walls, not a bough of the +plane-trees, but it spoke to him of the delights of his contemplative +life, his lispings of tenderness, his gradual initiation, the favours +vouchsafed him in return for self-bestowal, all that happiness of divine +first love. + +On such and such a day, on awaking, he had beheld a bright flood of +light which had steeped him in joy. On such and such an evening as he +closed the door of his cell he had felt warm hands clasping his neck +so lovingly that he had lost consciousness, and had afterwards found +himself on the floor weeping and choked by sobs. Again, at other +times, especially in the little archway leading to the chapel, he had +surrendered himself to supple arms which raised him from the ground. All +heaven had then been concerned in him, had moved round him, and imparted +to his slightest actions a peculiar sense, an astonishing perfume, which +seemed to cling faintly to his clothes, to his very skin. And again, +he remembered the Thursday walks. They started at two o’clock for some +verdant nook about three miles from Plassans. Often they sought a meadow +on the banks of the Viorne, where the gnarled willows steeped their +leaves in the stream. But he saw nothing--neither the big yellow flowers +in the meadow, nor the swallows sipping as they flew by, with wings +lightly touching the surface of the little river. Till six o’clock, +seated in groups beneath the willows, his comrades and himself recited +the Office of the Virgin in common, or read in pairs the ‘Little Hours,’ +the book of prayers recommended to young seminarists, but not enjoined +on them. + +Abbé Mouret smiled as he stirred the burning embers of his vine-stock +fire. In all that past he only found great purity and perfect obedience. +He had been a lily whose sweet scent had charmed his masters. He could +not recall a single bad action. He had never taken advantage of the +absolute freedom of those walks, when the two prefects in charge would +go off to have a chat with a parish priest in the neighbourhood, or to +have a smoke behind a hedge, or to drink beer with a friend. Never had +he hidden a novel under his mattress, nor a bottle of _anisette_ in +a cupboard. For a long time, even, he had had no suspicion of the +sinfulness around him--of the wings of chicken and the cakes smuggled +into the seminary in Lent, of the guilty letters brought in by servers, +of the abominable conversations carried on in whispers in certain +corners of the courtyard. He had wept hot tears when he first perceived +that few among his fellows loved God for His own sake. There were +peasants’ sons there who had taken orders simply through their terror +of conscription, sluggards who dreamed of a career of idleness, and +ambitious youths already agitated by a vision of the staff and the +mitre. And when he found the world’s wickedness reappearing at the +altar’s very foot, he had withdrawn still further into himself, giving +himself still more to God, to console Him for being forsaken. + +He did recollect, however, that he had crossed his legs one day in +class, and that, when the professor reproved him for it, his face had +become fiery red, as if he had committed some abominable action. He +was one of the best students, never arguing, but learning his texts by +heart. He established the existence and eternity of God by proofs drawn +from Holy Writ, the opinions of the fathers of the Church, the universal +consensus of all mankind. This kind of reasoning filled him with an +unshakeable certainty. During his first year of philosophy, he had +worked at his logic so earnestly that his professor had checked him, +remarking that the most learned were not the holiest. In his second +year, therefore, he had carried out his study of metaphysics as a +regulation task, constituting but a small fraction of his daily duties. +He felt a growing contempt for science; he wished to remain ignorant, in +order to preserve the humility of his faith. Later on, he only followed +the course of Rohrbacher’s ‘Ecclesiastical History’ from submission; +he ventured as far as Gousset’s arguments, and Bouvier’s ‘Theological +Course,’ without daring to take up Bellarmin, Liguori, Suarez, or St. +Thomas Aquinas. Holy Writ alone impassioned him. Therein he found all +desirable knowledge, a tale of infinite love which should be sufficient +instruction for all men of good-will. He simply adopted the dicta of his +teachers, casting on them the care of inquiry, needing nought of such +rubbish to know how to love, and accusing books of stealing away the +time which should be devoted to prayer. He even succeeded in forgetting +his years of college life. He no longer knew anything, but was +simplicity itself, a child brought back to the lispings of his +catechism. + +Such was the manner in which he had ascended step by step to the +priesthood. And here his recollections thronged more quickly on him, +softer, still warm with heavenly joy. Each year he had drawn nearer +to God. His vacations had been spent in holy fashion at an uncle’s, in +confessions every day and communions twice a week. He would lay fasts +upon himself, hide rock-salt inside his trunk, and kneel on it with +bared knees for hours together. At recreation time he remained in +chapel, or went up to the room of one of the directors, who told him +pious and extraordinary stories. Then, as the fast of the Holy Trinity +drew nigh, he was rewarded beyond all measure, overwhelmed by +the stirring emotion which pervades all seminaries on the eve of +ordinations. This was the great festival of all, when the sky opened to +allow the elect to rise another step nearer unto God. For a fortnight +in advance he imposed a bread and water diet on himself. He closed +his window blinds so that he might not see the daylight at all, and +he prostrated himself in the gloom to implore Jesus to accept his +sacrifice. During the last four days he suffered torturing pangs, +terrible scruples, which would force him from his bed in the middle +of the night to knock at the door of some strange priest giving the +Retreat--some barefooted Carmelite, or often a converted Protestant +respecting whom some wonderful story was current. To him he would +make at great length a general confession of his whole life in a voice +choking with sobs. Absolution alone quieted him, refreshed him, as if he +had enjoyed a bath of grace. + +On the morning of the great day he felt wholly white; and so vividly was +he conscious of his whiteness that he seemed to himself to shed light +around him. The seminary bell rang out in clear notes, while all the +scents of June--the perfume of blossoming stocks, of mignonette and of +heliotropes--came over the lofty courtyard wall. In the chapel relatives +were waiting in their best attire, so deeply moved that the women sobbed +behind their veils. Next came the procession--the deacons about to +receive their priesthood in golden chasubles, the sub-deacons in +dalmatics, those in minor orders and the tonsured with their surplices +floating on their shoulders and their black birettas in their hands. The +organ rolled diffusing the flutelike notes of a canticle of joy. At the +altar, the bishop officiated, staff in hand, assisted by two canons. All +the Chapter were there, the priests of all the parishes thronged thick +amid a dazzling wealth of apparel, a flaring of gold beneath a broad +ray of sunlight falling from a window in the nave. The epistle over, the +ordination began. + +At this very hour Abbé Mouret could remember the chill of the scissors +when he was marked with the tonsure at the beginning of his first year +of theology. It had made him shudder slightly. But the tonsure had then +been very small, hardly larger than a penny. Later, with each fresh +order conferred on him, it had grown and grown until it crowned him with +a white spot as large as a big Host. The organ’s hum grew softer, and +the censers swung with a silvery tinkling of their slender chains, +releasing a cloudlet of white smoke, which unrolled in lacelike folds. +He could see himself, a tonsured youth in a surplice, led to the altar +by the master of ceremonies; there he knelt and bowed his head down low, +while the bishop with golden scissors snipped off three locks--one over +his forehead, and the other two near his ears. Yet another twelvemonth, +and he could again see himself in the chapel amid the incense, receiving +the four minor orders. Led by an archdeacon, he went to the main +doorway, closed the door with a bang, and opened it again, to show that +to him was entrusted the care of churches; next he rang a small bell +with his right hand, in token that it was his duty to call the faithful +to the divine offices; then he returned to the altar, where fresh +privileges were conferred upon him by the bishop--those of singing the +lessons, of blessing the bread, of catechising children, of exorcising +evil spirits, of serving the deacons, of lighting and extinguishing the +candles of the altars. + +Next came back the memory of the ensuing ordination, more solemn and +more dread, amid the same organ strains which sounded now like God’s own +thunder: this time he wore a sub-deacon’s dalmatic upon his shoulders, +he bound himself for ever by the vow of chastity, he trembled in every +pore, despite his faith, at the terrible _Accedite_ from the bishop, +which put to flight two of his companions, blanching by his side. His +new duties were to serve the priest at the altar, to prepare the cruets, +sing the epistle, wipe the chalice, and carry the cross in processions. +And, at last, he passed once more, and for the last time, into the +chapel, in the radiance of a June sun: but this time he walked at the +very head of the procession, with alb girdled about his waist, with +stole crossed over his breast, and chasuble falling from his neck. All +but fainting from emotion, he could perceive the pallid face of the +bishop giving him the priesthood, the fulness of the ministry, by +the threefold laying of his hands. And after taking the oath of +ecclesiastical obedience, he felt himself uplifted from the stone flags, +when the prelate in a full voice repeated the Latin words: ‘_Accipe +Spiritum Sanctum.... Quorum remiseris peccata, remittuntur eis, et +quorum retinueris, retenta sunt_.’--‘Receive the Holy Ghost.... Whose +sins thou dost forgive they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost +retain, they are retained.’ + + + + +XVI + +This evocation of the deep joys of his youth had given Abbé Mouret a +touch of feverishness. He no longer felt the cold. He put down the tongs +and walked towards the bedstead as if about to go to bed, but turned +back and pressed his forehead to a window-pane, looking out into the +night with sightless eyes. Could he be ill? Why did he feel such +languor in all his limbs, why did his blood burn in every vein? On two +occasions, while at the seminary, he had experienced similar attacks--a +sort of physical discomfort which made him most unhappy; one day, +indeed, he had gone to bed in raving delirium. Then he bethought himself +of a young girl possessed by evil spirits, whom Brother Archangias +asserted he had cured with a simple sign of the cross, one day when she +fell down before him. This reminded him of the spiritual exorcisms which +one of his teachers had formerly recommended to him: prayer, a general +confession, frequent communion, the choosing of a wise confessor +who should have great authority on his mind. And then, without any +transition, with a suddenness which astonished himself, he saw in +the depths of his memory the round face of one of his old friends, a +peasant, who had been a choir boy at eight years old, and whose expenses +at the seminary were defrayed by a lady who watched over him. He was +always laughing, he rejoiced beforehand at the anticipated emoluments of +his career; twelve hundred francs of stipend, a vicarage at the end of a +garden, presents, invitations to dinners, little profits from weddings, +and baptismal and burial fees. That young fellow must indeed be happy in +his parish. + +The feeling of melancholy regret evoked by this recollection surprised +Abbé Mouret extremely. Was he not happy, too? Until that day he had +regretted nothing, wished for nothing, envied nothing. Even as he +searched himself at that very moment he failed to find any cause for +bitterness. He believed himself the same as in the early days of his +deaconship, when the obligatory perusal of his breviary at certain +stated hours had filled his days with continuous prayer. No doubts had +tormented him; he had prostrated himself before the mysteries he could +not understand; he had sacrificed his reason, which he despised, with +the greatest ease. When he left the seminary, he had rejoiced at finding +himself a stranger among his fellowmen, no longer walking like them, +carrying his head differently, possessed of the gestures, words, and +opinions of a being apart. He had felt emasculated, nearer to the +angels, cleansed of sexuality. It had almost made him proud to belong +no longer to his species, to have been brought up for God and carefully +purged of all human grossness by a jealously watchful training. Again, +it had seemed to him as if for years he had been dwelling in holy +oil, prepared with all due rites, which had steeped his flesh in +beatification. His limbs, his brain, had lost material substance to +gain in soulfulness, impregnated with a subtle vapour which, at times, +intoxicated him and dizzied him as if the earth had suddenly failed +beneath his feet. He displayed the fears, the unwittingness, the open +candour of a cloistered maiden. He sometimes remarked with a smile that +he was prolonging his childhood, under the impression that he was still +quite little, retaining the same sensations, the same ideas, the same +opinions as in the past. At six years old, for instance, he had known as +much of God as he knew at twenty-five; in prayer the inflexions of +his voice were still the same, and he yet took a childish pleasure in +folding his hands quite correctly. The world too seemed to him the same +as he had seen in former days when his mother led him by the hand. +He had been born a priest, and a priest he had grown up. Whenever he +displayed before La Teuse some particularly gross ignorance of life, she +would stare him in the face, astounded, and remark with a strange smile +that ‘he was Mademoiselle Desirée’s brother all over.’ + +In all his existence he could only recall one shock of shame. It +had happened during his last six months at the seminary, between his +deaconship and priesthood. He had been ordered to read the work of Abbé +Craisson, the superior of the great seminary at Valence: ‘_De rebus +Veneris ad usum confessariorum_.’ And he had risen from this book +terrified and choking with sobs. That learned casuistry, dealing so +fully with the abominations of mankind, descending to the most monstrous +examples of vice, violated, as it were, all his virginity of body +and mind. He felt himself for ever befouled. Yet every time he heard +confessions he inevitably recurred to that catechism of shame. And +though the obscurities of dogma, the duties of his ministry, and the +death of all free will within him left him calm and happy at being +nought but the child of God, he retained, in spite of himself, a carnal +taint of the horrors he must needs stir up; he was conscious of an +ineffaceable stain, deep down somewhere in his being, which might some +day grow larger and cover him with mud. + +The moon was rising behind the Garrigue hills. Abbé Mouret, still more +and more feverish, opened the window and leaned out upon his elbows, +that he might feel upon his face the coolness of the night. He could no +longer remember at what time exactly this illness had come upon him. +He recollected, however, that in the morning, while saying mass, he had +been quite calm and restful. It must have been later, perhaps during +his long walk in the sun, or while he shivered under the trees of the +Paradou, or while stifling in Desirée’s poultry-yard. And then he lived +through the day again. + +Before him stretched the vast plain, more direful still beneath the +pallid light of the oblique moonbeams. The olive and almond trees showed +like grey spots amid the chaos of rocks spreading to the sombre row of +hills on the horizon. There were big splotches of gloom, bumpy ridges, +blood-hued earthy pools in which red stars seemed to contemplate one +another, patches of chalky light, suggestive of women’s garments cast +off and disclosing shadowy forms which slumbered in the hollow folds +of ground. At night that glowing landscape weltered there strangely, +passionately, slumbering with uncovered bosom, and outspread twisted +limbs, whilst heaving mighty sighs, and exhaling the strong aroma of +a sweating sleeper. It was as if some mighty Cybele had fallen there +beneath the moon, intoxicated with the embraces of the sun. Far away, +Abbé Mouret’s eyes followed the path to Les Olivettes, a narrow pale +ribbon stretching along like a wavy stay-lace. He could hear Brother +Archangias whipping the truant schoolgirls, and spitting in the faces +of their elder sisters. He could see Rosalie slyly laughing in her hands +while old Bambousse hurled clods of earth after her and smote her on +her hips. Then, too, he thought, he had still been well, his neck barely +heated by the lovely morning sunshine. He had felt but a quivering +behind him, that confused hum of life, which he had faintly heard since +morning when the sun, in the midst of his mass, had entered the church +by the shattered windows. Never, then, had the country disturbed him, +as it did at this hour of night, with its giant bosom, its yielding +shadows, its gleams of ambery skin, its lavish goddess-like nudity, +scarce hidden by the silvery gauze of moonlight. + +The young priest lowered his eyes, and gazed upon the village of Les +Artaud. It had sunk into the heavy slumber of weariness, the soundness +of peasants’ sleep. Not a light: the battered hovels showed like +dusky mounds intersected by the white stripes of cross lanes which the +moonbeams swept. Even the dogs were surely snoring on the thresholds of +the closed doors. Had the Artauds poisoned the air of the parsonage with +some abominable plague? Behind him gathered and swept the gust whose +approach filled him with so much anguish. Now he could detect a sound +like the tramping of a flock, a whiff of dusty air, which reached him +laden with the emanations of beasts. Again came back his thoughts of a +handful of men beginning the centuries over again, springing up between +those naked rocks like thistles sown by the winds. In his childhood +nothing had amazed and frightened him more than those myriads of insects +which gushed forth when he raised certain damp stones. The Artauds +disturbed him even in their slumber; he could recognise their breath +in the air he inhaled. He would have liked to have had the rocks alone +below his window. The hamlet was not dead enough; the thatched roofs +bulged like bosoms; through the gaping cracks in the doors came low +faint sounds which spoke of all the swarming life within. Nausea came +upon him. Yet he had often faced it all without feeling any other need +than that of refreshing himself in prayer. + +His brow perspiring, he proceeded to open the other window, as if to +seek cooler air. Below him, to his left, lay the graveyard with the +Solitaire erect like a bar, unstirred by the faintest breeze. From the +empty field arose an odour like that of a newly mown meadow. The +grey wall of the church, that wall full of lizards and planted with +wall-flowers, gleamed coldly in the moonlight, and the panes of one of +the windows glistened like plates of steel. The sleeping church could +now have no other life within it than the extra-human life of the +Divinity embodied in the Host enclosed in the tabernacle. He thought of +the bracket lamp’s yellow glow peeping out of the gloom, and was tempted +to go down once more to try to ease his ailing head amid those deep +shadows. But a strange feeling of terror held him back; he suddenly +fancied, while his eyes were fixed upon the moonlit panes, that he saw +the church illumined by a furnace-like glare, the blaze of a festival +of hell, in which whirled the Month of May, the plants, the animals, +and the girls of Les Artaud, who wildly encircled trees with their +bare arms. Then, as he leaned over, he saw beneath him Desirée’s +poultry-yard, black and steaming. He could not clearly distinguish the +rabbit-hutches, the fowls’ roosting-places, or the ducks’ house. The +place was all one big mass heaped up in stench, still exhaling in its +sleep a pestiferous odour. From under the stable-door came the acrid +smell of the nanny-goat; while the little pig, stretched upon his back, +snorted near an empty porringer. And suddenly with his brazen throat +Alexander, the big yellow cock, raised a crow, which awoke in the +distance impassioned calls from all the cocks of the village. + +Then all at once Abbé Mouret remembered: The fever had struck him in +Desirée’s farmyard, while he was looking at the hens still warm from +laying, the rabbit-does plucking the down from under them. And now the +feeling that some one was breathing on his neck became so distinct that +he turned at last to see who was behind him. And then he recalled Albine +bounding out of the Paradou, and the door slamming upon the vision of an +enchanted garden; he recalled the girl racing alongside the interminable +wall, following the gig at a run, and throwing birch leaves to the +breeze as kisses; he recalled her, again, in the twilight, laughing at +the oaths of Brother Archangias, her skirts skimming over the path like +a cloudlet of dust bowled along by the evening breeze. She was sixteen; +how strange she looked, with her rather elongated face! she savoured +of the open air, of the grass, of mother earth. And so accurate was his +recollection of her that he could once more see a scratch upon one of +her supple wrists, a rosy scar on her white skin. Why did she laugh like +that when she looked at him with her blue eyes? He was engulfed in her +laugh as in a sonorous wave which resounded and pressed close to him on +every side; he inhaled it, he felt it vibrate within him. Yes, all his +evil came from that laugh of hers which he had quaffed. + +Standing in the middle of the room, with both windows open, he remained +shivering, seized with a fright which made him hide his face in his +hands. So this was the ending of the whole day; this evocation of a fair +girl, with a somewhat long face and eyes of blue. And the whole day +came in through the open windows. In the distance--the glow of those red +lands, the ardent passion of the big rocks, of the olive-trees springing +up amid the stones, of the vines twisting their arms by the roadside. +Nearer--the steam of human sweat borne in upon the air from Les Artaud, +the musty odour of the cemetery, the fragrance of incense from the +church, tainted by the scent of greasy-haired wenches. And there +was also the steaming muck-heap, the fumes of the poultry-yard, the +oppressing ferment of animal germs. And all these vapours poured in at +once, in one asphyxiating gust, so offensive, so violent, as to choke +him. He tried to close his senses, to subdue and annihilate them. But +Albine reappeared before him like a tall flower that had sprung and +grown beautiful in that soil. She was the natural blossom of that +corruption, delicate in the sunshine, her white shoulders expanding in +youthfulness, her whole being so fraught with the gladness of life, that +she leaped from her stem and darted upon his mouth, scenting him with +her long ripple of laughter. + +A cry burst from the priest. He had felt a burning touch upon his lips. +A stream as of fire coursed through his veins. And then, in search +of refuge, he threw himself on his knees before the statuette of the +Immaculate Conception, exclaiming, with folded hands: + +‘Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me!’ + + + + +XVII + +The Immaculate Conception, set on the walnut chest of drawers, was +smiling softly, with her slender lips, marked by a dash of carmine. Her +form was small and wholly white. Her long white veil, falling from head +to foot, had but an imperceptible thread of gold around its edge. Her +gown, draped in long straight folds over a sexless figure, was fastened +around her flexible neck. Not a single lock of her chestnut hair peeped +forth. Her countenance was rosy, with clear eyes upturned to heaven: her +hands were clasped--rosy, childlike hands, whose finger-tips appeared +beneath the folds of her veil, above the azure scarf which seemed to +girdle her waist with two streaming ends of the firmament. Of all her +womanly charms not one was bared, except her feet, adorable feet which +trod the mystical eglantine. And from those nude feet sprang golden +roses, like the natural efflorescence of her twofold purity of flesh. + +‘Virgin most faithful, pray for me,’ the priest despairingly pleaded. + +This Virgin had never distressed him. She was not a mother yet; she +did not offer Jesus to him, her figure did not yet present the rounded +outlines of maternity. She was not the Queen of Heaven descending, +crowned with gold and clothed in gold like a princess of the earth, +borne in triumph by a flight of cherubim. She had never assumed an +awesome mien; had never spoken to him with the austere severity of an +all-powerful mistress, the very sight of whom must bow all foreheads +to the dust. He could dare to look on her and love her, without fear of +being moved by the gentle wave of her chestnut hair; her bare feet alone +excited his affection, those feet of love which blossomed like a garden +of chastity in too miraculous a manner for him to seek to cover them +with kisses. She scented his room with lily-like fragrance. She was +indeed the silver lily planted in a golden vase, she was precious, +eternal, impeccable purity. Within the white veil, so closely drawn +round her, there could be nothing human--only a virgin flame, burning +with ever even glow. At night when he went to bed, in the morning +when he woke, he could see her there, still and ever wearing that same +ecstatic smile. + +‘Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother ever-virgin, pray for me!’ +he stammered in his fear, pressing close to the Virgin’s feet, as if he +could hear Albine’s sonorous footfalls behind him. ‘You are my refuge, +the source of my joy, the seat of my wisdom, the tower of ivory in +which I have shut up my purity. I place myself in your spotless hands, I +beseech you to take me, to cover me with a corner of your veil, to +hide me beneath your innocence, behind the hallowed rampart of your +garment--so that no fleshly breath may reach me. I need you, I die +without you, I shall feel for ever parted from you, if you do not bear +me away in your helpful arms, far hence into the glowing whiteness +wherein you dwell. O Mary, conceived without sin, annihilate me in the +depths of the immaculate snow that falls from your every limb. You are +the miracle of eternal chastity. Your race has sprung from a very beam +of grace, like some wondrous tree unsown by any germ. Your son, Jesus, +was born of the breath of God; you yourself were born without defilement +of your mother’s womb, and I would believe that this virginity goes back +thus from age to age in endless unwittingness of flesh. Oh! to live, to +grow up outside the pale of the senses! Oh! to perpetuate life solely by +the contact of a celestial kiss!’ + +This despairing appeal, this cry of purified longing, calmed the young +priest’s fears. The Virgin--wholly white, with eyes turned heavenward, +appeared to smile more tenderly with her thin red lips. And in a +softened voice he went on: + +‘I should like to be a child once more. I should like to be always a +child, walking in the shadow of your gown. When I was quite little, I +clasped my hands when I uttered the name of Mary. My cradle was +white, my body was white, my every thought was white. I could see you +distinctly, I could hear you calling me, I went towards you in the light +of a smile over scattered rose-petals. And nought else did I feel or +think, I lived but just enough to be a flower at your feet. No one +should grow up. You would have around you none but fair young heads, a +crowd of children who would love you with pure hands, unsullied lips, +tender limbs, stainless as if fresh from a bath of milk. To kiss a +child’s cheek is to kiss its soul. A child alone can say your name +without befouling it. In later years our lips grow tainted and reek of +our passions. Even I, who love you so much, and have given myself to +you, I dare not at all times call on you, for I would not let you +come in contact with the impurities of my manhood. I have prayed and +chastised my flesh, I have slept in your keeping, and lived in chastity; +and yet I weep to see that I am not yet dead enough to this world to +be your betrothed. O Mary! adorable Virgin, why can I not be only five +years old--why could I not remain the child who pressed his lips to your +pictures? I would take you to my heart, I would lay you by my side, I +would clasp and kiss you like a friend--like a girl of my own age. Your +close hanging garments, your childish veil, your blue scarf--all that +youthfulness which makes you like an elder sister would be mine. I would +not try to kiss your locks, for hair is a naked thing which should +not be seen; but I would kiss your bare feet, one after the other, for +nights and nights together, until my lips should have shred the petals +of those golden roses, those mystical roses of our veins.’ + +He stopped, waiting for the Virgin to look down upon him and touch +his forehead with the edges of her veil. But she remained enwrapped +in muslin to her neck and finger-nails and ankles, so slim, so +etherealised, that she already seemed to be above earth, to be wholly +heaven’s own. + +‘Well, then,’ he went on more wildly still, ‘grant that I become a child +again, O kindly Virgin! Virgin most powerful. Grant that I may be only +five years old. Rid me of my senses, rid me of my manhood. Let a miracle +sweep away all the man that has grown up within me. You reign in heaven, +nothing is easier to you than to change me, to rid me of all my strength +so that evermore I may be unable to raise my little finger without your +leave. I wish never more to feel either nerve, or muscle, or the beating +of my heart. I long to be simply a thing--a white stone at your feet, +on which you will leave but a perfume; a stone that will not move from +where you cast it, but will remain earless and eyeless, content to lie +beneath your heel, unable to think of foulness! Oh! then what bliss +for me! I shall reach without an effort and at a bound my dream of +perfection. I shall at last proclaim myself your true priest. I shall +become what all my studies, my prayers, my five years of initiation +have been unable to make me. Yes, I reject life; I say that the death of +mankind is better than abomination. Everything is stained; everywhere is +love tainted. Earth is steeped in impurity, whose slightest drops yield +growths of shame. But that I may be perfect, O Queen of angels, hearken +to my prayer, and grant it! Make me one of those angels that have only +two great wings behind their cheeks; I shall then no longer have a body, +no longer have any limbs; I will fly to you if you call me. I shall be +but a mouth to sing your praises, a pair of spotless wings to cradle +you in your journeys through the heavens. O death! death! Virgin, most +venerable, grant me the death of all! I will love you for the death of +my body, the death of all that lives and multiplies. I will consummate +with you the sole marriage that my heart desires. I will ascend, ever +higher and higher, till I have reached the brasier in which you shine +in splendour. There one beholds a mighty planet, an immense white rose, +whose every petal glows like a moon, a silver throne whence you beam +with such a blaze of innocence that heaven itself is all illumined by +the gleam of your veil alone. All that is white, the early dawns, the +snow on inaccessible peaks, the lilies barely opening, the water of +hidden, unknown springs, the milky sap of the plants untouched by +the sun, the smiles of maidens, the souls of children dead in their +cradles--all rains upon your white feet. And I will rise to your mouth +like a subtle flame; I will enter into you by your parted lips, and +the bridal will be fulfilled, while the archangels are thrilled by our +joyfulness. Oh, to be maiden, to love in maidenhood, to preserve +amid the sweetest kisses one’s maiden whiteness! To possess all love, +stretched on the wings of swans, in a sky of purity, in the arms of +a mistress of light, whose caresses are but raptures of the soul! Oh, +there lies the perfection, the super-human dream, the yearning which +shatters my very bones, the joy which bears me up to heaven! O Mary, +Vessel of Election, rid me of all that is human in me, so that you may +fearlessly surrender to me the treasure of your maidenhood!’ + +And then Abbé Mouret, felled by fever, his teeth chattering, swooned +away on the floor. + + + + + +BOOK II + + + + +I + +Through calico curtains, carefully drawn across the two large windows, +a pale white light like that of breaking day filtered into the room. It +was a lofty and spacious room, fitted up with old Louis XV. furniture, +the woodwork painted white, the upholstery showing a pattern of red +flowers on a leafy ground. On the piers above the doors on either side +of the alcove were faded paintings still displaying the rosy flesh +of flying Cupids, whose games it was now impossible to follow. The +wainscoting with oval panels, the folding doors, the rounded ceiling +(once sky-blue and framed with scrolls, medallions, and bows of +flesh-coloured ribbons), had all faded to the softest grey. Opposite the +windows the large alcove opened beneath banks of clouds which plaster +Cupids drew aside, leaning over, and peeping saucily towards the bed. +And like the windows, the alcove was curtained with coarsely hemmed +calico, whose simplicity seemed strange in this room where lingered a +perfume of whilom luxury and voluptuousness. + +Seated near a pier table, on which a little kettle bubbled over a +spirit-lamp, Albine intently watched the alcove curtains. She was +gowned in white, her hair gathered up in an old lace kerchief, her hands +drooping wearily, as she kept watch with the serious mien of youthful +womanhood. A faint breathing, like that of a slumbering child, could be +heard in the deep silence. But she grew restless after a few minutes, +and could not restrain herself from stepping lightly towards the alcove +and raising one of the curtains. On the edge of the big bed lay Serge, +apparently asleep, with his head resting on his bent arm. During his +illness his hair had lengthened, and his beard had grown. He looked very +white, with sunken eyes and pallid lips. + +Moved by the sight Albine was about to let the curtain fall again. But +Serge faintly murmured, ‘I am not asleep.’ + +He lay perfectly still with his head on his arm, without stirring even +a finger, as if overwhelmed by delightful weariness. His eyes had slowly +opened, and his breath blew lightly on one of his hands, raising the +golden down on his fair skin. + +‘I heard you,’ he murmured again. ‘You were walking very gently.’* + + * From this point in the original Serge and Albine thee and thou + one another; but although this _tutoiement_ has some bearing on + the development of the story, it was impossible to preserve it + in an English translation.--ED. + +His voice enchanted her. She went up to his bed and crouched beside it +to bring her face on a level with his own. ‘How are you?’ she asked, and +then continued: ‘Oh! you are well now. Do you know, I used to cry the +whole way home when I came back from over yonder with bad news of you. +They told me you were delirious, and that if your dreadful fever did +spare your life, it would destroy your reason. Oh, didn’t I kiss your +uncle Pascal when he brought you here to recruit your health!’ + +Then she tucked in his bed-clothes like a young mother. + +‘Those burnt-up rocks over yonder, you see, were no good to you. You +need trees, and coolness, and quiet. The doctor hasn’t even told a soul +that he was hiding you away here. That’s a secret between himself and +those who love you. He thought you were lost. Nobody will ever disturb +you, you may be sure of that! Uncle Jeanbernat is smoking his pipe by +his lettuce bed. The others will get news of you on the sly. Even the +doctor isn’t coming back any more. I am to be your doctor now. You don’t +want any more physic, it seems. What you now want is to be loved; do you +see?’ + +He did not seem to hear her, his brain as yet was void. His eyes, +although his head remained motionless, wandered inquiringly round the +room, and it struck her that he was wondering where he might be. + +‘This is my room,’ she said. ‘I have given it to you. Isn’t it a pretty +one? I took the finest pieces of furniture out of the lumber attic, and +then I made those calico curtains to prevent the daylight from dazzling +me. And you’re not putting me out a bit. I shall sleep on the second +floor. There are three or four empty rooms there.’ + +Still he looked anxious. + +‘You’re alone?’ he asked. + +‘Yes; why do you ask that?’ + +He made no answer, but muttered wearily: ‘I have been dreaming, I am +always dreaming. I hear bells ringing, and they tire me.’ + +And after a pause he went on: ‘Go and shut the door, bolt it; I want you +to be alone, quite alone.’ + +When she came back, bringing a chair with her, and sat down by his +pillow, he looked as gleeful as a child, and kept on saying: ‘Nobody can +come in now. I shall not hear those bells any more. When you are talking +to me, it rests me.’ + +‘Would you like something to drink?’ she asked. + +He made a sign that he was not thirsty. He looked at Albine’s hands as +if so astonished, so delighted to see them, that with a smile she laid +one on the edge of his pillow. Then he let his head glide down, and +rested his cheek against that small, cool hand, saying, with a light +laugh: ‘Ah! it’s as soft as silk. It is just as if it were sending a +cool breeze through my hair. Don’t take it away, please.’ + +Then came another long spell of silence. They gazed on one another with +loving kindliness--Albine calmly scanning herself in the convalescent’s +eyes, Serge apparently listening to some faint whisper from the small, +cool hand. + +‘Your hand is so nice,’ he said once more. ‘You can’t fancy what good it +does me. It seems to steal inside me, and take away all the pain in my +limbs. It’s as if I were being soothed all over, relieved, cured.’ + +He gently rubbed his cheek against it, with growing animation, as if he +were at last coming back to life. + +‘You won’t give me anything nasty to drink, will you? You won’t worry me +with all sorts of physic? Your hand is quite enough for me. I have come +here for you to put it there under my head.’ + +‘Dear Serge,’ said Albine softly, ‘how you must have suffered.’ + +‘Suffered! yes, yes; but it’s a long time ago. I slept badly, I had such +frightful dreams. If I could, I would tell you all about it.’ + +He closed his eyes for a moment and strove hard to remember. + +‘I can see nothing but darkness,’ he stammered. ‘It is very odd, I +have just come back from a long journey. I don’t even know now where I +started from. I had fever, I know, a fever that raced through my veins +like a wild beast. That was it--now I remember. The whole time I had a +nightmare, in which I seemed to be crawling along an endless underground +passage; and every now and then I had an attack of intolerable pain, and +then the passage would be suddenly walled up. A shower of stones fell +from overhead, the side walls closed in, and there I stuck, panting, +mad to get on; and then I bored into the obstacle and battered away with +feet and fists, and skull, despairing of ever being able to get through +the ever increasing mound of rubbish. At other times, I only had to +touch it with my finger and it vanished: I could then walk freely along +the widened gallery, weary only from the pangs of my attack.’ + +Albine tried to lay a hand upon his lips. + +‘No,’ said he, ‘it doesn’t tire me to talk. I can whisper to you +here, you see. I feel as if I were thinking and you could hear me. The +queerest point about that underground journey of mine was that I hadn’t +the faintest idea of turning back again; I got obstinate, although I had +the thought before me that it would take me thousands of years to clear +away a single heap of wreckage. It seemed a fated task, which I had to +fulfil under pain of the greatest misfortunes. So, with my knees all +bruised, and my forehead bumping against the hard rock, I set myself +to work with all my might, so that I might get to the end as quickly as +possible. The end? What was it?... Ah! I do not know, I do not know.’ + +He closed his eyes and pondered dreamily. Then, with a careless pout, he +again sank upon Albine’s hand and said laughing: ‘How silly of me! I am +a child.’ + +But the girl, to ascertain if he were wholly hers, questioned him and +led him back to the confused recollections he had tried to summon up. +He could remember nothing, however; he was truly in a happy state of +childhood. He fancied that he had been born the day before. + +‘Oh! I am not strong enough yet,’ he said. ‘My furthest recollection is +of a bed which burned me all over, my head rolled about on a pillow +like a pan of live coals, and my feet wore away with perpetual rubbing +against each other. I was very bad, I know. It seemed as if I were +having my body changed, as if I were being taken all to pieces, and put +together again like some broken machine.’ + +He laughed at this simile, and continued: ‘I shall be all new again. My +illness has given me a fine cleaning. But what was it you were asking +me? No, nobody was there. I was suffering all by myself at the bottom +of a black hole. Nobody, nobody. And beyond that, nothing--I can see +nothing.... Let me be your child, will you? You shall teach me to walk. +I can see nothing else but you now. I care for nothing but you.... I +can’t remember, I tell you. I came, you took me, and that is all.’ + +And restfully, pettingly, he said once more: ‘How warm your hand is now! +it is as nice as the sun. Don’t let us talk any more. It makes me hot.’ + +A quivering silence fell from the blue ceiling of the large room. The +spirit lamp had just gone out, and from the kettle came a finer and +finer thread of steam. Albine and Serge, their heads side by side upon +the pillow, gazed at the large calico curtains drawn across the windows. +Serge’s eyes, especially, were attracted to them as to the very source +of light, in which he sought to steep himself, as in diluted sunshine +fitted to his weakness. He could tell that the sun lay behind that +yellower gleam upon one corner of the curtain, and that sufficed to make +him feel himself again. Meanwhile a far-off rustle of leaves came upon +his listening ear, and against the right-hand window the clean-cut +greenish shadow of a lofty bough brought him disturbing thoughts of the +forest which he could feel to be near him. + +‘Would you like me to open the curtains?’ asked Albine, misunderstanding +his steady gaze. + +‘No, no,’ he hastily replied. + +‘It’s a fine day; you would see the sunlight and the trees.’ + +‘No, please don’t.... I don’t want to see anything outside. That bough +there tires me with its waving and its rising, as if it was alive. Leave +your hand here, I will go to sleep. All is white now. It’s so nice.’ + +And then he calmly fell asleep, while Albine watched beside him and +breathed upon his face to make his slumber cool. + + + + +II + +The fine weather broke up on the morrow, and it rained heavily. +Serge’s fever returned, and he spent a day of suffering, with his eyes +despairingly fixed upon the curtains through which the light now fell +dim and ashy grey as in a cellar. He could no longer see a trace of +sunshine, and he looked in vain for the shadow that had scared him, the +shadow of that lofty bough which had disappeared amid the mist and the +pouring rain, and seemed to have carried away with it the whole forest. +Towards evening he became slightly delirious and cried out to Albine +that the sun was dead, that he could hear all the sky, all the country +bewailing the death of the sun. She had to soothe him like a child, +promising him the sun, telling him that it would come back again, that +she would give it to him. But he also grieved for the plants. The seeds, +he said, must be suffering underground, waiting for the return of light; +they had nightmares, they also dreamed that they were crawling along an +underground passage, hindered by mounds of ruins, struggling madly to +reach the sunshine. And he began to weep and sob out in low tones that +winter was a disease of the earth, and that he should die with the +earth, unless the springtide healed them both. + +For three days more the weather was truly frightful. The downpour burst +over the trees with the awful clamour of an overflowing river. Gusts +of wind rolled by and beat against the windows with the violence of +enormous waves. Serge had insisted on Albine closing the shutters. By +lamplight he was no longer troubled by the gloom of the pallid curtains, +he no longer felt the greyness of the sky glide in through the smallest +chinks, and flow up to him like a cloud of dust intent on burying him. +However, increasing apathy crept upon him as he lay there with shrunken +arms and pallid features; his weakness augmented as the earth grew more +ailing. At times, when the clouds were inky black, when the bending +trees cracked, and the grass lay limp beneath the downpour like the +hair of a drowned woman, he all but ceased to breathe, and seemed to +be passing away, shattered by the hurricane. But at the first gleam of +light, at the tiniest speck of blue between two clouds, he breathed once +more and drank in the soothing calm of the drying leaves, the whitening +paths, the fields quaffing their last draught of water. Albine now also +longed for the sun; twenty times a day would she go to the window on the +landing to scan the sky, delighted at the smallest scrap of white that +she espied, but perturbed when she perceived any dusky, copper-tinted, +hail-laden masses, and ever dreading lest some sable cloud should kill +her dear patient. She talked of sending for Doctor Pascal, but Serge +would not have it. + +‘To-morrow there will be sunlight on the curtains,’ he said, ‘and then I +shall be well again.’ + +One evening when his condition was most alarming, Albine again gave him +her hand to rest his cheek upon. But when she saw that it brought him no +relief she wept to find herself powerless. Since he had fallen into the +lethargy of winter she had felt too weak to drag him unaided from the +nightmare in which he was struggling. She needed the assistance of +spring. She herself was fading away, her arms grew cold, her breath +scant; she no longer knew how to breathe life into him. For hours +together she would roam about the spacious dismal room, and as she +passed before the mirror and saw herself darkening in it, she thought +she had become hideous. + +One morning, however, as she raised his pillows, not daring to try again +the broken spell of her hands, she fancied that she once more caught the +first day’s smile on Serge’s lips. + +‘Open the shutters,’ he said faintly. + +She thought him still delirious, for only an hour previously she had +seen but a gloomy sky on looking out from the landing. + +‘Hush, go to sleep,’ she answered sadly; ‘I have promised to wake you at +the very first ray---- Sleep on, there’s no sun out yet.’ + +‘Yes, I can feel it, its light is there.... Open the shutters.’ + + + + +III + +And there, indeed, the sunlight was. When Albine had opened the +shutters, behind the large curtains, the genial yellow glow once more +warmed a patch of the white calico. But that which impelled Serge to sit +up in bed was the sight of the shadowy bough, the branch that for him +heralded the return of life. All the resuscitated earth, with its wealth +of greenery, its waters, and its belts of hills, was in that greenish +blur that quivered with the faintest breath of air. It no longer +disturbed him; he greedily watched it rocking, and hungered for the +fortified powers of the vivifying sap which to him it symbolised. +Albine, happy once more, exclaimed, as she supported him in her arms: +‘Ah! my dear Serge, the winter is over. Now we are saved.’ + +He lay down again, his eyes already brighter, and his voice clearer. +‘To-morrow I shall be very strong,’ he said. ‘You shall draw back the +curtains. I want to see everything.’ + +But on the morrow he was seized with childish fear. He would not hear of +the windows being opened wide. ‘By-and-by,’ he muttered, ‘later on.’ He +was fearful, he dreaded the first beam of light that would flash upon +his eyes. Evening came on, and still he had been unable to make up +his mind to look upon the sun. He remained thus all day long, his face +turned towards the curtains, watching on their transparent tissue the +pallor of morn, the glow of noon, the violet tint of twilight, all +the hues, all the emotions of the sky. There were pictured even the +quiverings of the warm air at the light stroke of a bird’s wing, even +the delight of earth’s odours throbbing in a sunbeam. Behind that veil, +behind that softened phantasm of the mighty life without, he could hear +the rise of spring. He even felt stifled at times when in spite of the +curtains’ barrier the rush of the earth’s new blood came upon him too +strongly. + +The following morning he was still asleep when Albine, to hasten his +recovery, cried out to him: + +‘Serge! Serge! here’s the sun!’ + +She swiftly drew back the curtains and threw the windows wide open. He +raised himself and knelt upon his bed, oppressed, swooning, his hands +tightly pressed against his breast to keep his heart from breaking. +Before him stretched the broad sky, all blue, a boundless blue; and +in it he washed away his sufferings, surrendering himself to it, and +drinking from it sweetness and purity and youth. The bough whose shadow +he had noted jutted across the window and alone set against the azure +sea its vigorous growth of green; but even this was too much for his +sickly fastidiousness; it seemed to him that the very swallows flying +past besmeared the purity of the azure. He was being born anew. He +raised little involuntary cries, as he felt himself flooded with light, +assailed by waves of warm air, while a whirling, whelming torrent of +life flowed within him. As last with outstretched hands he sank back +upon his pillow in a swoon of joy. + +What a happy, delicious day that was! The sun came in from the right, +far away from the alcove. Throughout the morning Serge watched it +creeping onward. He could see it coming towards him, yellow as gold, +perching here and there on the old furniture, frolicking in corners, +at times gliding along the ground like a strip of ribbon. It was a slow +deliberate march, the approach of a fond mistress stretching her golden +limbs, drawing nigh to the alcove with rhythmic motion, with voluptuous +lingering, which roused intense desire. At length, towards two o’clock, +the sheet of sunlight left the last armchair, climbed along the +coverlet, and spread over the bed like loosened locks of hair. To its +glowing fondling Serge surrendered his wasted hands: with his eyes +half-closed, he could feel fiery kisses thrilling each of his fingers; +he lay in a bath of light, in the embrace of a glowing orb. And when +Albine leaned over smiling, ‘Let me be,’ he stammered, his eyes now +shut; ‘don’t hold me so tightly. How do you manage to hold me like this +in your arms?’ + +But the sun crept down the bed again and slowly retreated to the left; +and as Serge watched it bend once more and settle on chair after chair, +he bitterly regretted that he had not kept it to his breast. Albine +still sat upon the side of the bed, and the pair of them, an arm round +each other’s neck, watched the slow paling of the sky. At times a mighty +thrill seemed to make it blanch. Serge’s languid eyes now wandered over +it more freely and detected in it exquisite tints of which he had never +dreamed. It was not all blue, but rosy blue, lilac blue, tawny blue, +living flesh, vast and spotless nudity heaving like a woman’s bosom +in the breeze. At every glance into space he found a fresh +surprise--unknown nooks, coy smiles, bewitching rounded outlines, gauzy +veils which were cast over the mighty, glorious forms of goddesses +in the depths of peeping paradises. And with his limbs lightened by +suffering he winged his way amid that shimmering silk, that stainless +down of azure. The sun sank lower and lower, the blue melted into purest +gold, the sky’s living flesh gleamed fairer still, and then was slowly +steeped in all the hues of gloom. Not a cloud--nought but gradual +disappearance, a disrobing which left behind it but a gleam of modesty +on the horizon. And at last the broad sky slumbered. + +‘Oh, the dear baby!’ exclaimed Albine, as she looked at Serge, who had +fallen asleep upon her neck at the same time as the heavens. + +She laid him down in bed and shut the windows. Next morning, however, +they were opened at break of day. Serge could no longer live without the +sunlight. His strength was growing, he was becoming accustomed to the +gusts of air which sent the alcove curtains flying. Even the azure, the +everlasting azure, began to pall upon him. He grew weary of being white +and swanlike, of ever swimming on heaven’s limpid lake. He came to wish +for a pack of black clouds, some crumbling of the skies, that would +break upon the monotony of all that purity. And as his health returned, +he hungered for keener sensations. He now spent hours in gazing at the +verdant bough: he would have liked to see it grow, expand, and throw +out its branches to his very bed. It no longer satisfied him, but +only roused desires, speaking to him as it did of all the trees whose +deep-sounding call he could hear although their crests were hidden from +his sight. An endless whispering of leaves, a chattering as of running +water, a fluttering as of wings, all blended in one mighty, long-drawn, +quivering voice, resounded in his ears. + +‘When you are able to get up,’ said Albine, ‘you shall sit at the +window. You will see the lovely garden!’ + +He closed his eyes and murmured gently: + +‘Oh! I can see it, I hear it; I know where the trees are, where the +water runs, where the violets grow.’ + +And then he added: ‘But I can’t see it clearly, I see it without any +light. I must be very strong before I shall be able to get as far as the +window.’ + +At times when Albine thought him asleep, she would vanish for hours. And +on coming in again, she would find him burning with impatience, his eyes +gleaming with curiosity. + +‘Where have you been?’ he would call to her, taking hold of her arms, +and feeling her skirts, her bodice, and her cheeks. ‘You smell of all +sorts of nice things. Ah! you have been walking on the grass?’ + +At this she would laugh and show him her shoes wet with dew. + +‘You have been in the garden! you have been in the garden!’ he then +exclaimed delightedly. ‘I knew it. When you came in you seemed like a +large flower. You have brought the whole garden in your skirt.’ + +He would keep her by him, inhaling her like a nosegay. Sometimes she +came back with briars, leaves, or bits of wood entangled in her clothes. +These he would remove and hide under his pillow like relics. One day she +brought him a bunch of roses. At the sight of them he was so affected +that he wept. He kissed them and went to sleep with them in his arms. +But when they faded, he felt so keenly grieved that he forbade Albine to +gather any more. He preferred her, said he, for she was as fresh and as +balmy; and she never faded, her hands, her hair, her cheeks were always +fragrant. At last he himself would send her into the garden, telling her +not to come back before an hour. + +‘In that way,’ he said, ‘I shall get sunlight, fresh air, and roses till +to-morrow.’ + +Often, when he saw her coming in out of breath, he would cross-examine +her. Which path had she taken? Had she wandered among the trees, or had +she gone round the meadow side? Had she seen any nests? Had she sat down +behind a bush of sweetbriar, or under an oak, or in the shade of a clump +of poplars? But when she answered him and tried to describe the garden +to him, he would put his hand to her lips. + +‘No, no,’ he said gently. ‘It is wrong of me. I don’t want to know. I +would rather see it myself.’ + +Then he would relapse into his favourite dream of all the greenery which +he could feel only a step away. For several days he lived on that +dream alone. At first, he said, he had perceived the garden much more +distinctly. As he gained strength, the surging blood that warmed +his veins seemed to blur his dreamy imaginings. His uncertainties +multiplied. He could no longer tell whether the trees were on the right, +whether the water flowed at the bottom of the garden, or whether some +great rocks were not piled below his windows. He talked softly of all +this to himself. On the slightest indication he would rear wondrous +plans, which the song of a bird, the creaking of a bough, the scent of a +flower, would suddenly make him modify, impelling him to plant a thicket +of lilac in one spot, and in another to place flower-beds where formerly +there had been a lawn. Every hour he designed some new garden, much to +the amusement of Albine, who, whenever she surprised him at it, would +exclaim with a burst of laughter: ‘That’s not it, I assure you. You +can’t have any idea of it. It’s more beautiful than all the beautiful +things you ever saw. So don’t go racking your head about it. The +garden’s mine, and I will give it to you. Be easy, it won’t run away.’ + +Serge, who had already been so afraid of the light, felt considerable +trepidation when he found himself strong enough to go and rest his +elbows on the window-sill. Every evening he once more repeated, +‘To-morrow,’ and ‘To-morrow.’ He would turn away in his bed with +a shudder when Albine came in, and would cry out that she smelt of +hawthorn, that she had scratched her hands in burrowing a hole through +a hedge to bring him all its odour. One morning, however, she suddenly +took him up in her arms, and almost carrying him to the window, held him +there and forced him to look out and see. + +‘What a coward you are!’ she exclaimed with her fine ringing laugh. + +And waving one hand all round the landscape, she repeated with an air of +triumph, full of tender promise: ‘The Paradou! The Paradou!’ + +Serge looked out upon it, speechless. + + + + +IV + +A sea of verdure, in front, to right, to left, everywhere. A sea rolling +its surging billows of leaves as far as the horizon, unhindered by +house, or screen of wall, or dusty road. A desert, virgin, hallowed +sea, displaying its wild sweetness in the innocence of solitude. The +sun alone came thither, weltering in the meadows in a sheet of gold, +threading the paths with the frolicsome scamper of its beams, letting +its fine-spun, flaming locks droop through the trees, sipping from the +springs with amber lips that thrilled the water. Beneath that flaming +dust the vast garden ran riot like some delighted beast let loose at +the world’s very end, far from everything and free from everything. +So prodigal was the luxuriance of foliage, so overflowing the tide of +herbage, that from end to end it all seemed hidden, flooded, submerged. +Nought could be seen but slopes of green, stems springing up like +fountains, billowy masses, woodland curtains closely drawn, mantles of +creepers trailing over the ground, and flights of giant boughs swooping +down upon every side. + +Amidst that tremendous luxuriance of vegetation even lengthy scrutiny +could barely make out the bygone plan of the Paradou. In the foreground, +in a sort of immense amphitheatre, must have lain the flower garden, +whose fountains were now sunken and dry, its stone balustrades +shattered, its flight of steps all warped, and its statues overthrown, +patches of their whiteness gleaming amidst the dusky stretches of turf. +Farther back, behind the blue line of a sheet of water, stretched a maze +of fruit-trees; farther still rose towering woodland, its dusky, violet +depths streaked with bands of light. It was a forest which had regained +virginity, an endless stretch of tree-tops rising one above the other, +tinged with yellowish green and pale green and vivid green, according to +the variety of the species. + +On the right, the forest scaled some hills, dotting them with little +clumps of pine-trees, and dying away in straggling brushwood, while a +huge barrier of barren rock, heaped together like the fallen wreckage of +a mountain, shut out all view beyond. Flaming growths there cleaved the +rugged soil, monstrous plants lay motionless in the heat, like drowsing +reptiles; a silvery streak, a foamy splash that glistened in the +distance like a cloud of pearls, revealed the presence of a waterfall, +the source of those tranquil streams that lazily skirted the +flower-garden. Lastly, on the left the river flowed through a vast +stretch of meadowland, where it parted into four streamlets which winded +fitfully beneath the rushes, between the willows, behind the taller +trees. And far away into the distance grassy patches prolonged the +lowland freshness, forming a landscape steeped in bluish haze, where +a gleam of daylight slowly melted into the verdant blue of sunset. The +Paradou--its flower-garden, forest, rocks, streams, and meadows--filled +the whole breadth of sky. + +‘The Paradou!’ stammered Serge, stretching out his arms as if to clasp +the entire garden to his breast. + +He tottered, and Albine had to seat him in an armchair. There he sat +for two whole hours intently gazing, without opening his lips, his chin +resting on his hands. At times his eyelids fluttered and a flush rose +to his cheeks. Slowly he looked, profoundly amazed. It was all too vast, +too complex, too overpowering. + +‘I cannot see, I cannot understand,’ he cried, stretching out his hands +to Albine with a gesture of uttermost weariness. + +The girl came and leant over the back of his armchair. Taking his head +between her hands, she compelled him to look again, and softly said: + +‘It’s all our own. Nobody will ever come in. When you are well again, we +will go for walks there. We shall have room enough for walking all our +lives. We’ll go wherever you like. Where would you like to go?’ + +He smiled. + +‘Oh! not far,’ he murmured. ‘The first day only two steps or so beyond +the door. I should surely fall---- See, I’ll go over there, under that +tree close to the window.’ + +But she resumed: ‘Would you like to go into the flower-garden, the +parterre? You shall see the roses--they have over-run everything, even +the old paths are all covered with them. Or would you like the orchard +better? I can only crawl into it on my hands and knees, the boughs are +so bowed down with fruit. But we’ll go even farther if you feel strong +enough. We’ll go as far as the forest, right into the depths of shade, +far, far away; so far that we’ll sleep out there when night steals over +us. Or else, some morning, we can climb up yonder to the summit of +those rocks. You’ll see the plants which make me quake; you’ll see the +springs, such a shower of water! What fun it will be to feel the spray +all over our faces!... But if you prefer to walk along the hedges, +beside a brook, we must go round by the meadows. It is so nice under +the willows in the evening, at sunset. One can lie down on the grass and +watch the little green frogs hopping about on the rushes.’ + +‘No, no,’ said Serge, ‘you weary me, I don’t want to go so far.... I +will only go a couple of steps, that will be more than enough.’ + +‘Even I,’ she still continued, ‘even I have not yet been able to go +everywhere. There are many nooks I don’t know. I have walked and walked +in it for years, and still I feel sure there are unknown spots around, +places where the shade must be cooler and the turf softer. Listen, I +have always fancied there must be one especially in which I should like +to live for ever. I know it’s somewhere; I must have passed it by, or +perhaps it’s hidden so far away that I have never even got as far, with +all my rambles. But we’ll look for it together, Serge, won’t we? and +live there.’ + +‘No, no, be quiet,’ stammered the young man. ‘I don’t understand what +you are saying. You’re killing me.’ + +For a moment she let him sob in her arms. It troubled and grieved her +that she could find no words to soothe him. + +‘Isn’t the Paradou as beautiful, then, as you fancied it?’ she asked at +last. + +He raised his face and answered: + +‘I don’t know. It was quite little, and now it is ever growing bigger +and bigger---- Take me away, hide me.’ + +She led him back to bed, soothing him like a child, lulling him with a +fib. + +‘There, there! it’s not true, there is no garden. It was only a story +that I told you. Go, sleep in peace.’ + + + + +V + +Every day in this wise she made him sit at the window during the cool +hours of morning. He would now attempt to take a few steps, leaning the +while on the furniture. A rosy tint appeared upon his cheeks, and his +hands began to lose their waxy transparency. But, while he thus regained +health, his senses remained in a state of stupor which reduced him to +the vegetative life of some poor creature born only the day before. +Indeed, he was nothing but a plant; his sole perception was that of +the air which floated round him. He lacked the blood necessary for +the efforts of life, and remained, as it were, clinging to the soil, +imbibing all the sap he could. It was like a slow hatching in the warm +egg of springtide. Albine, remembering certain remarks of Doctor +Pascal, felt terrified at seeing him remain in this state, ‘innocent,’ +dull-witted like a little boy. She had heard it said that certain +maladies left insanity behind them. And she spent hours in gazing at him +and trying her utmost, as mothers do, to make him smile. But as yet he +had not laughed. When she passed her hand across his eyes, he never +saw, he never followed the shadow. Even when she spoke to him, he barely +turned his head in the direction whence the sound came. She had but one +consolation: he thrived splendidly, he was quite a handsome child. + +For another whole week she lavished the tenderest care on him. She +patiently waited for him to grow. And as she marked various symptoms +of awakening perception, her fears subsided and she began to think +that time might make a man of him. When she touched him now he started +slightly. Another time, one night, he broke into a feeble laugh. On the +morrow, when she had seated him at the window, she went down into the +garden, and ran about in it, calling to him the while. She vanished +under the trees, flitted across the sunny patches, and came back +breathless and clapping her hands. At first his wavering eyes failed +to perceive her. But as she started off again, perpetually playing at +hide-and-seek, reappearing behind every other bush, he was at last +able to follow the white gleam of her skirt; and when she suddenly came +forward and stood with upraised face below his window, he stretched out +his arms and seemed anxious to go down to her. But she came upstairs +again, and embraced him proudly: ‘Ah! you saw me, you saw me!’ she +cried. ‘You would like to come into the garden with me, would you +not?---- If you only knew how wretched you have made me these last few +days, with your stupid ways, never seeing me or hearing me!’ + +He listened to her, but apparently with some slight sensation of pain +that made him bend his neck in a shrinking way. + +‘You are better now, however,’ she went on. ‘Well enough to come down +whenever you like---- Why don’t you say anything? Have you lost your +tongue? Oh, what a baby! Why, I shall have to teach him how to talk!’ + +And thereupon she really did amuse herself by telling him the names of +the things he touched. He could only stammer, reiterating the syllables, +and failing to utter a single word plainly. However, she began to walk +him about the room, holding him up and leading him from the bed to the +window--quite a long journey. Two or three times he almost fell on the +way, at which she laughed. One day he fairly sat down on the floor, and +she had all the trouble in the world to get him up on his feet again. +Then she made him undertake the round of the room, letting him rest by +the way on the sofa and the chairs--a tour round a little world which +took up a good hour. At last he was able to venture on a few steps +alone. She would stand before him with outstretched hands, and move +backwards, calling him, so that he should cross the room in search of +her supporting arms. If he sulked and refused to walk, she would take +the comb from her hair and hold it out to him like a toy. Then he would +come to her and sit still in a corner for hours, playing with her comb, +and gently scratching his hands with its teeth. + +At last one morning she found him up. He had already succeeded in +opening one of the shutters, and was attempting to walk about without +leaning on the furniture. + +‘Good gracious, we are active this morning!’ she exclaimed gleefully. +‘Why, he will be jumping out of the window to-morrow if he has his own +way---- So you are quite strong now, eh?’ + +Serge’s answer was a childish laugh. His limbs were regaining the +strength of adolescence, but more perceptive sensations remained +unroused. He spent whole afternoons in gazing out on the Paradou, +pouting like a child that sees nought but whiteness and hears but the +vibration of sounds. He still retained the ignorance of urchinhood--his +sense of touch as yet so innocent that he failed to tell Albine’s gown +from the covers of the old armchairs. His eyes still stared wonderingly; +his movements still displayed the wavering hesitation of limbs which +scarce knew how to reach their goal; his state was one of incipient, +purely instinctive existence into which entered no knowledge of +surroundings. The man was not yet born within him. + +‘That’s right, you’ll act the silly, will you?’ muttered Albine. ‘We’ll +see.’ + +She took off her comb, and held it out to him. + +‘Will you have my comb?’ she said. ‘Come and fetch it.’ + +When she had got him out of the room, by retreating before him all the +way, she put her arm round his waist and helped him down each stair, +amusing him while she put her comb back, even tickling his neck with +a lock of her hair, so that he remained unaware that he was going +downstairs. But when he was in the hall, he became frightened at the +darkness of the passage. + +‘Just look!’ she cried, throwing the door wide open. + +It was like a sudden dawn, a curtain of shadow snatched aside, revealing +the joyousness of early day. The park spread out before them verdantly +limpid, freshly cool and deep as a spring. Serge, entranced, lingered +upon the threshold, with a hesitating desire to feel that luminous lake +with his foot. + +‘One would think you were afraid of wetting yourself,’ said Albine. +‘Don’t be frightened, the ground is safe enough.’ + +He had ventured to take one step, and was astonished at encountering the +soft resistance of the gravel. The first touch of the soil gave him a +shock; life seemed to rebound within him and to set him for a moment +erect, with expanding frame, while he drew long breaths. + +‘Come now, be brave,’ insisted Albine. ‘You know you promised me to +take five steps. We’ll go as far as the mulberry tree there under the +window---- There you can rest.’ + +It took him a quarter of an hour to make those five steps. After each +effort he stopped as if he had been obliged to tear up roots that held +him to the ground. + +The girl, pushing him along, said with a laugh: ‘You look just like a +walking tree.’ + +Having placed him with his back leaning against the mulberry tree, in +the rain of sunlight falling from its boughs, she bounded off and left +him, calling out to him that he must not stir. Serge, standing +there with drooping hands, slowly turned his head towards the park. +Terrestrial childhood met his gaze. The pale greenery was steeped in the +very milk of youth, flooded with golden brightness. The trees were still +in infancy, the flowers were as tender-fleshed as babes, the streams +were blue with the artless blue of lovely infantile eyes. Beneath every +leaf was some token of a delightful awakening. + +Serge had fixed his eyes upon a yellow breach which a wide path made in +front of him amidst a dense mass of foliage. At the very end, eastward, +some meadows, steeped in gold, looked like the luminous field upon which +the sun would descend, and he waited for the morn to take that path and +flow towards him. He could feel it coming in a warm breeze, so faint +at first that it barely brushed across his skin, but rising little by +little, and growing ever brisker till he was thrilled all over. He could +also taste it coming with a more and more pronounced savour, bringing +the healthful acridity of the open air, holding to his lips a feast of +sugary aromatics, sour fruits, and milky shoots. Further, he could smell +it coming with the perfumes which it culled upon its way--the scent of +earth, the scent of the shady woods, the scent of the warm plants, the +scent of living animals, a whole posy of scents, powerful enough to +bring on dizziness. He could likewise hear it coming with the rapid +flight of a bird skimming over the grass, waking the whole garden from +silence, giving voice to all it touched, and filling his ears with the +music of things and beings. Finally, he could see it coming from the end +of the path, from the meadows steeped in gold--yes, he could see that +rosy air, so bright that it lighted the way it took with a gleaming +smile, no bigger in the distance than a spot of daylight, but in a few +swift bounds transformed into the very splendour of the sun. And the +morn flowed up and beat against the mulberry tree against which Serge +was leaning. And he himself resuscitated amidst the childhood of the +morn. + +‘Serge! Serge!’ cried Albine, lost to sight behind the high shrubs of +the flower garden. ‘Don’t be afraid, I am here.’ + +But Serge no longer felt frightened. He was being born anew in the +sunshine, in that pure bath of light which streamed upon him. He was +being born anew at five-and-twenty, his senses hurriedly unclosing, +enraptured with the mighty sky, the joyful earth, the prodigy of +loveliness spread out around him. This garden, which he knew not only +the day before, now afforded him boundless delight. Everything filled +him with ecstasy, even the blades of grass, the pebbles in the paths, +the invisible puffs of air that flitted over his cheeks. His whole body +entered into possession of this stretch of nature; he embraced it +with his limbs, he drank it in with his lips, he inhaled it with his +nostrils, he carried it in his ears and hid it in the depths of his +eyes. It was his own. The roses of the flower garden, the lofty boughs +of the forest, the resounding rocks of the waterfall, the meadows which +the sun planted with blades of light, were his. Then he closed his eyes +and slowly reopened them that he might enjoy the dazzle of a second +wakening. + +‘The birds have eaten all the strawberries,’ said Albine disconsolately, +as she ran up to him. ‘See, I have only been able to find these two!’ + +But she stopped short a few steps away, heart-struck and gazing at Serge +with rapturous astonishment. ‘How handsome you are!’ she cried. + +She drew a little nearer; then stood there, absorbed in her +contemplation, and murmuring: ‘I had never, never seen you before.’ + +He had certainly grown taller. Clothed in a loose garment, he stood +erect, still somewhat slender, with finely moulded limbs, square chest, +and rounded shoulders. His head, slightly thrown back, was poised upon +a flexible and snowy neck, rimmed with brown behind. Health and strength +and power were on his face. He did not smile, his expression was that of +repose, with grave and tender mouth, firm cheeks, large nose, and grey, +clear, commanding eyes. The long locks that thickly covered his head +fell upon his shoulders in jetty curls; while a slender growth of hair, +through which gleamed his white skin, curled upon his upper lip and +chin. + +‘Oh! how handsome, how handsome you are!’ lingeringly repeated Albine, +crouching at his feet and gazing up at him with loving eyes. ‘But why +are you sulking with me? Why don’t you speak to me?’ + +Still he stood there and made no answer. His eyes were far away; he +never even saw that child at his feet. He spoke to himself in the +sunlight, and said: ‘How good the light is!’ + +That utterance sounded like a vibration of the sunlight itself. It fell +amid the silence in the faintest of whispers like a musical sigh, a +quiver of warmth and of life. For several days Albine had never heard +his voice, and now, like himself, it had altered. It seemed to her to +course through the park more sweetly than the melody of birds, more +imperiously than the wind that bends the boughs. It reigned, it ruled. +The whole garden heard it, though it had been but a faint and passing +breath, and the whole garden was thrilled with the joyousness it +brought. + +‘Speak to me,’ implored Albine. ‘You have never spoken to me like that. +When you were upstairs in your room, when you were not dumb, you talked +the silly prattle of a child. How is it I no longer know your voice? +Just now I thought it had come down from the trees, that it reached me +from every part of the garden, that it was one of those deep sighs that +used to worry me at night before you came. Listen, everything is keeping +silence to hear you speak again.’ + +But still he failed to recognise her presence. Tenderer grew her tones. +‘No, don’t speak if it tires you. Sit down beside me, and we will +remain here on the grass till the sun wanes. And look, I have found two +strawberries. Such trouble I had too! The birds eat up everything. One’s +for you, both if you like; or we can halve them, and taste each of them. +You’ll thank me, and then I shall hear you.’ + +But he would not sit down, he refused the strawberries, which Albine +pettishly threw away. She did not open her lips again. She would rather +have seen him ill, as in those earlier days when she had given him her +hand for a pillow, and had felt him coming back to life beneath the +cooling breath she blew upon his face. She cursed the returning health +which now made him stand in the light like a young unheeding god. Would +he be ever thus then, with never a glance for her? Would he never be +further healed, and at last see her and love her? And she dreamed of +once again being his healer, of accomplishing by the sole power of her +little hands the cure of the second childhood in which he remained. +She could clearly see that there was no spark in the depths of his grey +eyes, that his was but a pallid beauty like that of the statues which +had fallen among the nettles of the flower-garden. She rose and clasped +him, breathing on his neck to rouse him. But that morning Serge never +even felt the breath that lifted his silky beard. The sun got low, it +was time to go indoors. On reaching his room, Albine burst into tears. + +From that morning forward the invalid took a short walk in the garden +every day. He went past the mulberry tree, as far as the edge of the +terrace, where a wide flight of broken steps descended to the flowery +parterre. He grew accustomed to the open air, each bath of sunlight +brought him fresh vigour. A young chestnut tree, which had sprung from +some fallen nut between two stones of the balustrade, burst the resin +of its buds, and unfolded its leafy fans with far less vigour than he +progressed. One day, indeed, he even attempted to descend the steps, +but in this his strength failed him, and he sat down among the dane-wort +which had grown up between the cracks in the stone flags. Below, to the +left, he could see a small wood of roses. It was thither that he dreamt +of going. + +‘Wait a little longer,’ said Albine. ‘The scent of the roses is too +strong for you yet. I have never been able to sit long under the +rose-trees without feeling exhausted, light-headed, with a longing to +cry. Don’t be afraid, I will some day lead you to the rose-trees, and I +shall surely weep among them, for you make me very sad.’ + + + + +VI + +One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the +steps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearing +a way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last few +yards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a very +wood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps as +big as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of young +oaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collection +of plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, +everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest of +roses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, +so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on the +same stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, while +climbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended in +spindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fall +at the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood--narrow +footways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolled +in the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowers +of small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Some +sunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with bright +patterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and an +aroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on a +woman’s bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rose +bushes were full of songbirds’ nests. + +‘We must take care not to lose ourselves,’ said Albine, as she entered +the wood. ‘I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I was +able to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt at +every step.’ + +They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn out +with fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, +and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were on +the edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through the +wood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round blue +gap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from the +clearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushes +rising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangle +of thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, and +hung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tiny +apertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, +the light filtered like impalpable sunny dust. And from the vaulted roof +hung stray branches, chandeliers, as it were, thick clusters suspended +from green thread-like stems, armfuls of flowers that reached to the +ground, athwart some rent in the leafy ceiling, which trailed around +like a tattered curtain. + +Albine meanwhile was gazing at Serge asleep. She had never seen him so +utterly prostrated in body as now, his hands lying open on the turf, his +face deathly. So dead indeed he was to her that she thought she could +kiss his face without his even feeling it. And sadly, absently, she +busied her hands with shredding all the roses within her reach. Above +her head drooped an enormous cluster which brushed against her hair, set +roses on her twisted locks, her ears, her neck, and even threw a mantle +of the fragrant flowers across her shoulders. Higher up, under +her fingers, other roses rained down with large and tender petals +exquisitely formed, which in hue suggested the faintly flushing purity +of a maiden’s bosom. Like a living snowfall these roses already hid her +feet in the grass. And they climbed her knees, covered her skirt, +and smothered her to her waist; while three stray petals, which had +fluttered on to her bodice, just above her bosom, there looked like +three glimpses of her bewitching skin. + +‘Oh! the lazy fellow!’ she murmured, feeling bored and picking up two +handfuls of roses, which she flung in Serge’s face to wake him. + +He did not stir, however, but still lay there with the roses on his eyes +and mouth. This made Albine laugh. She stooped down, and with her whole +heart kissed both his eyes and his mouth, blowing as she kissed to drive +the rose petals away; but they remained upon his lips, and she broke +into still louder laughter, intensely amused at this flowery caressing. + +Serge slowly raised himself. He gazed at her with amazement, as if +startled at finding her there. + +‘Who are you? where do you come from? what are you doing here beside +me?’ he asked her. And still she smiled, transported with delight +at marking this awakening of his senses. Then he seemed to remember +something, and continued with a gesture of happy confidence: + +‘I know, you are my love, flesh of my flesh, you are waiting for me that +we may be one for ever. I was dreaming of you. You were in my breast, +and I gave you my blood, my muscles, my bones. I felt no pain. You took +half my heart so tenderly that I experienced keen inward delight at thus +dividing myself. I sought all that was best and most beautiful within +me to give it to you. You might have carried off everything, and still +I should have thanked you. And I woke when you went out of me. You +left through my eyes and mouth; ay, I felt it. You were all warm, all +fragrant, so sweet that it was the thrill from you that has made me +awake.’ + +Albine listened to his words with ecstasy. At last he saw her; at last +his birth was accomplished, his cure begun. With outstretched hands she +begged him to go on. + +‘How have I managed to live without you?’ he murmured. ‘No, I did not +live, I was like a slumbering animal. And now you are mine! and you are +no one but myself! Listen, you must never leave me; for you are my very +breath, and in leaving me you would rob me of my life. We will remain +within ourselves. You will be mine even as I shall be yours. Should I +ever forsake you, may I be accursed, may my body wither like a useless +and noxious weed!’ + +He caught hold of her hands, and exclaimed in a voice quivering with +admiration: ‘How beautiful you are!’ + +In the falling dust of sunshine Albine’s skin looked milky white, scarce +gilded here and there by the sunny sheen. The shower of roses around and +on her steeped her in pinkness. + +Her fair hair, loosely held together by her comb, decked her head as +with a setting planet whose last bright sparks shone upon the nape of +her neck. She wore a white gown; her arms, her throat, her stainless +skin bloomed unabashed as a flower, musky with a goodly fragrance. Her +figure was slender, not too tall, but supple as a snake’s, with softly +rounded, voluptuously expanding outlines, in which the freshness of +childhood mingled with womanhood’s nascent charms. Her oval face, with +its narrow brow and rather full mouth, beamed with the tender living +light of her blue eyes. And yet she was grave, too, her cheeks +unruffled, her chin plump--as naturally lovely as are the trees. + +‘And how I love you!’ said Serge, drawing her to himself. + +They were wholly one another’s now, clasped in each other’s arms! They +did not kiss, but held each other round the waist, cheek to cheek, +united, dumb, delighted with their oneness. Around them bloomed the +roses with a mad, amorous blossoming, full of crimson and rosy and white +laughter. The living, opening flowers seemed to bare their very bosoms. +Yellow roses were there showing the golden skin of barbarian maidens: +straw-coloured roses, lemon-coloured roses, sun-coloured roses--every +shade of the necks which are ambered by glowing skies. Then there was +skin of softer hue: among the tea roses, bewitchingly moist and cool, +one caught glimpses of modest, bashful charms, with skin as fine as silk +tinged faintly with a blue network of veins. Farther on all the smiling +life of the rose expanded: there was the blush white rose, barely +tinged with a dash of carmine, snowy as the foot of a maid dabbling in a +spring; there was the silvery pink, more subdued than even the glow +with which a youthful arm irradiates a wide sleeve; there was the clear, +fresh rose, in which blood seemed to gleam under satin as in the bare +shoulders of a woman bathed in light; and there was the bright pink rose +with its buds like the nipples of virgin bosoms, and its opening flowers +that suggested parted lips, exhaling warm and perfumed breath. And +the climbing roses, the tall cluster roses with their showers of white +flowers, clothed all these others with the lacework of their bunches, +the innocence of their flimsy muslin; while, here and there, roses dark +as the lees of wine, sanguineous, almost black, showed amidst the bridal +purity like passion’s wounds. Verily, it was like a bridal--the bridal +of the fragrant wood, the virginity of May led to the fertility of +July and August; the first unknowing kiss culled like a nosegay on +the wedding morn. Even in the grass, moss roses, clad in close-fitting +garments of green wool, seemed to be awaiting the advent of love. +Flowers rambled all along the sun-streaked path, faces peeped out +everywhere to court the passing breezes. Bright were the smiles under +the spreading tent of the glade. Not a flower that bloomed the same: the +roses differed in the fashion of their wooing. Some, shy and blushing, +would show but a glimpse of bud, while others, panting and wide open, +seemed consumed with infatuation for their persons. There were pert, +gay little things that filed off, cockade in cap; there were huge ones, +bursting with sensuous charms, like portly, fattened-up sultanas; there +were impudent hussies, too, in coquettish disarray, on whose petals the +white traces of the powder-puff could be espied; there were virtuous +maids who had donned low-necked garb like demure _bourgeoises_; and +aristocratic ladies, graceful and original, who contrived attractive +deshabilles. And the cup-like roses offered their perfume as in precious +crystal; the drooping, urn-shaped roses let it drip drop by drop; the +round, cabbage-like roses exhaled it with the even breath of slumbering +flowers; while the budding roses tightly locked their petals and only +sent forth as yet the faint sigh of maidenhood. + +‘I love you, I love you,’ softly repeated Serge. + +Albine, too, was a large rose, a pallid rose that had opened since the +morning. Her feet were white, her arms were rosy pink, her neck was fair +of skin, her throat bewitchingly veined, pale and exquisite. She was +fragrant, she proffered lips which offered as in a coral cup a perfume +that was yet faint and cool. Serge inhaled that perfume, and pressed her +to his breast. Albine laughed. + +The ring of that laugh, which sounded like a bird’s rhythmic notes, +enraptured Serge. + +‘What, that lovely song is yours?’ he said. ‘It is the sweetest I ever +heard. You are indeed my joy.’ + +Then she laughed yet more sonorously, pouring forth rippling scales of +high-pitched, flute-like notes that melted into deeper ones. It was an +endless laugh, a long-drawn cooing, then a burst of triumphant music +celebrating the delight of awakening love. And everything--the roses, +the fragrant wood, the whole of the Paradou--laughed in that laugh of +woman just born to beauty and to love. Till now the vast garden had +lacked one charm--a winning voice which should prove the living mirth +of the trees, the streams, and the sunlight. Now the vast garden was +endowed with that charm of laughter. + +‘How old are you?’ asked Albine, when her song had ended in a faint +expiring note. + +‘Nearly twenty-six,’ Serge answered. + +She was amazed. What! he was twenty-six! He, too, was astonished at +having made that answer so glibly, for it seemed to him that he had not +yet lived a day--an hour. + +‘And how old are you?’ he asked in his turn. + +‘Oh, I am sixteen.’ + +Then she broke into laughter again, quivering from head to foot, +repeating and singing her age. She laughed at her sixteen years with a +fine-drawn laugh that flowed on with rhythmic trilling like a streamlet. +Serge scanned her closely, amazed at the laughing life that transfigured +her face. He scarcely knew her now with those dimples in her cheeks, +those bow-shaped lips between which peeped the rosy moistness of her +mouth, and those eyes blue like bits of sky kindling with the rising of +the sun. As she threw back her head, she sent a glow of warmth through +him. + +He put out his hand, and fumbled mechanically behind her neck. + +‘What do you want?’ she asked. And suddenly remembering, she exclaimed: +‘My comb! my comb! that’s it.’ + +She gave him her comb, and let fall her heavy tresses. A cloth of gold +suddenly unrolled and clothed her to her hips. Some locks which flowed +down upon her breast gave, as it were a finishing touch to her +regal raiment. At the sight of that sudden blaze, Serge uttered an +exclamation; he kissed each lock, and burned his lips amidst that +sunset-like refulgence. + +But Albine now relieved herself of her long silence, and chatted and +questioned unceasingly. + +‘Oh, how wretched you made me! You no longer took any notice of me, and +day after day I found myself useless and powerless, worried out of my +wits like a good-for-nothing.... And yet the first few days I had done +you good. You saw me and spoke to me.... Do you remember when you were +lying down, and went to sleep on my shoulder, and murmured that I did +you good?’ + +‘No!’ said Serge, ‘no, I don’t remember it. I had never seen you before. +I have only just seen you for the first time--lovely, radiant, never to +be forgotten.’ + +She clapped her hands impatiently, exclaiming: ‘And my comb? You must +remember how I used to give you my comb to keep you quiet when you were +a little child? Why, you were looking for it just now.’ + +‘No, I don’t remember. Your hair is like fine silk. I have never kissed +your hair before.’ + +At this, with some vexation, she recounted certain particulars of his +convalescence in the room with the blue ceiling. But he only laughed +at her, and at last closed her lips with his hand, saying with anxious +weariness: ‘No, be quiet, I don’t know; I don’t want to know any +more.... I have only just woke up, and found you there, covered with +roses. That is enough.’ + +And he drew her once more towards him and held her there, dreaming +aloud, and murmuring: ‘Perhaps I have lived before. It must have been a +long, long time ago.... I loved you in a painful dream. You had the same +blue eyes, the same rather long face, the same youthful mien. But your +hair was carefully hidden under a linen cloth, and I never dared to +remove that cloth, because your locks seemed to me fearsome and +would have made me die. But to-day your hair is the very sweetness of +yourself. It preserves your scent, and when I kiss it, when I bury my +face in it like this, I drink in your very life.’ + +He kept on passing the long curls through his hands, and pressing them +to his lips, as if to squeeze from them all Albine’s blood. And after +an interval of silence, he continued: ‘It’s strange, before one’s birth, +one dreams of being born.... I was buried somewhere. I was very cold. +I could hear all the life of the world outside buzzing above me. But I +shut my ears despairingly, for I was used to my gloomy den, and enjoyed +some fearful delights in it, so that I never sought to free myself from +all the earth weighing upon my chest. Where could I have been then? Who +was it gave me light?’ + +He struggled to remember, while Albine now waited in fear and trembling +lest he should really do so. Smiling, she took a handful of her hair and +wound it round the young man’s neck, thus fastening him to herself. This +playful act roused him from his musings. + +‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I am yours, what does the rest matter? It was +you, was it not, who drew me out of the earth? I must have been under +this garden. What I heard were your steps rattling the little pebbles +in the path. You were looking for me, you brought down upon my head the +songs of the birds, the scent of the pinks, the warmth of the sun. I +fancied that you would find me at last. I waited a long time for you. +But I never expected that you would give yourself to me without your +veil, with your hair undone--the terrible hair which has become so +soft.’ + +He sat her on his lap, placing his face beside hers. + +‘Do not let us talk any more. We are alone for ever. We love each +other.’ + +And thus in all innocence they lingered in each other’s arms; for a +long, long time did they remain there forgetfully. The sun rose higher; +and the dust of light fell hotter from the lofty boughs. The yellow and +white and crimson roses were now only a ray of their delight, a sign +of their smiles to one another. They had certainly caused buds to open +around them. The roses crowned their heads and threw garlands about +their waists. And the scent of the roses became so penetrating, so +strong with amorous emotion, that it seemed to be the scent of their own +breath. + +At last Serge put up Albine’s hair. He raised it in handfuls with +delightful awkwardness, and stuck her comb askew in the enormous +knot that he had heaped upon her head. And as it happened she looked +bewitching thus. Then, rising from the ground, he held out his hands to +her, and supported her waist as she got up. They still smiled without +speaking a word, and slowly they went down the path. + + + + +VII + +Albine and Serge entered the flower garden. She was watching him +with tender anxiety, fearing lest he should overtire himself; but he +reassured her with a light laugh. He felt strong enough indeed to carry +her whithersoever she listed. When he found himself once more in the +full sunlight, he drew a sigh of content. At last he lived; he was no +longer a plant subject to the terrible sufferings of winter. And how he +was moved with loving gratitude! Had it been within his power, he would +have spared Albine’s tiny feet even the roughness of the paths; he +dreamed of carrying her, clinging round his neck, like a child lulled +to sleep by her mother. He already watched over her with a guardian’s +watchful care, thrusting aside the stones and brambles, jealous lest the +breeze should waft a fleeting kiss upon those darling locks which were +his alone. She on her side nestled against his shoulder and serenely +yielded to his guidance. + +Thus Albine and Serge strolled on together in the sunlight for the first +time. A balmy fragrance floated in their wake, the very path on which +the sun had unrolled a golden carpet thrilled with delight under their +feet. Between the tall flowering shrubs they passed like a vision of +such wondrous charm that the distant paths seemed to entreat their +presence and hail them with a murmur of admiration, even as crowds hail +long-expected sovereigns. They formed one sole, supremely lovely being. +Albine’s snowy skin was but the whiteness of Serge’s browner skin. +And slowly they passed along clothed with sunlight--nay, they were +themselves the sun--worshipped by the low bending flowers. + +A tide of emotion now stirred the Paradou to its depths. The old flower +garden escorted them--that vast field bearing a century’s untrammelled +growth, that nook of Paradise sown by the breeze with the choicest +flowers. The blissful peace of the Paradou, slumbering in the broad +sunlight, prevented the degeneration of species. It could boast of a +temperature ever equable, and a soil which every plant had long enriched +to thrive therein in the silence of its vigour. Its vegetation was +mighty, magnificent, luxuriantly untended, full of erratic growths +decked with monstrous blossoming, unknown to the spade and watering-pot +of gardeners. Nature left to herself, free to grow as she listed, in the +depths of that solitude protected by natural shelters, threw restraint +aside more heartily at each return of spring, indulged in mighty +gambols, delighted in offering herself at all seasons strange nosegays +not meant for any hand to pluck. A rabid fury seemed to impel her to +overthrow whatever the effort of man had created; she rebelliously cast +a straggling multitude of flowers over the paths, attacked the rockeries +with an ever-rising tide of moss, and knotted round the necks of marble +statues the flexible cords of creepers with which she threw them down; +she shattered the stonework of the fountains, steps, and terraces with +shrubs which burst through them; she slowly, creepingly, spread over the +smallest cultivated plots, moulding them to her fancy, and planting on +them, as ensign of rebellion, some wayside spore, some lowly weed which +she transformed into a gigantic growth of verdure. In days gone by the +parterre, tended by a master passionately fond of flowers, had displayed +in its trim beds and borders a wondrous wealth of choice blossoms. And +the same plants could still be found; but perpetuated, grown into such +numberless families, and scampering in such mad fashion throughout the +whole garden, that the place was now all helter-skelter riot to its very +walls, a very den of debauchery, where intoxicated nature had hiccups of +verbena and pinks. + +Though to outward seeming Albine had yielded her weaker self to the +guidance of Serge, to whose shoulder she clung, it was she who really +led him. She took him first to the grotto. Deep within a clump of +poplars and willows gaped a cavern, formed by rugged bits of rocks which +had fallen over a basin where tiny rills of water trickled between the +stones. The grotto was completely lost to sight beneath the onslaught of +vegetation. Below, row upon row of hollyhocks seemed to bar all entrance +with a trellis-work of red, yellow, mauve, and white-hued flowers, whose +stems were hidden among colossal bronze-green nettles, which calmly +exuded blistering poison. Above them was a mighty swarm of creepers +which leaped aloft in a few bounds; jasmines starred with balmy flowers; +wistarias with delicate lacelike leaves; dense ivy, dentated and +resembling varnished metal; lithe honeysuckle, laden with pale coral +sprays; amorous clematideae, reaching out arms all tufted with white +aigrettes. And among them twined yet slenderer plants, binding them +more and more closely together, weaving them into a fragrant woof. +Nasturtium, bare and green of skin, showed open mouths of ruddy gold; +scarlet runners, tough as whipcord, kindled here and there a fire of +gleaming sparks; convolvuli opened their heart-shaped leaves, and with +thousands of little bells rang a silent peal of exquisite colours; +sweetpeas, like swarms of settling butterflies, folded tawny or rosy +wings, ready to be borne yet farther away by the first breeze. It +was all a wealth of leafy locks, sprinkled with a shower of flowers, +straying away in wild dishevelment, and suggesting the head of some +giantess thrown back in a spasm of passion, with a streaming of +magnificent hair, which spread into a pool of perfume. + +‘I have never dared to venture into all that darkness,’ Albine whispered +to Serge. + +He urged her on, carried her over the nettles; and as a great boulder +barred the way into the grotto, he held her up for a moment in his arms +so that she might be able to peer through the opening that yawned at a +few feet from the ground. + +‘A marble woman,’ she whispered, ‘has fallen full length into the +stream. The water has eaten her face away.’ + +Then he, too, in his turn wanted to look, and pulled himself up. A cold +breeze played upon his cheeks. In the pale light that glided through the +hole, he saw the marble woman lying amidst the reeds and the duckweed. +She was naked to the waist. She must have been drowning there for the +last hundred years. Some grief had probably flung her into that spring +where she was slowly committing suicide. The clear water which flowed +over her had worn her face into a smooth expanse of marble, a mere white +surface without a feature; but her breasts, raised out of the water by +what appeared an effort of her neck, were still perfect and lifelike, +throbbing even yet with the joys of some old delight. + +‘She isn’t dead yet,’ said Serge, getting down again. ‘One day we will +come and get her out of there.’ + +But Albine shuddered and led him away. They passed out again into the +sunlight and the rank luxuriance of beds and borders. They wandered +through a field of flowers capriciously, at random. Their feet trod a +carpet of lovely dwarf plants, which had once neatly fringed the walks, +and now spread about in wild profusion. In succession they passed +ankle-deep through the spotted silk of soft rose catchflies, through the +tufted satin of feathered pinks, and the blue velvet of forget-me-nots, +studded with melancholy little eyes. Further on they forced their way +through giant mignonette, which rose to their knees like a bath of +perfume; then they turned through a patch of lilies of the valley in +order that they might spare an expanse of violets, so delicate-looking +that they feared to hurt them. But soon they found themselves surrounded +on all sides by violets, and so with wary, gentle steps they passed over +their fresh fragrance inhaling the very breath of springtide. Beyond the +violets, a mass of lobelias spread out like green wool gemmed with +pale mauve. The softly shaded stars of globularia, the blue cups of +nemophila, the yellow crosses of saponaria, the white and purple ones +of sweet rocket, wove patches of rich tapestry, stretching onward and +onward, a fabric of royal luxury, so that the young couple might enjoy +the delights of that first walk together without fatigue. But the +violets ever reappeared; real seas of violets that rolled all round +them, shedding the sweetest perfumes beneath their feet and wafting in +their wake the breath of their leaf-hidden flowerets. + +Albine and Serge quite lost themselves. Thousands of loftier plants +towered up in hedges around them, enclosing narrow paths which they +found it delightful to thread. These paths twisted and turned, wandered +maze-like through dense thickets. There were ageratums with sky-blue +tufts of bloom; woodruffs with soft musky perfume; brazen-throated +mimuluses, blotched with bright vermilion; lofty phloxes, crimson and +violet, throwing up distaffs of flowers for the breezes to spin; red +flax with sprays as fine as hair; chrysanthemums like full golden moons, +casting short faint rays, white and violet and rose, around them. The +young couple surmounted all the obstacles that lay in their path and +continued their way betwixt the walls of verdure. To the right of +them sprang up the slim fraxinella, the centranthus draped with +snowy blossoms, and the greyish hounds-tongue, in each of whose tiny +flowercups gleamed a dewdrop. To their left was a long row of columbines +of every variety; white ones, pale rose ones, and some of deep violet +hues, almost black, that seemed to be in mourning, the blossoms that +drooped from their lofty, branching stems being plaited and goffered +like crape. Then, as they advanced further on, the character of the +hedges changed. Giant larkspurs thrust up their flower-rods, between the +dentated foliage of which gaped the mouths of tawny snapdragons, while +the schizanthus reared its scanty leaves and fluttering blooms, that +looked like butterflies’ wings of sulphur hue splashed with soft lake. +The blue bells of campanulae swayed aloft, some of them even over the +tall asphodels, whose golden stems served as their steeples. In one +corner was a giant fennel that reminded one of a lace-dressed lady +spreading out a sunshade of sea-green satin. Then the pair suddenly +found their way blocked. It was impossible to advance any further; +a mass of flowers, a huge sheaf of plants stopped all progress. Down +below, a mass of brank-ursine formed as it were a pedestal, from the +midst of which sprang scarlet geum, rhodanthe with stiff petals, and +clarkia with great white carved crosses, that looked like the insignia +of some barbarous order. Higher up still, bloomed the rosy viscaria, +the yellow leptosiphon, the white colinsia, and the lagurus, whose dusty +green bloom contrasted with the glowing colours around it. Towering over +all these growths scarlet foxgloves and blue lupins, rising in slender +columns, formed a sort of oriental rotunda gleaming vividly with crimson +and azure; while at the very summit, like a surmounting dome of dusky +copper, were the ruddy leaves of a colossal castor-bean. + +As Serge reached out his hands to try to force a passage, Albine stopped +him and begged him not to injure the flowers. ‘You will break the stems +and crush the leaves,’ she said. ‘Ever since I have been here, I have +always taken care to hurt none of them. Come, and I will show you the +pansies.’ + +She made him turn and led him from the narrow paths to the centre of the +parterre, where, once upon a time, great basins had been hollowed +out. But these had now fallen into ruin, and were nothing but gigantic +_jardinières_, fringed with stained and cracked marble. In one of the +largest of them, the wind had sown a wonderful basketful of pansies. +The velvety blooms seemed almost like living faces, with bands of violet +hair, yellow eyes, paler tinted mouths, and chins of a delicate flesh +colour. + +When I was younger they used to make me quite afraid,’ murmured Albine. +‘Look at them. Wouldn’t you think that they were thousands of little +faces looking up at you from the ground? And they turn, too, all in +the same direction. They might be a lot of buried dolls thrusting their +heads out of the ground.’ + +She led him still further on. They went the round of all the other +basins. In the next one a number of amaranthuses had sprung up, raising +monstrous crests which Albine had always shrunk from touching, such was +their resemblance to big bleeding caterpillars. Balsams of all colours, +now straw-coloured, now the hue of peach-blossom, now blush-white, now +grey like flax, filled another basin where their seed pods split with +little snaps. Then in the midst of a ruined fountain, there flourished +a colony of splendid carnations. White ones hung over the moss-covered +rims, and flaked ones thrust a bright medley of blossom between the +chinks of the marble; while from the mouth of the lion, whence formerly +the water-jets had spurted, a huge crimson clove now shot out so +vigorously that the decrepit beast seemed to be spouting blood. Near by, +the principal piece of ornamental water, a lake, on whose surface swans +had glided, had now become a thicket of lilacs, beneath whose shade +stocks and verbenas and day-lilies screened their delicate tints, and +dozed away, all redolent of perfume. + +‘But we haven’t seen half the flowers yet,’ said Albine, proudly. ‘Over +yonder there are such huge ones that I can quite bury myself amongst +them like a partridge in a corn-field.’ + +They went thither. They tripped down some broad steps, from whose fallen +urns still flickered the violet fires of the iris. All down the steps +streamed gilliflowers, like liquid gold. The sides were flanked with +thistles, that shot up like candelabra, of green bronze, twisted and +curved into the semblance of birds’ heads, with all the fantastic +elegance of Chinese incense-burners. Between the broken balustrades +drooped tresses of stonecrop, light greenish locks, spotted as with +mouldiness. Then at the foot of the steps another parterre spread out, +dotted over with box-trees that were vigorous as oaks; box-trees which +had once been carefully pruned and clipped into balls and pyramids and +octagonal columns, but which were now revelling in unrestrained freedom +of untidiness, breaking out into ragged masses of greenery, through +which blue patches of sky were visible. + +And Albine led Serge straight on to a spot that seemed to be the +graveyard of the flower-garden. There the scabious mourned, and +processions of poppies stretched out in line, with deathly odour, +unfolding heavy blooms of feverish brilliance. Sad anemones clustered in +weary throngs, pallid as if infected by some epidemic. Thick-set daturas +spread out purplish horns, from which insects, weary of life, sucked +fatal poison. Marigolds buried with choking foliage their writhing +starry flowers, that already reeked of putrefaction. And there were +other melancholy flowers also: fleshy ranunculi with rusty tints, +hyacinths and tuberoses that exhaled asphyxia and died from their own +perfume. But the cinerarias were most conspicuous, crowding thickly in +half-mourning robes of violet and white. In the middle of this gloomy +spot a mutilated marble Cupid still remained standing, smiling beneath +the lichens which overspread his youthful nakedness, while the arm with +which he had once held his bow lay low amongst the nettles. + +Then Albine and Serge passed on through a rank growth of peonies, +reaching to their waists. The white flowers fell to pieces as they +passed, with a rain of snowy petals which was as refreshing to their +hands as the heavy drops of a thunder shower. And the red ones grinned +with apoplectical faces which perturbed them. Next they passed through +a field of fuchsias, forming dense, vigorous shrubs that delighted them +with their countless bells. Then they went on through fields of purple +veronicas and others of geraniums, blazing with all the fiery tints of +a brasier, which the wind seemed to be ever fanning into fresh heat. And +they forced their way through a jungle of gladioli, tall as reeds, which +threw up spikes of flowers that gleamed in the full daylight with all +the brilliance of burning torches. They lost themselves too in a forest +of sunflowers, with stalks as thick as Albine’s wrist, a forest darkened +by rough leaves large enough to form an infant’s bed, and peopled with +giant starry faces that shone like so many suns. And thence they passed +into another forest, a forest of rhododendrons so teeming with blossom +that the branches and leaves were completely hidden, and nothing but +huge nosegays, masses of soft calyces, could be seen as far as the eye +could reach. + +‘Come along; we have not got to the end yet,’ cried Albine. ‘Let us push +on.’ + +But Serge stopped. They were now in the midst of an old ruined +colonnade. Some of the columns offered inviting seats as they lay +prostrate amongst primroses and periwinkles. Further away, among the +columns that still remained upright, other flowers were growing in +profusion. There were expanses of tulips showing brilliant streaks like +painted china; expanses of calceolarias dotted with crimson and gold; +expanses of zinnias like great daisies; expanses of petunias with petals +like soft cambric through which rosy flesh tints gleamed; and other +fields, with flowers they could not recognise spreading in carpets +beneath the sun, in a motley brilliance that was softened by the green +of their leaves. + +‘We shall never be able to see it all,’ said Serge, smiling and waving +his hand. ‘It would be very nice to sit down here, amongst all this +perfume.’ + +Near them there was a large patch of heliotropes, whose vanilla-like +breath permeated the air with velvety softness. They sat down upon one +of the fallen columns, in the midst of a cluster of magnificent lilies +which had shot up there. They had been walking for more than an hour. +They had wandered on through the flowers from the roses to the lilies. +These offered them a calm, quiet haven after their lovers’ ramble amid +the perfumed solicitations of luscious honeysuckle, musky violets, +verbenas that breathed out the warm scent of kisses, and tuberoses that +panted with voluptuous passion. The lilies, with their tall slim stems, +shot up round them like a white pavilion and sheltered them with snowy +cups, gleaming only with the gold of their slender pistils. And +there they rested, like betrothed children in a tower of purity; an +impregnable ivory tower, where all their love was yet perfect innocence. + +Albine and Serge lingered amongst the lilies till evening. They felt +so happy there, and seemed to break out into a new life. Serge felt the +last trace of fever leave his hands, while Albine grew quite white, with +a milky whiteness untinted by any rosy hue. They were unconscious +that their arms and necks and shoulders were bare, and their straying +unconfined hair in nowise troubled them. They laughed merrily one at the +other, with frank open laughter. The expression of their eyes retained +the limpid calmness of clear spring water. When they quitted the lilies, +their feelings were but those of children ten years old; it seemed to +them that they had just met each other in that garden so that they might +be friends for ever and amuse themselves with perpetual play. And as +they returned through the parterre, the very flowers bore themselves +discreetly, as though they were glad to see their childishness, and +would do nothing that might corrupt them. The forests of peonies, the +masses of carnations, the carpets of forget-me-nots, the curtains +of clematis now steeped in the atmosphere of evening, slumbering in +childlike purity akin to their own, no longer spread suggestions of +voluptuousness around them. The pansies looked up at them with their +little candid faces, like playfellows; and the languid mignonette, as +Albine’s white skirt brushed by it, seemed full of compassion, and held +its breath lest it should fan their love prematurely into life. + + + + +VIII + +At dawn the next day it was Serge who called Albine. She slept in a room +on the upper floor. He looked up at her window and saw her throw open +the shutters just as she had sprung out of bed. They laughed merrily as +their eyes met. + +‘You must not go out to-day,’ said Albine, when she came down. ‘We must +stay indoors and rest. To-morrow I will take you a long, long way off, +to a spot where we can have a very jolly time.’ + +‘But sha’n’t we grow tired of stopping here?’ muttered Serge. + +‘Oh, dear no! I will tell you stories.’ + +They passed a delightful day. The windows were thrown wide open, and all +the beauty of the Paradou came in and rejoiced with them in the room. +Serge now really took possession of that delightful room, where he +imagined he had been born. He insisted upon seeing everything, and upon +having everything explained to him. The plaster Cupids who sported +round the alcove amused him so much that he mounted upon a chair to tie +Albine’s sash round the neck of the smallest of them, a little bit of a +man who was turning somersaults with his head downward. Albine clapped +her hands, and said that he looked like a cockchafer fastened by a +string. Then, as though seized by an access of pity, she said, ‘No, no, +unfasten him. It prevents him from flying.’ + +But it was the Cupids painted over the doors that more particularly +attracted Serge’s attention. He fidgeted at not being able to make out +what they were playing at, for the paintings had grown very dim. Helped +by Albine, he dragged a table to the wall, and when they both had +climbed upon it, Albine began to explain things to him. + +‘Look, now, those are throwing flowers. Under the flowers you can only +see some bare legs. It seems to me that when first I came here I could +make out a lady reposing there. But she has been gone for a long time +now.’ + +They examined all the panels in turn; but they had faded to such a +degree that little more could be distinguished than the knees and elbows +of infants. The details which had doubtless delighted the eyes of +those whose old-time passion seemed to linger round the alcove, had so +completely disappeared under the influence of the fresh air, that the +room, like the park, seemed restored to pristine virginity beneath the +serene glory of the sun. + +‘Oh! they are only some little boys playing,’ said Serge, as he +descended from the table. ‘Do you know how to play at “hot cockles”?’ + +There was no game that Albine did not know how to play at. But, for +‘hot cockles,’ at least three players are necessary, and that made them +laugh. Serge protested, however, that they got on too well together ever +to desire a third there, and they vowed that they would always remain by +themselves. + +‘We are quite alone here; one cannot hear a sound,’ said the young +man, lolling on the couch. ‘And all the furniture has such a pleasant +old-time smell. The place is as snug as a nest. We ought to be very +happy in this room.’ + +The girl shook her head gravely. + +‘If I had been at all timid,’ she murmured, ‘I should have been very +much frightened at first.... That is one of the stories I want to tell +you. The people in the neighbourhood told it to me. Perhaps it isn’t +true, but it will amuse us, at any rate.’ + +Then she came and sat down by Serge’s side. + +‘It is years and years since it all happened. The Paradou belonged to +a rich lord, who came and shut himself up in it with a very beautiful +lady. The gates of the mansion were kept so tightly closed, and the +garden walls were built so very high, that no one ever caught sight even +of the lady’s skirts.’ + +‘Ah! I know,’ Serge interrupted; ‘the lady was never seen again.’ + +Then, as Albine looked at him in surprise, somewhat annoyed to find that +he knew her story already, he added in a low voice, apparently a little +astonished himself: ‘You told me the story before, you know.’ + +She declared that she had never done so; but all at once she seemed to +change her mind, and allowed herself to be convinced. However, that did +not prevent her from finishing her tale in these words: ‘When the lord +went away his hair was quite white. He had all the gates barricaded up, +so that no one might get inside and disturb the lady. It was in this +room that she died.’ + +‘In this room!’ cried Serge. ‘You never told me that! Are you quite sure +that it was really in this room she died?’ + +Albine seemed put out. She repeated to him what every one in the +neighbourhood knew. The lord had built the pavilion for the reception of +this unknown lady, who looked like a princess. The servants employed at +the mansion afterwards declared that he spent all his days and nights +there. Often, too, they saw him in one of the walks, guiding the tiny +feet of the mysterious lady towards the densest coppices. But for all +the world they would never have ventured to spy upon the pair, who +sometimes scoured the park for weeks together. + +‘And it was here she died?’ repeated Serge, who felt touched with +sorrow. ‘And you have taken her room; you use her furniture, and you +sleep in her bed.’ + +Albine smiled. + +‘Ah! well, you know, I am not timid. Besides, it is so long since it all +happened. You said what a delightful room it was.’ + +Then they both dropped into silence, and glanced, for a moment, towards +the alcove, the lofty ceiling, and the corners, steeped in grey gloom. +The faded furniture seemed to speak of long past love. A gentle sigh, as +of resignation, passed through the room. + +‘No, indeed,’ murmured Serge, ‘one could not feel afraid here. It is too +peaceful.’ + +But Albine came closer to him and said: ‘There is something else +that only a few people know, and that is that the lord and the lady +discovered in the garden a certain spot where perfect happiness was to +be found, and where they afterwards spent all their time. I have been +told that by a very good authority. It is a cool, shady spot, hidden +away in the midst of an impenetrable jungle, and it is so marvellously +beautiful that anyone who reaches it forgets all else in the world. The +poor lady must have been buried there.’ + +‘Is it anywhere about the parterre?’ asked Serge curiously. + +‘Ah! I cannot tell, I cannot tell,’ said the young girl with an +expression of discouragement. ‘I know nothing about it. I have searched +everywhere, but I have never been able to find the least sign of that +lovely clearing. It is not amongst the roses, nor the lilies, nor the +violets.’ + +‘Perhaps it is hidden somewhere away amongst those mournful-looking +flowers, where you showed me the figure of a boy standing with his arm +broken off.’ + +‘No, no, indeed.’ + +‘Perhaps, then, it is in that grotto, near that clear stream, where the +great marble woman, without a face, is lying.’ + +‘No, no.’ + +Albine seemed to reflect for a moment. Then, as though speaking to +herself, she went on: ‘As soon as ever I came here, I began to hunt for +it. I spent whole days in the Paradou, and ferreted about in all the +out-of-the-way green corners, to have the pleasure of sitting for an +hour in that happy spot. What mornings have I not wasted in groping +under the brambles and peeping into the most distant nooks of the park! +Oh! I should have known it at once, that enchanting retreat, with the +mighty tree that must shelter it with a canopy of foliage, with its +carpet of soft silky turf, and its walls of tangled greenery, which the +very birds themselves cannot penetrate. + +She raised her voice, and threw one of her arms round Serge’s neck, as +she continued: ‘Tell me, now; shall we search for it together? We shall +surely find it. You, who are strong, will push aside the heavy branches, +while I crawl underneath and search the brakes. When I grow weary, you +can carry me; you can help me to cross the streams; and if we happen +to lose ourselves, you can climb the trees and try to discover our way +again. Ah! and how delightful it will be for us to sit, side by side, +beneath the green canopy in the centre of the clearing! I have been told +that in one minute one may there live the whole of life. Tell me, my +dear Serge, shall we set off to-morrow and scour the park, from bush to +bush, until we have found what we want?’ + +Serge shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. ‘What would be the use?’ he +said. ‘Is it not pleasant in the parterre? Don’t you think we ought to +remain among the flowers, instead of seeking a greater happiness that +lies so far away?’ + +‘It is there that the dead lady lies buried,’ murmured Albine, falling +back into her reverie. ‘It was the joy of being there that killed her. +The tree casts a shade, whose charm is deathly.... I would willingly die +so. We would clasp one another there, and we would die, and none would +ever find us again.’ + +‘Don’t talk like that,’ interrupted Serge. ‘You make me feel so unhappy. +I would rather that we should live in the bright sunlight, far away from +that fatal shade. Your words distress me, as though they urged us to +some irreparable misfortune. It must be forbidden to sit beneath a tree +whose shade can thus affect one.’ + +‘Yes,’ Albine gravely declared, ‘it is forbidden. All the folks of the +countryside have told me that it is forbidden.’ + +Then silence fell. Serge rose from the couch where he had been lolling, +and laughed, and pretended that he did not care about stories. The sun +was setting, however, before Albine would consent to go into the garden +for even a few minutes. She led Serge to the left, along the enclosing +wall, to a spot strewn with fragments of stone, and woodwork, and +ironwork, bristling too with briars and brambles. It was the site of the +old mansion, still black with traces of the fire which had destroyed +the building. Underneath the briars lay rotting timbers and fire-split +masonry. The spot was like a little ravined, hillocky wilderness of +sterile rocks, draped with rude vegetation, clinging creepers that +twined and twisted through every crevice like green serpents. The young +folks amused themselves by wandering across this chaos, groping about in +the holes, turning over the debris, trying to reconstruct something +of the past out of the ruins before them. They did not confess their +curiosity as they chased one another through the midst of fallen +floorings and overturned partitions; but they were indeed, all the time, +secretly pondering over the legend of those ruins, and of that lady, +lovelier than day, whose silken skirt had rustled down those steps, +where now lizards alone were idly crawling. + +Serge ended by climbing the highest of the ruinous masses; and, looking +round at the park which unfolded its vast expanse of greenery, he sought +the grey form of the pavilion through the trees. Albine was standing +silent by his side, serious once more. + +‘The pavilion is yonder, to the right,’ she said at last, without +waiting for Serge to ask her. ‘It is the only one of the buildings +that is left. You can see it quite plainly at the end of that grove of +lime-trees.’ + +They fell into silence again; and then Albine, as though pursuing aloud +the reflections which were passing through their minds, exclaimed: ‘When +he went to see her, he must have gone down yonder path, then past those +big chestnut trees, and then under the limes. It wouldn’t take him a +quarter of an hour.’ + +Serge made no reply. But as they went home, they took the path which +Albine had pointed out, past the chestnuts and under the limes. It was a +path that love had consecrated. And as they walked over the grass, they +seemed to be seeking footmarks, or a fallen knot of ribbon, or a whiff +of ancient perfume--something that would clearly satisfy them that they +were really travelling along the path that led to the joy of union. + +‘Wait out here,’ said Albine, when they once more stood before the +pavilion; ‘don’t come up for three minutes.’ + +Then she ran off merrily, and shut herself up in the room with the blue +ceiling. And when she had let Serge knock at the door twice, she softly +set it ajar, and received him with an old-fashioned courtesy. + +‘Good morrow, my dear lord,’ she said as she embraced him. + +This amused them extremely. They played at being lovers with childish +glee. In stammering accents they would have revived the passion which +had once throbbed and died there. But it was like a first effort at +learning a lesson. They knew not how to kiss each other’s lips, but +sought each other’s cheeks, and ended by dancing around each other, +with shrieks of laughter, from ignorance of any other way of showing the +pleasure they experienced from their mutual love. + + + + +IX + +The next morning Albine was anxious to start at sunrise upon the grand +expedition which she had planned the night before. She tapped her feet +gleefully on the ground, and declared that they would not come back +before nightfall. + +‘Where are you going to take me?’ asked Serge. + +‘You will see, you will see.’ + +But he caught her by the hands and looked her very earnestly in the +face. ‘You must not be foolish, you know. I won’t have you hunting for +that glade of yours, or for the tree, or for the grassy couch where one +droops and dies. You know that it is forbidden.’ + +She blushed slightly, protesting that she had no such idea in her head. +Then she added: ‘But if we should come across them, just by chance, you +know, and without really seeking them, you wouldn’t mind sitting down, +would you? Else you must love me very little.’ + +They set off, going straight through the parterre without stopping to +watch the awakening of the flowers which were all dripping after their +dewy bath. The morning had a rosy hue, the smile of a beautiful child, +just opening its eyes on its snowy pillow. + +‘Where are you taking me?’ repeated Serge. + +But Albine only laughed and would not answer. Then, on reaching the +stream which ran through the garden at the end of the flower-beds, she +halted in great distress. The water was swollen with the late rains. + +‘We shall never be able to get across,’ she murmured. ‘I can generally +manage it by taking off my shoes and stockings, but, to-day, the water +would reach to our waists.’ + +They walked for a moment or two along the bank to find some fordable +point; but the girl said it was hopeless; she knew the stream quite +well. Once there had been a bridge across, but it had fallen in, and had +strewn the river bed with great blocks of stone, between which the water +rushed along in foaming eddies. + +‘Get on to my back, then,’ said Serge. + +‘No, no; I’d rather not. If you were to slip, we should both of us get a +famous wetting. You don’t know how treacherous those stones are.’ + +‘Get on to my back,’ repeated Serge. + +She was tempted to do so. She stepped back for a spring, and then jumped +up, like a boy; but she felt that Serge was tottering; and crying out +that she was not safely seated, she got down again. However, after two +more attempts, she managed to settle herself securely on Serge’s back. + +‘When you are quite ready,’ said the young man, laughing, ‘we will +start. Now, hold on tightly. We are off.’ + +And, with three light strides, he crossed the stream, scarcely wetting +even his toes. Midway, however, Albine thought that he was slipping. She +broke out into a little scream, and hugged him tightly round his neck. +But he sprang forward, and carried her at a gallop over the fine sand on +the other side. + +‘Gee up!’ she cried, quite calm again, and delighted with this novel +game. + +He ran along with her for some distance, she clucking her tongue, and +guiding him to right or left by some locks of his hair. + +‘Here--here we are,’ she said at last, tapping him gently on the cheeks. + +Then she jumped to the ground; while he, hot and perspiring, leaned +against a tree to draw breath. Albine thereupon began to scold him, and +threatened that she would not nurse him if he made himself ill again. + +‘Stuff!’ he cried, ‘it’s done me good. When I have grown quite strong +again, I will carry you about all day. But where are you taking me?’ + +‘Here,’ she said, as she seated herself beneath a huge pear-tree. + +They were in the old orchard of the park. A hawthorn hedge, a real wall +of greenery with here and there a gap, separated it from everything +else. There was quite a forest of fruit trees, which no pruning knife +had touched for a century past. Some of the trees had been strangely +warped and twisted by the storms which had raged over them; while +others, bossed all over with huge knots and full of deep holes, seemed +only to hold on to the soil with their bark. The high branches, bent +each year by weight of fruit, stretched out like big rackets; and each +tree helped to keep its fellows erect. The trunks were like twisted +pillars supporting a roof of greenery; and sometimes narrow cloisters, +sometimes light halls were formed, while now and again the verdure swept +almost to the ground and left scarcely room to pass. Round each colossus +a crowd of wild and self-sown saplings had grown up, thicket-like with +the entanglement of their young shoots. In the greenish light which +filtered like tinted water through the foliage, in the deep silence +of the mossy soil, one only heard the dull thud of the fruit as it was +culled by the wind. + +And there were patriarchal apricot trees that bore their great age +quite bravely. Though decayed on one side, where they showed a perfect +scaffolding of dead wood, they were so youthful, so full of life, that, +on the other, young shoots were ever bursting through their rough bark. +There were cherry trees, that formed complete towns with houses of +several stories, that threw out staircases and floors of branches, big +enough for half a score of families. Then there were the apple trees, +with their limbs twisted like old cripples, with bark gnarled and +knotted, and all stained with lichen-growth. There were also smooth pear +trees, that shot up mast-like with long slender spars. And there were +rosy-blossomed peach-trees that won a place amid this teeming growth as +pretty maids do amidst a human crowd by dint of bright smiles and gentle +persistence. Some had been formerly trained as espaliers, but they had +broken down the low walls which had once supported them, and now spread +abroad in wild confusion, freed from the trammels of trellis work, +broken fragments of which still adhered to some of their branches. They +grew just as they listed, and resembled well-bred trees, once neat and +prim, which, having gone astray, now flaunted but vestiges of whilom +respectability. And from tree to tree, and from bough to bough, vine +branches hung in confusion. They rose like wild laughter, twined for +an instant round some lofty knot, then started off again with yet more +sonorous mirth, splotching all the foliage with the merry ebriety of +their tendrils. Their pale sun-gilt green set a glow of bacchanalianism +about the weather-worn heads of the old orchard giants. + +Then towards the left were trees less thickly planted. Thin-foliaged +almonds allowed the sun’s rays to pass and ripen the pumpkins, which +looked like moons that had fallen to the earth. Near the edge of a +stream which flowed through the orchard there also grew various kinds of +melons, some rough with knotty warts, some smooth and shining, as oval +as the eggs of ostriches. At every step, too, progress was barred by +currant bushes, showing limpid bunches of fruit, rubies in one and all +of which there sparkled liquid sunlight. And hedges of raspberry +canes shot up like wild brambles, while the ground was but a carpet +of strawberry plants, teeming with ripe berries which exhaled a slight +odour of vanilla. + +But the enchanted corner of the orchard was still further to the left, +near a tier of rocks which there began to soar upwards. There you found +yourself in a veritable land of fire, in a natural hot-house, on which +the sun fell freely. At first, you had to make your way through huge, +ungainly fig trees, which stretched out grey branches like arms weary of +lying still, and whose villose leather-like foliage was so dense that +in order to pass one constantly had to snap off twigs that had sprouted +from the old wood. Next you passed on through groves of strawberry trees +with verdure like that of giant box-plants, and with scarlet berries +which suggested maize plants decked out with crimson ribbon. Then +there came a jungle of nettle-trees, medlars and jujube trees, which +pomegranates skirted with never-fading verdure. The fruit of the latter, +big as a child’s fist, was scarcely set as yet; and the purple blossoms, +fluttering at the ends of the branches, looked like the palpitating +wings of the humming birds, which do not even bend the shoots on which +they perch. Lastly, there was a forest of orange and lemon trees growing +vigorously in the open air. Their straight trunks stood like rows of +brown columns, while their shiny leaves showed brightly against the +blue of the sky, and cast upon the ground a network of light and shadow, +figuring the palms of some Indian fabric. Here there was shade beside +which that of the European orchard seemed colourless, insipid; the warm +joy of sunlight, softened into flying gold-dust; the glad certainty +of evergreen foliage; the penetrating perfume of blossom, and the more +subdued fragrance of fruit; all helping to fill the body with the soft +languor of tropical lands. + +‘And now let us breakfast,’ cried Albine, clapping her hands. ‘It must +be at least nine o’clock, and I am very hungry.’ + +She had risen from the ground. Serge confessed that he, too, would find +some food acceptable. + +‘You goose!’ she said, ‘you didn’t understand, then, that I brought you +here to breakfast. We sha’n’t die of hunger here. We can help ourselves +to all there is.’ + +They went along under the trees, pushing aside the branches and making +their way to the thickest of the fruit. Albine, who went first, turned, +and in her flute-like voice asked her companion: ‘What do you like best? +Pears, apricots, cherries, or currants? I warn you that the pears are +still green; but they are very nice all the same.’ + +Serge decided upon having cherries, and Albine agreed it would be as +well to start with them; but when she saw him foolishly beginning to +scramble up the first cherry tree he found, she made him go on for +another ten minutes through a frightful entanglement of branches. The +cherries on this tree, she said, were small and good for nothing; those +on that were sour; those on another would not be ripe for at least a +week. She knew all the trees. + +‘Stop, climb this one,’ she said at last, as she stopped at the foot of +a tree, so heavily laden with fruit that clusters of it hung down to the +ground, like strings of coral beads. + +Serge settled himself comfortably between two branches and began his +breakfast. He no longer paid attention to Albine. He imagined she was in +another tree, a few yards away, when, happening to cast his eyes towards +the ground, he saw her calmly lying on her back beneath him. She had +thrown herself there, and, without troubling herself to use her hands, +was plucking with her teeth the cherries which dangled over her mouth. + +When she saw she was discovered, she broke out into a peal of laughter, +and twisted about on the grass like a fish taken from the water. And +finally, crawling along on her elbows, she gradually made the circuit of +the tree, snapping up the plumpest cherries as she went along. + +‘They tickle me so,’ she cried. ‘See, there’s a beauty just fallen on my +neck. They are so deliciously fresh and juicy. They get into my ears, +my eyes, my nose, everywhere. They are much sweeter down here than up +there.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Serge, laughing, ‘you say that because you daren’t climb up.’ + +She remained for a moment silent with indignation. ‘Daren’t!--I!--’ she +stammered. + +Then, having gathered up her skirts, she tightly grasped the tree and +pulled herself up the trunk with a single effort of her strong wrists. +And afterwards she stepped lightly along the branches, scarcely using +her hands to steady herself. She had all the agile nimbleness of a +squirrel, and made her way onward, maintaining her equilibrium only by +the swaying poise of her body. When she was quite aloft at the end of +a frail branch, which shook dangerously beneath her weight, she cried; +‘Now you see whether I daren’t climb.’ + +‘Come down at once,’ implored Serge, full of alarm for her. ‘I beg of +you to come down. You will be injuring yourself.’ + +But she, enjoying her triumph, began to mount still higher. She crawled +along to the extreme end of a branch, grasping its leaves in her hands +to maintain her hold. + +‘The branch will break!’ cried Serge, thoroughly frightened. + +‘Let it break,’ she answered, with a laugh; ‘it will save me the trouble +of getting down.’ + +And the branch did break, but only slowly, with such deliberation that, +as it gradually settled towards the ground, it let Albine slip down in +very gentle fashion. She did not appear in the least degree frightened; +but gave herself a shake, and said: ‘That was really nice. It was quite +like being in a carriage.’ + +Serge had jumped down from the tree to catch her in his arms. As he +stood there, quite pale from fright, she laughed at him. ‘One tumbles +down from trees every day,’ she exclaimed, ‘but there is never any harm +done. Look more cheerful, you great stupid! Stay, just wet your finger +and rub it upon my neck. I have scratched it.’ + +Serge wetted his finger and touched her neck with it. + +‘There, I am all right again now,’ she cried, as she bounded off. ‘Let +us play at hide and seek, shall we?’ + +She was the first to hide. She disappeared, and presently from the +depths of the greenery, which she alone knew, and where Serge could not +possibly find her, she called, ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo.’ But this game of hide +and seek did not put a stop to the onslaught upon the fruit trees. +Breakfasting went on in all the nooks and corners where the two big +children sought each other. Albine, while gliding beneath the branches, +would stretch out her hand to pluck a green pear or fill her skirt with +apricots. Then in some of her lurking-places she would come upon such +rich discoveries as would make her careless of the game, content to +sit upon the ground and remain eating. Once, however, she lost sound of +Serge’s movements. So, in her turn, she set about seeking him; and she +was surprised, almost vexed, when she discovered him under a plum-tree, +of whose existence she herself had been ignorant, and whose ripe fruit +had a delicious musky perfume. She soundly rated him. Did he want to eat +everything himself, that he hadn’t called to her to come? He pretended +to know nothing about the trees, but he evidently had a very keen scent +to be able to find all the good things. She was especially indignant +with the poor tree itself--a stupid tree which no one had known of, and +which must have sprung up in the night on purpose to put people out. As +she stood there pouting, refusing to pluck a single plum, it occurred to +Serge to shake the tree violently. And then a shower, a regular hail, of +plums came down. Albine, standing in the midst of the downfall, received +plums on her arms, plums on her neck, plums on the very tip of her nose. +At this she could no longer restrain her laughter; she stood in the +midst of the deluge, crying ‘More! more!’ amused as she was by the round +bullet-like fruit which fell around her as she squatted there, with +hands and mouth open, and eyes closed. + +It was a morning of childish play, of wild gambols in the Paradou. +Albine and Serge spent hours, scampering up and down, shouting and +sporting with each other, their thoughts still all innocence. And in +what a delicious spot they found themselves! Depths of greenery, with +undiscoverable hiding-places; paths, along whose windings it was never +possible to be serious, such greedy laughter fell from the very hedges. +In this happy orchard, there was such a playful straggling of bushes, +such fresh and appetising shade, such a wealth of old trees laden like +kindly grandfathers with sweet dainties. Even in the depths of the +recesses green with moss, beneath the broken trunks which compelled them +to creep the one behind the other, in the narrow leafy alleys, the young +folks never succumbed to the perilous reveries of silence. No trouble +touched them in that happy wood. + +And when they had grown weary of the apricot-trees and the plum-trees +and the cherry-trees, they ran beneath the slender almond-trees; eating +green almonds, scarcely yet as big as peas, hunting for strawberries in +the grassy carpet, and regretting that the melons were not already ripe. +Albine finished by running as fast as she could go, pursued by Serge, +who was unable to overtake her. She rushed amongst the fig-trees, +leaping over their heavy branches, and pulling off the leaves to throw +them behind her in her companion’s face. In a few strides she had +cleared the clumps of arbutus, whose red berries she tasted on her way; +and it was in the jungle of nettle-trees, medlars, and jujube-trees that +Serge lost her. At first he thought she was hiding behind a pomegranate; +but found that he had mistaken two clustering blossoms for the rosy +roundness of her wrists. Then he scoured the plantation of orange-trees, +rejoicing in their beauty and perfume, and thinking that he must have +reached the abode of the fairies of the sun. In the midst of them he +caught sight of Albine, who, not believing him so near her, was peering +inquisitively into the green depths. + +‘What are you looking for?’ he cried. ‘You know very well that is +forbidden.’ + +She sprang up hastily, and slightly blushed for the first time that day. +Then sitting down by the side of Serge, she told him of the fine times +there would be when the oranges should be ripe. The wood would then +be all golden, all bright with those round stars, dotting with yellow +sparks the arching green. + +When at last they really set off homeward she halted at every +wild-growing fruit tree, and filled her pockets with sour pears and +bitter plums, saying that they would be good to eat on their way. They +would prove a hundred times more enjoyable than anything they had tasted +before. Serge was obliged to swallow some of them, in spite of the +grimaces he made at each bite. And eventually they found themselves +indoors again, tired out but feeling very happy. + + + + +X + +A week later there was another expedition to the park. They had planned +to extend their rambles beyond the orchard, striking out to the left +through the meadows watered by the four streams. They would travel +several miles over the thick grass, and they might live on fish, if they +happened to lose themselves. + +‘I will take my knife,’ said Albine, holding up a broad-bladed peasant’s +knife. + +She crammed all kinds of things into her pockets, string, bread, +matches, a small bottle of wine, some rags, a comb, and some needles. +Serge took a rug, but by the time they had passed the lime-trees and +reached the ruins of the chateau, he found it such an encumbrance that +he hid it beneath a piece of fallen wall. + +The sun was hotter than before, Albine had delayed their departure by +her extensive preparations. Thus in the heat of the morning they stepped +along side by side, almost quietly. They actually managed to take twenty +paces at a time without pushing one another or laughing. They began to +talk. + +‘I never can wake up,’ began Albine. ‘I slept so soundly last night. Did +you?’ + +‘Yes, indeed, very soundly,’ replied Serge. + +‘What does it mean when you dream of a bird that talks to you?’ the girl +resumed. + +‘I don’t know. What did your bird say to you?’ + +‘Oh, I have forgotten. But it said all kinds of things, and many of +them sounded very comical. Stop, look at that big poppy over there. You +sha’n’t get it, you sha’n’t get it!’ + +And then she sprang forward; but Serge, thanks to his long legs, +outstripped her and plucked the poppy, which he waved about +victoriously. She stood there with lips compressed, saying nothing, +but feeling a strong inclination to cry. Serge threw down the flower. +Nothing else occurred to him. Then, to make his peace with her, he +asked: ‘Would you like me to carry you as I did the other day?’ + +‘No, no.’ + +She pouted a little, but she had not gone another thirty steps, when she +turned round smiling. A bramble had caught hold of her dress. + +‘I thought it was you who were treading on my dress purposely. It won’t +let me go. Come and unfasten me.’ + +When she was released, they walked on again, side by side, very quietly. +Albine pretended that it was much more amusing to stroll along in this +fashion, like steady grown-up folks. They had just reached the meadows. +Far away, in front of them, stretched grassy expanses scarce broken here +and there by the tender foliage of willows. The grass looked soft and +downy, like velvet. It was a deep green, subsiding in the distance into +lighter tints, and on the horizon assuming a bright yellow glow beneath +the flaring sun. The clumps of willows right over yonder seemed like +pure gold, bathed in the tremulous brilliance of the sunshine. Dancing +dust tipped the blades of grass with quivering light, and as the gentle +breezes swept over the free expanse, moire-like reflections appeared on +the caressed and quivering herbage. In the nearer fields a multitude of +little white daisies, now in swarms, now straggling, and now in groups, +like holiday makers at some public rejoicing, brightly peopled the dark +grass. Buttercups showed themselves, gay like little brass bells which +the touch of a fly’s wing would set tinkling. Here and there big lonely +poppies raised fiery cups, and others, gathered together further away, +spread out like vats purple with lees of wine. Big cornflowers balanced +aloft their light blue caps which looked as if they would fly away +at every breath of air. Then under foot there were patches of woolly +feather-grass and fragrant meadow-sweet, sheets of fescue, dog’s-tail, +creeping-bent, and meadow grass. Sainfoin reared its long fine +filaments; clover unfurled its clear green leaves, plantains brandished +forests of spears, lucerne spread out in soft beds of green satin +broidered with purple flowers. And all these were seen, to right, to +left, in front, everywhere, rolling over the level soil, showing like +the mossy surface of a stagnant sea, asleep beneath the sky which ever +seemed to expand. Here and there, in the vast expanse, the vegetation +was of a limpid blue, as though it reflected the colour of the heavens. + +Albine and Serge stepped along over the meadow-lands, with the grass +reaching to their knees. It was like wading through a pool. Now and +then, indeed, they found themselves caught by a current in which a +stream of bending stalks seemed to flow away between their legs. Then +there were placid-looking, slumbering lakes, basins of short grass, +which scarcely reached their ankles. As they walked along together, +their joy found expression not in wild gambols, as in the orchard a week +before, but rather in loitering, with their feet caught among the supple +arms of the herbage, tasting as it were the caresses of a pure stream +which calmed the exuberance of their youth. Albine turned aside and +slipped into a lofty patch of vegetation which reached to her chin. Only +her head appeared. For a moment or two she stood there in silence. Then +she called to Serge: ‘Come here, it is just like a bath. It is as if one +had green water all over one.’ + +Then she gave a jump and scampered off without waiting for him, and +they both walked along the margin of the first stream which barred their +onward course. It was a shallow tranquil brook between banks of wild +cress. It flowed on so placidly and gently that its surface reflected +like a mirror the smallest reed that grew beside it. Albine and Serge +followed this stream, whose onward motion was slower than their own, for +a long time before they came across a tree that flung a long shadow +upon the idle waters. As far as their eyes could reach they saw the bare +brook stretch out and slumber in the sunlight like a blue serpent half +uncoiled. At last they reached a clump of three willows. Two had their +roots in the stream; the third was set a little backward. Their trunks, +rotten and crumbling with age, were crowned with the bright foliage of +youth. The shadow they cast was so slight as scarcely to be perceptible +upon the sunlit bank. Yet here the water, which, both above and below, +was so unruffled, showed a transient quiver, a rippling of its surface, +as though it were surprised to find even this light veil cast over it. +Between the three willows the meadow-land sloped down to the stream, and +some crimson poppies had sprung up in the crevices of the decaying old +trunks. The foliage of the willows looked like a tent of greenery fixed +upon three stakes by the water’s edge, beside a rolling prairie. + +‘This is the place,’ cried Albine, ‘this is the place;’ and she glided +beneath the willows. + +Serge sat down by her side, his feet almost in the water. He glanced +round him, and murmured: ‘You know everything, you know all the best +spots. One might almost think this was an island, ten feet square, right +in the middle of the sea.’ + +‘Yes, indeed, we are quite at home,’ she replied, as she gleefully +drummed the grass with her fists. ‘It is altogether our own, and we are +going to do everything ourselves.’ Then, as if struck by a brilliant +idea, she sprang towards him, and, with her face close to his, asked him +joyously: ‘Will you be my husband? I will be your wife.’ + +He was delighted at the notion, and replied that he would gladly be +her husband, laughing even more loudly than she had done herself. +Then Albine suddenly became grave, and assumed the anxious air of a +housewife. + +‘You know,’ she said, ‘that it is I who will have to give the orders. We +will have breakfast as soon as you have laid the table.’ + +She gave him her orders in an imperious fashion. He had to stow all the +various articles which she extracted from her pockets into a hole in one +of the willows, which bole she called the cupboard. The rags +supplied the household linen, while the comb represented the toilette +necessaries. The needles and string were to be used for mending the +explorers’ clothes. Provision for the inner man consisted of the little +bottle of wine and a few crusts which she had saved from yesterday. She +had, to be sure, some matches, by the aid of which she intended to cook +the fish they were going to catch. + +When Serge had finished laying the table, the bottle of wine in the +centre, and three crusts grouped round it, he hazarded the observation +that the fare seemed to be scanty. But Albine shrugged her shoulders +with feminine superiority. And wading into the water, she said in a +severe tone, ‘I will catch the fish; you can watch me.’ + +For half an hour she strenuously exerted herself in trying to catch some +of the little fishes with her hands. She had gathered up her petticoats +and fastened them together with a piece of string. And she advanced +quietly into the water, taking the greatest care not to disturb it. When +she was quite close to some tiny fish, that lay lurking between a couple +of pebbles, she thrust down her bare arm, made a wild grasp, and brought +her hand up again with nothing in it but sand and gravel. Serge then +broke out into noisy laughter which brought her back to the bank, +indignant. She told him that he had no business to laugh at her. + +‘But,’ he ended by asking, ‘how are we going to cook your fish when you +have caught it? There is no wood about.’ + +That put the finishing touch to her discouragement. However, the fish +in that stream didn’t seem to be good for much; so she came out of the +water and ran through the long grass to get her feet dry. + +‘See,’ she suddenly exclaimed, ‘here is some pimpernel. It is very nice. +Now we shall have a feast.’ + +Serge was ordered to gather a quantity of the pimpernel and place it on +the table. They ate it with their crusts. Albine declared that it was +much better than nuts. She assumed the position of mistress of the +establishment, and cut Serge’s bread for him, for she would not trust +him with the knife. At last she made him store away in the ‘cupboard’ +the few drops of wine that remained at the bottom of the bottle. He was +also ordered to sweep the grass. Then Albine lay down at full length. + +‘We are going to sleep now, you know. You must lie down by my side.’ + +He did as he was ordered. They lay there stiffly staring into the air, +and saying that they were asleep, and that it was very nice. After a +while, however, they drew slightly away from one another, averting their +heads as if they felt some discomfort. And at last breaking the silence +which had fallen between them, Serge exclaimed: ‘I love you very much.’ + +It was love such as it is without any sensual feeling; that instinctive +love which wakens in the bosom of a little man ten years old at the +sight of some white-robed baby-girl. The meadow-lands, spreading around +them all open and free, dissipated the slight fear each felt of the +other. They knew that they lay there, seen of all the herbage, that the +blue sky looked down upon them through the light foliage of the willows, +and the thought was pleasant to them. The willow canopy over their heads +was a mere open screen. The shade it cast was so imperceptible that +it wafted to them none of the languor that some dim coppice might have +done. From the far-off horizon came a healthy breeze fraught with all +the freshness of the grassy sea, swelling here and there into waves +of flowers; while, at their feet, the stream, childlike as they were, +flowed idly along with a gentle babbling that sounded to them like the +laughter of a companion. Ah! happy solitude, so tranquil and placid, +immensity wherein the little patch of grass serving as their couch took +the semblance of an infant’s cradle. + +‘There, that’s enough; said Albine, getting up; ‘we’ve rested long +enough.’ + +Serge seemed a little surprised at this speedy termination of their +sleep. He stretched out his arm and caught hold of Albine, as though to +draw her near him again; and when she, laughing, dropped upon her knees +he grasped her elbows and gazed up at her. He knew not to what impulse +he was yielding. But when she had freed herself, and again had risen to +her feet, he buried his face amongst the grass where she had lain, and +which still retained the warmth of her body. + +‘Yes,’ he said at last, ‘it is time to get up,’ and then he rose from +the ground. + +They scoured the meadow-lands until evening began to fall. They went on +and on, inspecting their garden. Albine walked in front, sniffing like +a young dog, and saying nothing, but she was ever in search of the happy +glade, although where they found themselves there were none of the big +trees of which her thoughts were full. Serge meanwhile indulged in all +kinds of clumsy gallantry. He rushed forward so hastily to thrust the +tall herbage aside, that he nearly tripped her up; and he almost tore +her arm from her body as he tried to assist her over the brooks. Their +joy was great when they came to the three other streams. The first +flowed over a bed of pebbles, between two rows of willows, so closely +planted that they had to grope between the branches with the risk of +falling into some deep part of the water. It only rose to Serge’s knees, +however, and having caught Albine in his arms he carried her to the +opposite bank, to save her from a wetting. The next stream flowed black +with shade beneath a lofty canopy of foliage, passing languidly onward +with the gentle rustling and rippling of the satin train of some lady, +dreamily sauntering through the woodland depths. It was a deep, cold, +and rather dangerous-looking stream, but a fallen tree that stretched +from bank to bank served them as a bridge. They crossed over, bestriding +the tree with dangling feet, at first amusing themselves by stirring the +water which looked like a mirror of burnished steel, but then suddenly +hastening, frightened by the strange eyes which opened in the depths of +the sleepy current at the slightest splash. But it was the last stream +which delayed them the most. It was sportive like themselves, it flowed +more slowly at certain bends, whence it started off again with merry +ripples, past piles of big stones, into the shelter of some clump of +trees, and grew calmer once more. It exhibited every humour as it sped +along over soft sand or rocky boulders, over sparkling pebbles or greasy +clay, where leaping frogs made yellow puddles. Albine and Serge dabbled +about in delight, and even walked homewards through the stream in +preference to remaining on the bank. At every little island that divided +the current they landed. They conquered the savage spot or rested +beneath the lofty canes and reeds, which seemed to grow there expressly +as shelter for shipwrecked adventurers. Thus they made a delightful +progress, amused by the changing scenery of the banks, enlivened by the +merry humour of the living current. + +But when they were about to leave the river, Serge realised that Albine +was still seeking something along the banks, on the island, even among +the plants that slept on the surface of the water. He was obliged to +go and pull her from the midst of a patch of water-lilies whose broad +leaves set _collerettes_ around her limbs. He said nothing, but shook +his finger at her. And at last they went home, walking along, arm in +arm, like young people after a day’s outing. They looked at each other, +and thought one another handsomer and stronger than before, and of a +certainty their laughter had a different ring from that with which it +had sounded in the morning. + + + + +XI + +‘Are we never going out again?’ asked Serge some days later. + +And when he saw Albine shrug her shoulders with a weary air, he added, +in a teasing kind of way, ‘You have got tired of looking for your tree, +then?’ + +They joked about the tree all day and made fun of it. It didn’t exist. +It was only a nursery-story. Yet they both spoke of it with a slight +feeling of awe. And on the morrow they settled that they would go to +the far end of the park and pay a visit to the great forest-trees which +Serge had not yet seen. Albine refused to take anything along with them. +They breakfasted before starting and did not set off till late. The heat +of the sun, which was then great, brought them a feeling of languor, +and they sauntered along gently, side by side, seeking every patch of +sheltering shade. They lingered neither in the garden nor the orchard, +through which they had to pass. When they gained the shady coolness +beneath the big trees, they dropped into a still slower pace; and, +without a word, but with a deep sigh, as though it were welcome relief +to escape from the glare of day, they pushed on into the forest’s +depths. And when they had nothing but cool green leaves about them, when +no glimpse of the sunlit expanse was afforded by any gap in the +foliage, they looked at each other and smiled, with a feeling of vague +uneasiness. + +‘How nice it is here!’ murmured Serge. + +Albine simply nodded her head. A choking sensation in her throat +prevented her from speaking. Their arms were not passed as usual round +each other’s waist, but swung loosely by their sides. They walked along +without touching each other, and with their heads inclined towards the +ground. + +But Serge suddenly stopped short on seeing tears trickle down Albine’s +cheeks and mingle with the smile that played around her lips. + +‘What is the matter with you?’ he exclaimed; ‘are you in pain? Have you +hurt yourself?’ + +‘No, don’t you see I’m smiling? I don’t know how it is, but the scent of +all these trees forces tears into my eyes.’ She glanced at him, and then +resumed: ‘Why, you’re crying too! You see you can’t help it.’ + +‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘all this deep shade affects one. It seems so +peaceful, so mournful here that one feels a little sad. But you must +tell me, you know, if anything makes you really unhappy. I have not done +anything to annoy you, have I? you are not vexed with me?’ + +She assured him that she was not. She was quite happy, she said. + +‘Then why are you not enjoying yourself more? Shall we have a race?’ + +‘Oh! no, we can’t race,’ she said, disdainfully, with a pout. And +when he went on to suggest other amusements, such as bird-nesting or +gathering strawberries or violets, she replied a little impatiently: ‘We +are too big for that sort of thing. It is childish to be always playing. +Doesn’t it please you better to walk on quietly by my side?’ + +She stepped along so prettily, that it was, indeed, a pleasure to hear +the pit-pat of her little boots on the hard soil of the path. Never +before had he paid attention to the rhythmic motion of her figure, the +sweep of her skirts that followed her with serpentine motion. It was +happiness never to be exhausted, to see her thus walking sedately by +his side, for he was ever discovering some new charm in the lissom +suppleness of her limbs. + +‘You are right,’ he said, ‘this is really the best. I would walk by your +side to the end of the world, if you wished it.’ + +A little further on, however, he asked her if she were not tired, and +hinted that he would not be sorry to have a rest himself. + +‘We might sit down for a few minutes,’ he suggested in a stammering +voice. + +‘No,’ she replied, ‘I don’t want to.’ + +‘But we might lie down, you know, as we did in the meadows the other +day. We should be quite comfortable.’ + +‘No, no; I don’t want to.’ + +And she suddenly sprang aside, as if scared by the masculine arms +outstretched towards her. Serge called her a big stupid, and tried to +catch her. But at the light touch of his fingers she cried out with such +an expression of pain that he drew back, trembling. + +‘I have hurt you?’ he said. + +She did not reply for a moment, surprised, herself, at her cry of fear, +and already smiling at her own alarm. + +‘No; leave me, don’t worry me;’ and she added in a grave tone, though +she tried to feign jocularity: ‘you know that I have my tree to look +for.’ + +Then Serge began to laugh, and offered to help her in her search. He +conducted himself very gently in order that he might not again alarm +her, for he saw that she was even yet trembling, though she had resumed +her slow walk beside him. What they were contemplating was forbidden, +and could bring them no luck; and he, like her, felt a delightful +awe, which thrilled him at each repeated sigh of the forest trees. The +perfume of the foliage, the soft green light which filtered through +the leaves, the soughing silence of the undergrowth, filled them with +tremulous excitement, as though the next turn of the path might lead +them to some perilous happiness. + +And for hours they walked on under the cool trees. They retained their +reserved attitude towards each other, and scarcely exchanged a word, +though they never left each other’s side, but went together through the +darkest greenery of the forest. At first their way lay through a jungle +of saplings with trunks no thicker than a child’s wrist. They had to +push them aside, and open a path for themselves through the tender +shoots which threw a wavy lacework of foliage before their eyes. The +saplings closed up again behind them, leaving no trace of their passage, +and they struggled on and on at random, ignorant of where they might be, +and leaving nothing behind them to mark their progress, save a momentary +waving of shaken boughs. Albine, weary of being unable to see more +than three steps in front of her, was delighted when they at last +found themselves free of this jungle, whose end they had long tried to +discover. They had now reached a little clearing, whence several narrow +paths, fringed with green hedges, struck out in various directions, +twisting hither and thither, intersecting one another, bending and +stretching in the most capricious fashion. Albine and Serge rose on +tip-toes to peep over the hedges; but they were in no haste, and would +willingly have stayed where they were, lost in the mazy windings, +without ever getting anywhere, if they had not seen before them the +proud lines of the lofty forest trees. They passed at last beneath their +shade, solemnly and with a touch of sacred awe, as when one enters some +vaulted cathedral. The straight lichen-stained trunks of the mighty +trees, of a dingy grey, like discoloured stone, towered loftily, line +by line, like a far-reaching infinity of columns. Naves opened far away, +with lower, narrower aisles; naves strangely bold in their proportions, +whose supporting pillars were very slender, richly caned, so finely +chiselled that everywhere they allowed a glimpse of the blue heavens. A +religious silence reigned beneath the giant arches, the ground below lay +hard as stone in its austere nakedness; not a blade of green was there, +nought but a ruddy dust of dead leaves. And Serge and Albine listened +to their ringing footsteps as they went on, thrilled by the majestic +solitude of this temple. + +Here, indeed, if anywhere, must be the much-sought tree, beneath whose +shade perfect happiness had made its home. They felt that it was nigh, +such was the delight which stole through them amidst the dimness of +those mighty arches. The trees seemed to be creatures of kindliness, +full of strength and silence and happy restfulness. They looked at +them one by one, and they loved them all; and they awaited from their +majestic tranquillity some revelation whereby they themselves might +grow, expand into the bliss of strong and perfect life. The maples, +the ashes, the hornbeams, the cornels, formed a nation of giants, a +multitude full of proud gentleness, who lived in peace, knowing that the +fall of any one of them would have sufficed to wreck a whole corner of +the forest. The elms displayed colossal bodies and limbs full of sap, +scarce veiled by light clusters of little leaves. The birches and the +alders, delicate as sylphs, swayed their slim figures in the breeze to +which they surrendered the foliage that streamed around them like the +locks of goddesses already half metamorphosed into trees. The planes +shot up regularly with glossy tattooed bark, whence scaly fragments +fell. Down a gentle slope descended the larches, resembling a band of +barbarians, draped in _sayons_ of woven greenery. But the oaks were +the monarchs of all--the mighty oaks, whose sturdy trunks thrust out +conquering arms that barred the sun’s approach from all around them; +Titan-like trees, oft lightning-struck, thrown back in postures like +those of unconquered wrestlers, with scattered limbs that alone gave +birth to a whole forest. + +Could the tree which Serge and Albine sought be one of those colossal +oaks? or was it one of those lovely planes, or one of those pale, +maidenly birches, or one of those creaking elms? Albine and Serge still +plodded on, unable to tell, completely lost amongst the crowding trees. +For a moment they thought they had found the object of their quest in +the midst of a group of walnut trees from whose thick foliage fell +so cold a shadow that they shivered beneath it. Further on they felt +another thrill of emotion as they came upon a little wood of chestnut +trees, green with moss and thrusting out big strange-shaped branches, on +which one might have built an aerial village. But further still Albine +caught sight of a clearing, whither they both ran hastily. Here, in the +midst of a carpet of fine turf, a locust tree had set a very toppling of +greenery, a foliaged Babel, whose ruins were covered with the strangest +vegetation. Stones, sucked up from the ground by the mounting sap, still +remained adhering to the trunk. High branches bent down to earth again, +and, taking root, surrounded the parent tree with lofty arches, a nation +of new trunks which ever increased and multiplied. Upon the bark, seared +with bleeding wounds, were ripening fruit-pods; the mere effort of +bearing fruit strained the old monster’s skin until it split. The young +folks walked slowly round it, passing under the arched branches which +formed as it were the streets of a city, and stared at the gaping cracks +of the naked roots. Then they went off, for they had not felt there the +supernatural happiness they sought. + +‘Where are we?’ asked Serge. + +Albine did not know. She had never before come to this part of the park. +They were now in a grove of cytisus and acacias, from whose clustering +blossoms fell a soft, almost sugary perfume. ‘We are quite lost,’ she +laughed. ‘I don’t know these trees at all.’ + +‘But the garden must come to an end somewhere,’ said Serge. ‘When we get +to the end, you will know where you are, won’t you?’ + +‘No,’ she answered, waving her hands afar. + +They fell into silence; never yet had the vastness of the park filled +them with such pleasure. They joyed at knowing that they were alone in +so far-spreading a domain that even they themselves could not reach its +limits. + +‘Well, we are lost,’ said Serge, gaily; then humbly drawing near her he +inquired: ‘You are not afraid, are you?’ + +‘Oh! no. There’s no one except you and me in the garden. What could I +be afraid of? The walls are very high. We can’t see them, but they guard +us, you know.’ + +Serge was now quite close to her, and he murmured, ‘But a little time +ago you were afraid of me.’ + +She looked him straight in the face, perfectly calm, without the least +faltering in her glance. ‘You hurt me,’ she replied, ‘but you are +different now. Why should I be afraid of you?’ + +‘Then you will let me hold you like this. We will go back under the +trees.’ + +‘Yes, you may put your arm around me, it makes me feel happy. And we’ll +walk slowly, eh? so that we may not find our way again too soon.’ + +He had passed his arm round her waist, and it was thus that they +sauntered back to the shade of the great forest trees, under whose +arching vaults they slowly went, with love awakening within them. +Albine said that she felt a little tired, and rested her head on Serge’s +shoulder. The fabulous tree was now forgotten. They only sought to draw +their faces nearer together that they might smile in one another’s eyes. +And it was the trees, the maples, the elms, the oaks, with their soft +green shade, that whisperingly suggested to them the first words of +love. + +‘I love you!’ said Serge, while his breath stirred the golden hair that +clustered round Albine’s temples. He tried to think of other words, but +he could only repeat, ‘I love you! I love you!’ + +Albine listened with a delightful smile upon her face. The music of her +heart was in accord with his. + +‘I love you! I love you!’ she sighed, with all the sweetness of her soft +young voice. + +Then, lifting up her blue eyes, in which the light of love was dawning, +she asked, ‘How do you love me?’ + +Serge reflected for a moment. The forest was wrapped in solemn quietude, +the lofty naves quivered only with the soft footsteps of the young pair. + +‘I love you beyond everything,’ he answered. ‘You are more beautiful +than all else that I see when I open my window in the morning. When I +look at you, I want nothing more. If I could have you only, I should be +perfectly happy.’ + +She lowered her eyes, and swayed her head as if accompanying a strain of +music. ‘I love you,’ he went on. ‘I know nothing about you. I know +not who you are, nor whence you came. You are neither my mother nor my +sister; and yet I love you to a point that I have given you my whole +heart and kept nought of it for others. Listen, I love those cheeks of +yours, so soft and satiny; I love your mouth with its rose-sweet breath; +I love your eyes, in which I see my own love reflected; I love even +your eyelashes, even those little veins which blue the whiteness of your +temples. Ah! yes, I love you, I love you, Albine.’ + +‘And I love you, too,’ she answered. ‘You are strong, and tall, and +handsome. I love you, Serge.’ + +For a moment or two they remained silent, enraptured. It seemed to them +that soft, flute-like music went before them, that their own words came +from some dulcet orchestra which they could not see. Shorter and shorter +became their steps as they leaned one towards the other, ever threading +their way amidst the mighty trees. Afar off through the long vista +of the colonnades were glimpses of waning sunlight, showing like a +procession of white-robed maidens entering church for a betrothal +ceremony amid the low strains of an organ. + +‘And why do you love me?’ asked Albine again. + +He only smiled, and did not answer her immediately; then he said, ‘I +love you because you came to me. That expresses all.... Now we are +together and we love one another. It seems to me that I could not go on +living if I did not love you. You are the very breath of my life.’ + +He bent his head, speaking almost as though he were in a dream. + +‘One does not know all that at first. It grows up in one as one’s heart +grows. One has to grow, one has to get strong.... Do you remember how +we loved one another though we didn’t speak of it? One is childish and +silly at first. Then, one fine day, it all becomes clear, and bursts +out. You see, we have nothing to trouble about; we love one another +because our love and our life are one.’ + +Albine’s head was cast back, her eyes were tightly closed, and she +scarce drew her breath. Serge’s caressing words enraptured her: ‘Do you +really, really love me?’ she murmured, without opening her eyes. + +Serge remained silent, sorely troubled that he could find nothing +further to say to prove to her the force of his love. His eyes wandered +over her rosy face, which lay upon his shoulder with the restfulness of +sleep. Her eyelids were soft as silk. Her moist lips were curved into a +bewitching smile, her brow was pure white, with just a rim of gold below +her hair. He would have liked to give his whole being with the word +which seemed to be upon his tongue but which he could not utter. Again +he bent over her, and seemed to consider on what sweet spot of that fair +face he should whisper the supreme syllables. But he said nothing, he +only breathed a little sigh. Then he kissed Albine’s lips. + +‘Albine, I love you!’ + +‘I love you, Serge!’ + +Then they stopped short, thrilled, quivering with that first love kiss. +She had opened her eyes quite widely. He was standing with his lips +protruding slightly towards hers. They looked at each other without a +blush. They felt they were under the influence of some sovereign power. +It was like the realisation of a long dreamt-of meeting, in which they +beheld themselves grown, made one for the other, for ever joined. For a +moment they remained wondering, raising their eyes to the solemn vault +of greenery above them, questioning the tranquil nation of trees as if +seeking an echo of their kiss. But, beneath the serene complacence of +the forest, they yielded to prolonged, ringing lovers’ gaiety, full of +all the tenderness now born. + +‘Tell me how long you have loved me. Tell me everything. Did you love me +that day when you lay sleeping upon my hand? Did you love me when I fell +out of the cherry tree, and you stood beneath it, stretching out your +arms to catch me, and looking so pale? Did you love me when you took +hold of me round the waist in the meadows to help me over the streams?’ + +‘Hush, let me speak. I have always loved you. And you, did you love me; +did you?’ + +Until the evening closed round them they lived upon that one word +‘love,’ in which they ever seemed to find some new sweetness. They +brought it into every sentence, ejaculated it inconsequentially, merely +for the pleasure they found in pronouncing it. Serge, however, did not +think of pressing a second kiss to Albine’s lips. The perfume of the +first sufficed them in their purity. They had found their way again, or +rather had stumbled upon it, for they had paid no attention to the paths +they took. As they left the forest, twilight had fallen, and the moon +was rising, round and yellow, between the black foliage. It was a +delightful walk home through the park, with that discreet luminary +peering at them through the gaps in the big trees. Albine said that +the moon was surely following them. The night was balmy, warm too with +stars. Far away a long murmur rose from the forest trees, and Serge +listened, thinking: ‘They are talking of us.’ + +When they reached the parterre, they passed through an atmosphere of +sweetest perfumes; the perfume of flowers at night, which is richer, +more caressing than by day, and seems like the very breath of slumber. + +‘Good night, Serge.’ + +‘Good night, Albine.’ + +They clasped each other by the hand on the landing of the first floor, +without entering the room where they usually wished each other good +night. They did not kiss. But Serge, when he was alone, remained seated +on the edge of his bed, listening to Albine’s every movement in the room +above. He was weary with happiness, a happiness that benumbed his limbs. + + + + +XII + +For the next few days Albine and Serge experienced a feeling of +embarrassment. They avoided all allusion to their walk beneath +the trees. They had not again kissed each other, or repeated their +confession of love. It was not any feeling of shame which had sealed +their lips, but rather a fear of in any way spoiling their happiness. +When they were apart, they lived upon the dear recollection of love’s +awakening, plunged into it, passed once more through the happy hours +which they had spent, with their arms around each other’s waist, and +their faces close together. It all ended by throwing them both into a +feverish state. They looked at each other with heavy eyes, and talked, +in a melancholy mood, of things that did not interest them in the least. +Then, after a long interval of silence, Serge would say to Albine in a +tone full of anxiety: ‘You are ill?’ + +But she shook her head as she answered, ‘No, no. It is you who are not +well; your hands are burning.’ + +The thought of the park filled them with vague uneasiness which they +could not understand. They felt that danger lurked for them in some +by-path, and would seize them and do them hurt. They never spoke about +these disquieting thoughts, but certain timid glances revealed to them +the mutual anguish which held them apart as though they were foes. One +morning, however, Albine ventured, after much hesitation, to say to +Serge: ‘It is wrong of you to keep always indoors. You will fall ill +again.’ + +Serge laughed in rather an embarrassed way. ‘Bah!’ he muttered, ‘we have +been everywhere, we know all the garden by heart.’ + +But Albine shook her head, and in a whisper replied, ‘No, no, we don’t +know the rocks, we have never been to the springs. It was there that I +warmed myself last winter. There are some nooks where the stones seem to +be actually alive.’ + +The next morning, without having said another word on the subject, they +set out together. They climbed up to the left behind the grotto where +the marble woman lay slumbering; and as they set foot on the lowest +stones, Serge remarked: ‘We must see everything. Perhaps we shall feel +quieter afterwards.’ + +The day was very hot, there was thunder in the air. They had not +ventured to clasp each other’s waist; but stepped along, one behind the +other, glowing beneath the sunlight. Albine took advantage of a widening +of the path to let Serge go on in front; for the warmth of his breath +upon her neck troubled her. All around them the rocks arose in broad +tiers, storeys of huge flags, bristling with coarse vegetation. They +first came upon golden gorse, clumps of sage, thyme, lavender, and other +balsamic plants, with sour-berried juniper trees and bitter rosemary, +whose strong scent made them dizzy. Here and there the path was hemmed +in by holly, that grew in quaint forms like cunningly wrought metal +work, gratings of blackened bronze, wrought iron, and polished copper, +elaborately ornamented, covered with prickly _rosaces_. And before +reaching the springs, they had to pass through a pine-wood. Its shadow +seemed to weigh upon their shoulders like lead. The dry needles crackled +beneath their feet, throwing up a light resinous dust which burned their +lips. + +‘Your garden doesn’t make itself very agreeable just here,’ said Serge, +turning towards Albine. + +They smiled at each other. They were now near the edge of the springs. +The sight of the clear waters brought them relief. Yet these springs did +not hide beneath a covering of verdure, like those that bubble up on the +plains and set thick foliage growing around them that they may slumber +idly in the shade. They shot up in the full light of day from a cavity +in the rock, without a blade of grass near by to tinge the clear water +with green. Steeped in the sunshine they looked silvery. In their depths +the sun beat against the sand in a breathing living dust of light. And +they darted out of their basin like arms of purest white, they rebounded +like nude infants at play, and then suddenly leapt down in a waterfall +whose curve suggested a woman’s breast. + +‘Dip your hands in,’ cried Albine; ‘the water is icy cold at the +bottom.’ + +They were indeed able to refresh their hot hands. They threw water over +their faces too, and lingered there amidst the spray which rose up from +the streaming springs. + +‘Look,’ cried Albine; ‘look, there is the garden, and there are the +meadows and the forest.’ + +For a moment they looked at the Paradou spread out beneath their feet. + +‘And you see,’ she added, ‘there isn’t the least sign of any wall. The +whole country belongs to us, right up to the sky.’ + +By this time, almost unawares, they had slipped their arms round each +other’s waist. The coolness of the springs had soothed their feverish +disquietude. But just as they were going away, Albine seemed to recall +something and led Serge back again, saying: + +‘Down there, below the rocks, a long time ago, I once saw the wall.’ + +‘But there is nothing to be seen,’ replied Serge, turning a little pale. + +‘Yes, yes; it must be behind that avenue of chestnut trees on the other +side of those bushes.’ + +Then, on feeling Serge’s arm tremble, she added: ‘But perhaps I am +mistaken.... Yet I seem to remember that I suddenly came upon it as I +left the avenue. It stopped my way, and was so high that I felt a little +afraid. And a few steps farther on, I came upon another surprise. There +was a huge hole in it, through which I could see the whole country +outside.’ + +Serge looked at her with entreaty in his eyes. She gave a little shrug +of her shoulders to reassure him, and went on: ‘But I stopped the hole +up; I have told you that we are quite alone, and we are. I stopped it up +at once. I had my knife with me, and I cut down some brambles and +rolled up some big stones. I would defy even a sparrow to force its way +through. If you like, we will go and look at it one of these days, and +then you will be satisfied.’ + +But he shook his head. Then they went away together, still holding each +other by the waist; but they had grown anxious once more. Serge gazed +down askance at Albine’s face, and she felt perturbed beneath his +glance. They would have liked to go down again at once, and thus escape +the uneasiness of a longer walk. But, in spite of themselves, as though +impelled by some stronger power, they skirted a rocky cliff and reached +a table-land, where once more they found the intoxication of the full +sunlight. They no longer inhaled the soft languid perfumes of aromatic +plants, the musky scent of thyme, and the incense of lavender. Now they +were treading a foul-smelling growth under foot; wormwood with bitter, +penetrating smell; rue that reeked like putrid flesh; and hot valerian, +clammy with aphrodisiacal exudations. Mandragoras, hemlocks, hellebores, +dwales, poured forth their odours, and made their heads swim till they +reeled and tottered one against the other. + +‘Shall I hold you up?’ Serge asked Albine, as he felt her leaning +heavily upon him. + +He was already pressing her in his arms, but she struggled out of his +grasp, and drew a long breath. + +‘No; you stifle me,’ she said. ‘Leave me alone. I don’t know what is the +matter with me. The ground seems to give way under my feet. It is there +I feel the pain.’ + +She took hold of his hand and laid it upon her breast. Then Serge turned +quite pale. He was even more overcome than she. And both had tears in +their eyes as they saw each other thus ill and troubled, unable to think +of a remedy for the evil which had fallen upon them. Were they going to +die here of that mysterious, suffocating faintness? + +‘Come and sit down in the shade,’ said Serge. ‘It is these plants which +are poisoning us with their noxious odours.’ + +He led her gently along by her finger-tips, for she shivered and +trembled when he but touched her wrist. It was beneath a fine cedar, +whose level roof-like branches spread nearly a dozen yards around, that +she seated herself. Behind grew various quaint conifers; cypresses, with +soft flat foliage that looked like heavy lace; spruce firs, erect and +solemn, like ancient druidical pillars, still black with the blood of +sacrificed victims; yews, whose dark robes were fringed with silver; +evergreen trees of all kinds, with thick-set foliage, dark leathery +verdure, splashed here and there with yellow and red. There was a +weird-looking araucaria that stood out strangely with large regular +arms resembling reptiles grafted one on the other, and bristling with +imbricated leaves that suggested the scales of an excited serpent. In +this heavy shade, the warm air lulled one to voluptuous drowsiness. The +atmosphere slept, breathless; and a perfume of Eastern love, the perfume +that came from the painted lips of the Shunamite, was exhaled by the +odorous trees. + +‘Are you not going to sit down?’ said Albine. + +And she slipped a little aside to make room for him; but Serge stepped +back and remained standing. Then, as she renewed her request, he dropped +upon his knees, a little distance away, and said, softly: ‘No, I am more +feverish even than you are; I should make you hot. If I wasn’t afraid of +hurting you, I would take you in my arms, and clasp you so tightly that +we should no longer feel any pain.’ + +He dragged himself nearer to her on his knees. + +‘Oh! to have you in my arms! In the night I awake from dreams in which +I see you near me; but, alas! you are ever far away. There seems to be +some wall built up between us which I can never beat down. And yet I am +now quite strong again; I could catch you up in my arms and swing you +over my shoulder, and carry you off as though you belonged to me.’ + +He had let himself sink upon his elbows, in an attitude of deep +adoration. And he breathed a kiss upon the hem of Albine’s skirt. But at +this the girl sprang up, as though it was she herself that had received +the kiss. She hid her brow with her hands, perturbed, quivering, and +stammering forth: ‘Don’t! don’t! I beg of you. Let us go on.’ + +She did not hurry away, but let Serge follow her as she walked slowly +on, stumbling against the roots of the plants, and with her hands still +clasped round her head, as though to check the excitement that thrilled +her. When they came out of the little wood, they took a few steps over +ledges of rocks, on which a whole nation of ardent fleshy plants was +squatting. It was like a crawling, writhing assemblage of hideous +nameless monsters such as people a nightmare; monsters akin to spiders, +caterpillars, and wood-lice, grown to gigantic proportions, some with +bare glaucous skins, others tufted with filthy matted hairs, whilst many +had sickly limbs--dwarf legs, and shrivelled, palsied arms--sprawling +around them. And some displayed horrid dropsical bellies; some had +spines bossy with hideous humps, and others looked like dislocated +skeletons. Mamillaria threw up living pustules, a crawling swarm of +greenish tortoises, bristling hideously with long hairs that were +stiffer than iron. The echinocacti, which showed more flesh, suggested +nests of young writhing, knotted vipers. The echinopses were mere +excrescent red-haired growths that made one think of huge insects rolled +into balls. The prickly-pears spread out fleshy leaves spotted with +ruddy spikes that resembled swarms of microscopic bees. The gasterias +sprawled about like big shepherd-spiders turned over on their backs, +with long-speckled and striated legs. The cacti of the cereus family +showed a horrid vegetation, huge polyps, the diseases of an overheated +soil, the maladies of poisoned sap. But the aloes, languidly unfolding +their hearts, were particularly numerous and conspicuous. Among them +one found every possible tint of green, pale green and vivid, yellowish +green and greyish, browny green, dashed with a ruddy tone, and deep +green, fringed with pale gold. And the shapes of their leaves were as +varied as their tints. Some were broad and heart-shaped, others were +long and narrow like sword-blades; some bristled with spikey thorns, +while yet others looked as though they had been cunningly hemmed at the +edges. There were giant ones, in lonely majesty, with flower stalks that +towered up aloft like poles wreathed with rosy coral; and there were +tiny ones clustering thickly together on one and the same stem, and +throwing forth on all sides leaves that gleamed and quivered like +adders’ tongues. + +‘Let us go back to the shade,’ begged Serge. ‘You can sit down there as +you did just now, and I will lie at your feet and talk to you.’ + +Where they stood the sun rays fell like torrential rain. It was as if +the triumphant orb seized upon the shadowless ground, and strained it +to his blazing breast. Albine grew faint, staggered, and turned to Serge +for support. + +But the moment they felt each other’s touch, they fell together without +even a word. It was as though the very rock beneath them had opened, as +though they were ever going down and down. Their hands sought each other +caressingly, embracingly, but such keen anguish did they experience +that they suddenly tore themselves apart, and fled, each in a different +direction. Serge did not cease running till he had reached the pavilion, +and had thrown himself upon his bed, his brain on fire, and despair in +his heart. Albine did not return till nightfall, after hours of weeping +in a corner of the garden. It was the first time that they had not +returned home together, tired after their long wanderings. For three +days they kept apart, feeling terribly unhappy. + + + + +XIII + +Yet now the park was entirely their own. They had taken sovereign +possession of it. There was not a corner of it that was not theirs to +use as they willed. For them alone the thickets of roses put forth their +blossoms, and the parterre exhaled its soft perfume, which lulled them +to sleep as they lay at night with their windows open. The orchard +provided them with food, filling Albine’s skirts with fruits, and +spread over them the shade of its perfumed boughs, under which it was +so pleasant to breakfast in the early morning. Away in the meadows the +grass and the streams were all theirs; the grass, which extended their +kingdom to such boundless distance, spreading an endless silky carpet +before them; and the streams, which were the best of their joys, +emblematic of their own purity and innocence, ever offering them +coolness and freshness in which they delighted to bathe their youth. The +forest, too, was entirely theirs, from the mighty oaks, which ten men +could not have spanned, to the slim birches which a child might have +snapped; the forest, with all its trees, all its shade, all its avenues +and clearings, its cavities of greenery, of which the very birds +themselves were ignorant; the forest which they used as they listed, +as if it were a giant canopy, beneath which they might shelter from the +noontide heat their new-born love. They reigned everywhere, even among +the rocks and the springs, even over that gruesome stretch of ground +that teemed with such hideous growth, and which had seemed to sink and +give way beneath their feet, but which they loved yet even more than +the soft grassy couches of the garden, for the strange thrill of passion +they had felt there. + +Thus, now, in front of them, behind them, to the right of them and +to the left, all was theirs. They had gained possession of the whole +domain, and they walked through a friendly expanse which knew them, and +smiled kindly greetings to them as they passed, devoting itself to their +pleasure, like a faithful and submissive servitor. The sky, with its +vast canopy of blue overhead, was also theirs to enjoy. The park walls +could not enclose it, their eyes could ever revel in its beauty, and it +entered into the joy of their life, at daytime with its triumphal sun, +at night with its golden rain of stars. At every moment of the day it +delighted them afresh, its expression ever varying. In the early morning +it was pale as a maiden just risen from her slumber; at noon, it was +flushed, radiant as with a longing for fruitfulness, and in the +evening it became languid and breathless, as after keen enjoyment. Its +countenance was constantly changing. Particularly in the evenings, at +the hour of parting, did it delight them. The sun, hastening towards the +horizon, ever found a fresh smile. Sometimes he disappeared in the +midst of serene calmness, unflecked by a single cloud, sinking gradually +beneath a golden sea. At other times he threw out crimson glories, tore +his vaporous robe to shreds, and set amidst wavy flames that streaked +the skies like the tails of gigantic comets, whose radiant heads lit up +the crests of the forest trees. Then, again, extinguishing his rays +one by one, he would softly sink to rest on shores of ruddy sand, +far-reaching banks of blushing coral; and then, some other night, he +would glide away demurely behind a heavy cloud that figured the grey +hangings of some alcove, through which the eye could only detect a spark +like that of a night-light. Or else he would rush to his couch in +a tumult of passion, rolled round with white forms which gradually +crimsoned beneath his fiery embraces, and finally disappeared with him +below the horizon in a confused chaos of gleaming, struggling limbs. + +It was only the plants which had not made their submission. Albine and +Serge passed like monarchs through the kingdom of animals, who rendered +them humble and loyal obeisance. When they crossed the parterre, flights +of butterflies arose to delight their eyes, to fan them with quivering +wings, and to follow in their train like living sunbeams or flying +blossoms. In the orchard, they were greeted by the birds that banqueted +in the fruit-trees. The sparrows, the chaffinches, the golden orioles, +the bullfinches, showed them the ripest fruit scarred by their hungry +beaks; and while they sat astride the branches and breakfasted, birds +twittered and sported round them like children at play, and even +purloined the fruit beneath their very feet. Albine found even more +amusement in the meadows, where she caught the little green frogs +with eyes of gold, that lay squatting amongst the reeds, absorbed in +contemplation; while Serge, with a piece of straw, poked the crickets +out of their hiding-places, or tickled the grasshoppers to make them +sing. He picked up insects of all colours, blue ones, red ones, yellow +ones, and set them creeping upon his sleeve, where they gleamed and +glittered like buttons of sapphire and ruby and topaz. + +Then there was all the mysterious life of the streams; the grey-backed +fishes that threaded the dim waters, the eels whose presence was +betrayed by a slight quivering of the water-plants, the young fry, which +dispersed like blackish sand at the slightest sound, the long-legged +flies and the water-beetles that ruffled into circling silvery ripples +the stagnant surface of the pools; all that silent teeming life which +drew them to the water and impelled them to dabble and stand in it, so +that they might feel those millions of existences ever and ever gliding +past their limbs. At other times, when the day was hot and languid, they +would betake themselves beneath the voiceful shade of the forest and +listen to the serenades of their musicians, the clear fluting of the +nightingales, the silvery bugle-notes of the tomtits, and the far-off +accompaniment of the cuckoos. They gazed with delight upon the swift +flight of the pheasants, whose plumes gleamed like sudden sun rays +amidst the branches, and with a smile they stayed their steps to let a +troop of young roebucks bound past, or else a couple of grave stags that +slackened their pace to look at them. Again, on other days they would +climb up amongst the rocks, when the sun was blazing in the heavens, +and find a pleasure in watching the swarms of grasshoppers which at the +sound of their footsteps arose with a great crepitation of wings from +the beds of thyme. The snakes that lay uncoiled beneath the parched +bushes, or the lizards that sprawled over the red-hot stones, watched +them with friendly eyes. + +Of all the life that thus teemed round them in the park, Albine and +Serge had only become really conscious since the day when a kiss had +awakened them to life themselves. Now it deafened them at times, and +spoke to them in a language which they did not understand. It was that +life--all the voices of the animal creation, all the perfumes and soft +shadows of the flowers and trees--which perturbed them to such a point +as to make them angry with one another. And yet throughout the whole +park they found nothing but loving familiarity. Every plant and every +creature was their friend. All the Paradou was one great caress. + +Before they had come thither, the sun had for a whole century reigned +over it in lonely majesty. The garden, then, had known no other master; +it had beheld him, every morning, scaling the boundary wall with his +slanting rays, at noontide it had seen him pour his vertical heat upon +the panting soil; and at evening it had seen him go off, on the other +side, with a kiss of farewell upon its foliage. And so the garden had +no shyness; it welcomed Albine and Serge, as it had so long welcomed +the sun, as pleasant companions, with whom one puts on no ceremony. +The animals, the trees, the streams, the rocks, all continued in an +unrestrained state of nature, speaking aloud, living openly, without a +secret, displaying the innocent shamelessness, the hearty tenderness of +the world’s first days. Serge and Albine, however, suffered from these +voluptuous surroundings, and at times felt minded to curse the garden. +On the afternoon when Albine had wept so bitterly after their saunter +amongst the rocks, she had called out to the Paradou, whose intensity of +life and passion filled her with distress: + +‘If you really be our friend, why, why do you make us so wretched?’ + + + + +XIV + +The next morning Serge barricaded himself in his room. The perfume from +the garden irritated him. He drew the calico curtains closely across the +window to shut out the sight of the park. Perhaps he thought he might +recover all his old serenity and calm if he shut himself off from that +greenery, whose shade sent such passionate thrills quivering through +him. + +During the long hours they spent together, Albine and he never now spoke +of the rocks or the streams, the trees or the sky. The Paradou might no +longer have been in existence. They strove to forget it. And yet they +were all the time conscious of its presence on the other side of +those slight curtains. Scented breezes forced their way in through the +interstices of the window frame, the many voices of nature made +the panes resound. All the life of the park laughed, chattered, and +whispered in ambush beneath their window. As it reached them their +cheeks would pale and they would raise their voices, seeking some +occupation which might prevent them from hearing it. + +‘Have you noticed,’ said Serge one morning during these uneasy +intervals, ‘there is a painting of a woman over the door there? She is +like you.’ + +He laughed noisily as he finished speaking. They both turned to the +paintings and dragged the table once more alongside the wall, with a +nervous desire to occupy themselves. + +‘Oh! no,’ murmured Albine. ‘She is much fatter than I am. But one can’t +see her very well; her position is so queer.’ + +They relapsed into silence. From the decayed, faded painting a scene, +which they had never before noticed, now showed forth. It was as if the +picture had taken shape and substance again beneath the influence of +the summer heat. You could sea a nymph with arms thrown back and pliant +figure on a bed of flowers which had been strewn for her by young +cupids, who, sickle in hand, ever added fresh blossoms to her rosy +couch. And nearer, you could also see a cloven-hoofed faun who had +surprised her thus. But Albine repeated, ‘No, she is not like me, she is +very plain.’ + +Serge said nothing. He looked at the girl and then at Albine, as though +he were comparing them one with the other. Albine pulled up one of her +sleeves, as if to show that her arm was whiter than that of the pictured +girl. Then they subsided into silence again, and gazed at the painting; +and for a moment Albine’s large blue eyes turned to Serge’s grey ones, +which were glowing. + +‘You have got all the room painted again, then?’ she cried, as she +sprang from the table. ‘These people look as though they were all coming +to life again.’ + +They began to laugh, but there was a nervous ring about their merriment +as they glanced at the nude and frisking cupids which started to +life again on all the panels. They no longer took those survivals of +voluptuous eighteenth century art to represent mere children at play. +They were disturbed by the sight of them, and as Albine felt Serge’s hot +breath on her neck she started and left his side to seat herself on the +sofa. ‘They frighten me,’ she murmured. ‘The men are like robbers, +and the women, with their dying eyes, look like people who are being +murdered.’ + +Serge sat down in a chair, a little distance away, and began to talk of +other matters. But they remained uneasy. They seemed to think that all +those painted figures were gazing at them. It was as if the trooping +cupids were springing out of the panelling, casting the flowers they +held around them, and threatening to bind them together with the blue +ribbons which already enchained two lovers in one corner of the ceiling. +And the whole story of the nymph and her faun lover, from his first peep +at her to his triumph among the flowers, seemed to burst into warm life. +Were all those lovers, all those impudent shameless cupids about to step +down from their panels and crowd around them? They already seemed to +hear their panting sighs, and to feel their breath filling the spacious +room with the perfume of voluptuousness. + +‘It’s quite suffocating, isn’t it?’ sighed Albine. ‘In spite of every +airing I have given it, the room has always seemed close to me! + +‘The other night,’ said Serge, ‘I was awakened by such a penetrating +perfume, that I called out to you, thinking you had come into the room. +It was just like the soft warmth of your hair when you have decked it +with heliotropes.... In the earlier times it seemed to be wafted to me +from a distance, it was like the lingering memory of a perfume; but now +I can’t sleep for it, and it is so strong and penetrating that it quite +stupefies me. The alcove grows so hot, too, at night that I shall be +obliged to lie on the couch.’ + +Albine laid her fingers on her lips, and whispered, ‘It is the dead +girl--she who once lived here.’ + +They sniffed the odorous air with forced gaiety, but in reality feeling +very troubled. Certainly never before had the room exhaled such a +disquieting aroma. The very walls seemed to be still echoing the faint +rustling of perfumed skirts; and the floor had retained the fragrance +of satin slippers dropped by the bedside, and near the head of the bed +itself Serge thought he could trace the imprint of a little hand, which +had left behind it a clinging scent of violets. Over all the furniture +the phantom presence of the dead girl still lingered fragrantly. + +‘See, this is the armchair where she used to sit,’ cried Albine; ‘there +is the scent of her shoulders at the back of it yet.’ + +She sat down in it herself, and bade Serge drop upon his knees and kiss +her hand. + +‘You remember the day when I first let you in and said, “Good morrow, +my dear lord!” But that wasn’t all, was it? He kissed her hands when the +door was closed. There they are, my hands. They are yours.’ + +Then they tried to resume their old frolics in order that they might +forget the Paradou, whose joyous murmur they heard ever rising outside, +and that they might no longer think of the pictures nor yield to the +languor-breathing influence of the room. Albine put on an affected +manner, leant back in her chair, and finally laughed at the foolish +figure which Serge made at her feet. + +‘You stupid!’ she said, ‘take me round the waist, and say pretty things +to me, since you are supposed to be in love with me. Don’t you know how +to make love then?’ + +But as soon as she felt him clasp her with eager impetuosity, she began +to struggle, and freed herself from his embrace. + +‘No, no; leave me alone. I can’t bear it. I feel as though I were +choking in this room.’ + +From that day forward they felt the same kind of fear for the room as +they already felt for the garden. Their one remaining harbour of refuge +was now a place to be shunned and dreaded, a spot where they could no +longer find themselves together without watching each other furtively. +Albine now scarcely ventured to enter it, but remained near the +threshold, with the door wide open behind her so as to afford her an +immediate retreat. Serge lived there in solitude, a prey to sickening +restlessness, half-stifling, lying on the couch and vainly trying to +close his ears to the sighs of the soughing park and his nostrils to +the haunting fragrance of the old furniture. At night he dreamt wild +passionate dreams, which left him in the morning nervous and disquieted. +He believed that he was falling ill again, that he would never recover +plenitude of health. For days and days he remained there in silence, +with dark rings round his sleepy eyes, only starting into wakefulness +when Albine came to visit him. They would remain face to face, gazing +at one another sadly, and uttering but a few soft words, which seemed to +choke them. Albine’s eyes were even darker than Serge’s, and were filled +with an imploring gaze. + +Then, after a week had gone by, Albine’s visit never lasted more than +a few minutes. She seemed to shun him. When she came to the room, she +appeared thoughtful, remained standing, and hurried off as soon as +possible. When he questioned her about this change in her demeanour +towards him, and reproached her for no longer being friendly, she turned +her head away and avoided replying. He never could get her to tell him +how she spent the mornings that she passed alone. She would only +shake her head, and talk about being very idle. If he pressed her +more closely, she bounded out of the room, just wishing him a hasty +good-night as she disappeared through the doorway. He often noticed, +however, that she had been crying. He observed, too, in her expression +the phases of a hope that was never fulfilled, the perpetual struggling +of a desire eager to be satisfied. Sometimes she seemed quite +overwhelmed with melancholy, dragging herself about with an air of utter +discouragement, like one who no longer had any pleasure in living. At +other times she laughed lightly, her face shone with an expression of +triumphant hope, of which, however, she would not yet speak, and her +feet could not remain still, so eager was she to dart away to what +seemed to her some last certainty. But on the following day, she would +sink again into desperation, to soar afresh on the morrow on the pinions +of renewed hope. One thing which she could not conceal from Serge was +that she suffered from extreme lassitude. Even during the few moments +they spent together she could not prevent her head from nodding, or keep +herself from dozing off. + +Serge, recognising that she was unwilling to reply, had ceased to +question her; and, when she now entered his room, he contented himself +with casting an anxious glance at her, fearful lest some evening she +should no longer have strength enough to come to him. Where could she +thus reduce herself to such exhaustion? What perpetual struggle was it +that brought about those alternations of joy and despair? One morning +he started at the sound of a light footfall beneath his window. It +could not be a roe venturing abroad in that manner. Moreover he could +recognise that light footfall. Albine was wandering about the Paradou +without him. It was from the Paradou that she returned to him with all +those hopes and fears and inward wrestlings, all that lassitude which +was killing her. And he could well guess what she was seeking out there, +alone in the woody depths, with all the silent obstinacy of a woman who +has vowed to effect her purpose. After that he used to listen for her +steps. He dared not draw aside the curtain and watch her as she hurried +along through the trees; but he experienced strange, almost painful +emotion, in listening to ascertain what direction she took, whether she +turned to right or to left, whether she went straight on through the +flower-beds, and how far her ramble extended. Amidst all the noisy life +of the Paradou, amidst the soughing chorus of the trees, the rustling of +the streams, and the ceaseless songs of the birds, he could distinguish +the gentle pit-pat of her shoes so plainly that he could have told +whether she was stepping over the gravel near the rivers, the crumbling +mould of the forest, or the bare ledges of the rocks. In time he even +learned to tell, from the sound of her nervous footfall, whether she +came back hopeful or depressed. As soon as he heard her step on the +staircase, he hurried from the window, and he never let her know that +he had thus followed her from afar in her wanderings. But she must have +guessed it, for with a glance she always afterwards told him where she +had been. + +‘Stay indoors, and don’t go out,’ he begged her, with clasped hands, +one morning when he saw her still unrecovered from the fatigue of the +previous day. ‘You drive me to despair.’ + +But she hastened away in irritation. The garden, now that it rang with +Albine’s footfalls, seemed to have a more depressing influence than ever +upon Serge. The pit-pat of her feet was yet another voice that called +him; an imperious voice that echoed ever more and more loudly within +him. He closed his ears and tried to shut out the sound, but the distant +footsteps still echoed to him in the throbbings of his heart. And when +she came back, in the evening, it was the whole park that came back with +her, with the memories of their walks together, and of the slow dawn of +their love, in the midst of conniving nature. She seemed to have grown +taller and graver, mellowed, matured by her solitary rambles. There +was nothing left in her of the frolicsome child, and his teeth would +suddenly set at times when he looked at her and beheld her so desirable. + +One day, about noon, Serge heard Albine returning in hot haste. He had +restrained himself from listening for her steps when she went away. +Usually, she did not return till late, and he was amazed at her +impetuosity as she sped along, forcing her way through the branches that +barred her path. As she passed beneath his window, he heard her laugh; +and as she mounted the stairway, she panted so heavily that he almost +thought he could feel her hot breath streaming against his face. She +threw the door wide open, and cried out: ‘I have found it!’ + +Then she sat down and repeated softly, breathlessly: ‘I have found it! I +have found it!’ + +Serge, distracted, laid his fingers on her lips, and stammered: ‘Don’t +tell me anything, I beg you. I want to know nothing of it. It will kill +me, if you speak.’ + +Then she sank into silence with gleaming eyes and lips tightly pressed +lest the words she kept back should spring out in spite of her. And +she stayed in the room till evening, trying to meet Serge’s glance, and +imparting to him, each time that their eyes met, something of that which +she had discovered. Her whole face beamed with radiance, she exhaled a +delicious odour, she was full of life; and Serge felt that she permeated +him through all his senses. Despairingly did he struggle against this +gradual invasion of his being. + +On the morrow she returned to his room as soon as she was up. + +‘Aren’t you going out?’ he asked, conscious that he would be vanquished +should she remain there. + +‘No,’ she said; she wasn’t going out any more. As by degrees she +recovered from her fatigue he felt her becoming stronger, more +triumphant. She would soon be able to take him by the hand and drag him +to that spot, whose charm her silence proclaimed so loudly. That day, +however, she did not speak; she contented herself with keeping him +seated on a cushion at her feet. It was not till the next morning +that she ventured to say: ‘Why do you shut yourself up here? It is so +pleasant under the trees.’ + +He rose from her feet, and stretched out his arms entreatingly. But she +laughed at him. + +‘Well, well, then, we won’t go out, since you would rather not.... +But this room has such a strange scent, and we should be much more +comfortable in the garden. It is very wrong of you to have taken such a +dislike to it.’ + +He had again settled himself at her feet in silence, his eyelids +lowered, his features quivering with passionate emotion. + +‘We won’t go out,’ she repeated, ‘so don’t worry. But do you really +prefer these pictures to the grass and flowers in the park? Do you +remember all we saw together? It is these paintings which make us feel +so unhappy. They are a nuisance, always looking and watching us as they +do.’ + +As Serge gradually leant more closely against her, she passed her arm +round his neck and laid his head upon her lap, while murmuring in yet a +lower tone: ‘There is a little corner there I know, where we might be +so very happy. Nothing would trouble us there; the fresh air would cool +your feverishness.’ + +Then she stopped, as she felt him quivering. She was afraid lest she +might again revive his old fears. But she gradually conquered him merely +by the caressing gaze of her blue eyes. His eyelids were now raised, and +he rested there quietly, wholly hers, his tremor past. + +‘Ah! if you only knew!’ she softly breathed; and seeing that he +continued to smile, she went on boldly: ‘It is all a lie; it is not +forbidden. You are a man now and ought not to be afraid. If we went +there, and any danger threatened me, you would protect me, you would +defend me, would you not? You could carry me off on your back, couldn’t +you? I am never the least afraid when I have you with me. Look how +strong your arms have grown. What is there for any one with such strong +arms as yours to be afraid of?’ + +She caressed him beguilingly as she spoke, stroking his hair and neck +and shoulders with her hand. + +‘No, it is not forbidden,’ she resumed. ‘That is only a story for +stupids, and was invented, long ago, by some one who didn’t want to be +disturbed in the most charming spot in the whole garden. As soon as +you sat down on that grassy carpet, you would be happy and well again. +Listen, then, come with me.’ + +He shook his head but without any sign of vexation, as though indeed he +liked thus being teased. Then after a short silence, grieved to see her +pouting, and longing for a renewal of her caresses, he opened his lips +and asked: ‘Where is it?’ + +She did not answer him immediately. Her eyes seemed to be wandering far +away: ‘It is over yonder,’ she murmured at last. ‘I cannot explain to +you clearly. One has to go down the long avenue, and then to turn to +the left, and then again to the left. We must have passed it at least a +score of times. You might look for it for ever without finding it, if +I didn’t go with you to show you. I could find my way to it quite +straight, though I could never explain it to you.’ + +‘And who took you there?’ + +‘I don’t know. That morning the trees and plants seemed to drive me +there. The long branches pushed me on, the grass bent down before me +invitingly, the paths seemed to open expressly for me to take them. And +I believe the animals themselves helped to lead me there, for I saw a +stag trotting on before me as though he wanted me to follow; while a +company of bullfinches flitted on from tree to tree, and warned me with +their cries whenever I was about to take a wrong direction.’ + +‘And is it very beautiful?’ + +Again she did not reply. Deep ecstasy filled her eyes; at last, when she +was able to speak again, she said: ‘Ah! so beautiful, that I could +never tell you of it. I was so charmed that I was conscious only of +some supreme joy, which I could not name, falling from the leaves and +slumbering amid the grass. And I ran back here to take you along with me +that I might not be without you.’ + +Then she clasped her arms round his neck again, and entreated him +passionately, her lips almost pressed to his own. + +‘Oh! you will come!’ she stammered; ‘you must come; you will make me so +miserable if you don’t. You can’t want me to be miserable.... And even +if you knew that you would die there, even if that shade should be fatal +to both of us, would you hesitate or cast a regretful look behind? We +should remain there, at the foot of the tree, and sleep on quietly for +ever, in one anther’s arms. Ah! would it not be bliss indeed?’ + +‘Yes, yes!’ he stammered, transported by her passionate entreaties. + +‘But we shall not die,’ she continued, raising her voice, and laughing +with the laugh which proclaims woman’s victory; ‘we shall live to love +each other. It is a tree of life, a tree whose shadow will make us +stronger, more perfect, more complete. You will see that all will now go +happily. Some blessed joy will assuredly descend on us from heaven! Will +you come?’ + +His face paled, and his eyelids quivered, as though too powerful a light +were suddenly beating against them. + +‘Will you come? will you come?’ she cried again, yet more passionately, +and already half rising to her feet. + +He sprang up and followed her, at first with tottering steps and then +with his arm thrown round her waist, as if he could endure no separation +from her. He went where she went, carried along in the warm fragrance +that streamed from her hair. And as he thus remained slightly in the +rear, she turned upon him a face so radiant with love, such tempting +lips and eyes, which so imperiously bade him follow, that he would have +gone with her anywhere, trusting and unquestioning, like a dog. + + + + +XV + +They went down and out into the garden without the smile fading from +Serge’s face. All that he saw of the greenery around him was such as was +reflected in the clear depths of Albine’s eyes. As they approached, the +garden smiled and smiled again, a murmur of content sped from leaf to +leaf and from bough to bough to the furthest depths of the avenues. For +days and days the garden must have been hoping and expecting to see them +thus, clinging to one another, making their peace again with the trees +and searching for their lost love on the grassy banks. A solemn warning +breath sighed through the branches; the afternoon sky was drowsy with +heat; the plants raised their bowing heads to watch them pass. + +‘Listen,’ whispered Albine. ‘They drop into silence as we come near +them; but over yonder they are expecting us, they are telling each other +the way they must lead us.... I told you we should have no trouble about +the paths, the trees themselves will direct us with their spreading +arms.’ + +The whole park did, indeed, appear to be impelling them gently onward. +In their rear it seemed as if a barrier of brush-wood had bristled up +to prevent them from retracing their steps; while, in front of them, the +grassy lawns spread out so invitingly, that they glided along the soft +slopes, without thought of choosing their way. + +‘And the birds are coming with us, too,’ said Albine. ‘It is the tomtits +this time. Don’t you see them? They are skimming over the hedges, and +they stop at each turning to see that we don’t lose our way.’ Then she +added: ‘All the living things of the park are with us. Can’t you hear +them? There is a deep rustling close behind us. It is the birds in +the trees, the insects in the grass, the roebucks and the stags in the +coppices, and even the little fishes splashing the quiet water with +their beating fins. Don’t turn round, or you will frighten them. Ah! I +am sure we have a rare train behind us.’ + +They still walked on, unfatigued. Albine spoke only to charm Serge with +the music of her voice, while Serge obeyed the slightest pressure of her +hand. They knew not what they passed, but they were certain that they +were going straight towards their goal. And as they went along, the +garden became gradually graver, more discreet; the soughing of the +branches died away, the streams hushed their plashing waters, the birds, +the beasts, and the insects fell into silence. All around them reigned +solemn stillness. + +Then Albine and Serge instinctively raised their heads. In front of them +they beheld a colossal mass of foliage; and, as they hesitated for a +moment, a roe, after gazing at them with its sweet soft eyes, bounded +into the thickets. + +‘It is there,’ said Albine. + +She led the way, her face again turned towards Serge, whom she drew with +her, and they disappeared amid the quivering leaves, and all grew quiet +again. They were entering into delicious peace. + +In the centre there stood a tree covered with so dense a foliage that +one could not recognise its species. It was of giant girth, with a trunk +that seemed to breathe like a living breast, and far-reaching boughs +that stretched like protecting arms around it. It towered up there +beautiful, strong, virile, and fruitful. It was the king of the garden, +the father of the forest, the pride of the plants, the beloved of the +sun, whose earliest and latest beams smiled daily on its crest. From its +green vault poured all the joys of creation: fragrance of flowers, music +of birds, gleams of golden light, wakeful freshness of dawn, slumbrous +warmth of evening twilight. So strong was the sap that it burst through +the very bark, bathing the tree with the powers of fruitfulness, making +it the symbol of earth’s virility. Its presence sufficed to give the +clearing an enchanting charm. The other trees built up around it an +impenetrable wall, which isolated it as in a sanctuary of silence +and twilight. There was but greenery there, not a scrap of sky, not a +glimpse of horizon; nothing but a swelling rotunda, draped with green +silkiness of leaves, adorned below with mossy velvet. And one entered, +as into the liquid crystal of a source, a greenish limpidity, a sheet +of silver reposing beneath reflected reeds. Colours, perfumes, sounds, +quivers, all were vague, indeterminate, transparent, steeped in a +felicity amidst which everything seemed to faint away. Languorous +warmth, the glimmer of a summer’s night, as it fades on the bare +shoulder of some fair girl, a scarce perceptible murmur of love sinking +into silence, lingered beneath the motionless branches, unstirred by the +slightest zephyr. It was hymeneal solitude, a chamber where Nature lay +hidden in the embraces of the sun. + +Albine and Serge stood there in an ecstasy of joy. As soon as the tree +had received them beneath its shade, they felt eased of all the anxious +disquiet which had so long distressed them. The fears which had made +them avoid each other, the fierce wrestling of spirit which had torn +and wounded them, without consciousness on their part of what they were +really contending against, vanished, and left them in perfect peace. +Absolute confidence, supreme serenity, now pervaded them, they yielded +unhesitatingly to the joy of being together in that lonely nook, +so completely hidden from the outside world. They had surrendered +themselves to the garden, they awaited in all calmness the behests of +that tree of life. It enveloped them in such ecstasy of love that the +whole clearing seemed to disappear from before their eyes, and to leave +them wrapped in an atmosphere of perfume. + +‘The air is like ripe fruit,’ murmured Albine. + +And Serge whispered in his turn: ‘The grass seems so full of life and +motion, that I could almost think I was treading on your dress.’ + +It was a kind of religious feeling which made them lower their voices. +No sentiment of curiosity impelled them to raise their heads and scan +the tree. The consciousness of its majesty weighed heavily upon them. +With a glance Albine asked whether she had overrated the enchantment of +the greenery, and Serge answered her with two tears that trickled +down his cheeks. The joy that filled them at being there could not be +expressed in words. + +‘Come,’ she whispered in his ear, in a voice that was softer than a +sigh. + +And she glided on in front of him, and seated herself at the very foot +of the tree. Then, with a fond smile, she stretched out her hands to +him; while he, standing before her, grasped them in his own with a +responsive smile. Then she drew him slowly towards her and he sank down +by her side. + +‘Ah! do you remember,’ he said, ‘that wall which seemed to have grown up +between us? Now there is nothing to keep us apart--you are not unhappy +now?’ + +‘No, no,’ she answered; ‘very happy.’ + +For a moment they relapsed into silence whilst soft emotion stole over +them. Then Serge, caressing Albine, exclaimed: ‘Your face is mine; your +eyes, your mouth, your cheeks are mine. Your arms are mine, from your +shoulders to the tips of your nails. You are wholly mine.’ And as he +spoke he kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. He kissed her arms, with +quick short kisses, from her fingers to her shoulders. He poured upon +her a rain of kisses hot as a summer shower, deluging her cheeks, her +forehead, her lips, and her neck. + +‘But if you are mine, I am yours,’ said he; ‘yours for ever; for I now +well know that you are my queen, my sovereign, whom I must worship +on bended knee. I am here only to obey you, to lie at your feet, to +anticipate your wishes, to shelter you with my arms, to drive away +whatever might trouble your tranquillity. And you are my life’s goal. +Since I first awoke in this garden, you have ever been before me; I have +grown up that I might be yours. Ever, as my end, my reward, have I +gazed upon your grace. You passed in the sunshine with the sheen of +your golden hair; you were a promise that I should some day know all the +mysteries and necessities of creation, of this earth, of these trees, +these waters, these skies, whose last secret is yet unrevealed. I belong +to you; I am your slave; I will listen to you and obey you, with my lips +upon your feet.’ + +He said this, bowed to the ground, adoring Woman. And Albine, full of +pride, allowed herself to be adored. She yielded her hands, her cheeks, +her lips, to Serge’s rapturous kisses. She felt herself indeed a queen +as she saw him, who was so strong, bending so humbly before her. She had +conquered him, and held him there at her mercy. With a single word +she could dispose of him. And that which helped her to recognise +her omnipotence was that she heard the whole garden rejoicing at her +triumph, with gradually swelling paeans of approval. + +‘Ah! if we could fly off together, if we could but die even, in one +another’s arms,’ faltered Serge, scarce able to articulate. But Albine +had strength enough to raise her finger as though to bid him listen. + +It was the garden that had planned and willed it all. For weeks and +weeks it had been favouring and encouraging their passion, and at last, +on that supreme day, it had lured them to that spot, and now it became +the Tempter whose every voice spoke of love. From the flower-beds, amid +the fragrance of the languid blossoms, was wafted a soft sighing, which +told of the weddings of the roses, the love-joys of the violets; and +never before had the heliotropes sent forth so voluptuous a perfume. +Mingled with the soft air which arose from the orchard were all the +exhalations of ripe fruit, the vanilla of apricots, the musk of oranges, +all the luscious aroma of fruitfulness. From the meadows came fuller +notes, the million sighs of the sun-kissed grass, the multitudinous +love-plaints of legions of living things, here and there softened by +the refreshing caresses of the rivulets, on whose banks the very willows +palpitated with desire. And the forest proclaimed the mighty passion of +the oaks. Through the high branches sounded solemn music, organ strains +like the nuptial marches of the ashes and the birches, the hornbeams +and the planes, while from the bushes and the young coppices arose noisy +mirth like that of youthful lovers chasing one another over banks and +into hollows amid much crackling and snapping of branches. From afar, +too, the faint breeze wafted the sounds of the rocks splitting in their +passion beneath the burning heat, while near them the spiky plants +loved in a tragic fashion of their own, unrefreshed by the neighbouring +springs, which themselves glowed with the love of the passionate sun. + +‘What do they say?’ asked Serge, half swooning, as Albine pressed him to +her bosom. The voices of the Paradou were growing yet more distinct. +The animals, in their turn, joined in the universal song of nature. +The grasshoppers grew faint with the passion of their chants; the +butterflies scattered kisses with their beating wings. The amorous +sparrows flew to their mates; the rivers rippled over the loves of the +fishes; whilst in the depths of the forest the nightingales sent forth +pearly, voluptuous notes, and the stags bellowed their love aloud. +Reptiles and insects, every species of invisible life, every atom of +matter, the earth itself joined in the great chorus. It was the chorus +of love and of nature--the chorus of the whole wide world; and in the +very sky the clouds were radiant with rapture, as to those two children +Love revealed the Eternity of Life. + + + + +XVI + +Albine and Serge smiled at one another. + +‘I love you, Albine,’ said Serge. + +‘Serge, I love you,’ Albine answered. + +And never before had those syllables ‘I love you’ had for them so +supreme a meaning. They expressed everything. Joy pervaded those young +lovers, who had attained to the fulness of life. They felt that they +were now on a footing of equality with the forces of the world; and with +their happiness mingled the placid conviction that they had obeyed the +universal law. And Serge seemed to have awakened to life, lion-like, +to rule the whole far expanse under the free heavens. His feet planted +themselves more firmly on the ground, his chest expanded, there was +pride and confidence in his gait and demeanour. He took Albine by the +hands, she was trembling, and he was obliged to support her. + +‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said; ‘you are she whom I love.’ + +It was Albine now who had become the submissive one. She drooped her +head upon his shoulder, glancing up at him with anxious scrutiny. Would +he never bear her spite for that hour of adoration in which he had +called himself her slave? But he smiled, and stroked her hair, while +she said to him: ‘Let me stay like this, in your arms, for I cannot +walk without you. I will make myself so small and light, that you will +scarcely know I am there.’ Then becoming very serious she added, ‘You +must always love me; and I will be very obedient and do whatever you +wish. I will yield to you in all things if you but love me.’ + +Serge felt more powerful and virile on seeing her so humble. ‘Why are +you trembling so?’ he asked her; ‘I can have no cause to reproach you.’ + +But she did not answer him, she gazed almost sadly upon the tree and the +foliage and the grass around them. + +‘Foolish child!’ he said, laughing; ‘are you afraid that I shall be +angry with you for your love? We have loved as we were meant to love. +Let me kiss you.’ + +But, dropping her eyelids so that she might not see the tree, she said, +in a low whisper, ‘Take me away!’ + +Serge led her thence, pacing slowly and giving one last glance at the +spot which love had hallowed. The shadows in the clearing were growing +darker, and a gentle quiver coursed through the foliage. When they +emerged from the wood and caught sight of the sun, still shining +brightly in the horizon, they felt easier. Everything around Serge now +seemed to bend down before him and pay homage to his love. The garden +was now nothing but an appanage of Albine’s beauty, and seemed to have +grown larger and fairer amid the love-kisses of its rulers. + +But Albine’s joy was still tinged with disquietude. She would suddenly +pause amid her laughter and listen anxiously. + +‘What is the matter?’ asked Serge. + +‘Nothing,’ she replied, casting furtive glances behind her. + +They did not know in what out-of-the-way corner of the park they were. +To lose themselves in their capricious wanderings only served to amuse +them as a rule; but that day they experienced anxious embarrassment. By +degrees they quickened their pace, plunging more and more deeply into a +labyrinth of bushes. + +‘Don’t you hear?’ asked Albine, nervously, as she suddenly stopped +short, almost breathless. + +Serge listened, a prey, in his turn, to the anxiety which the girl could +no longer conceal. + +‘All the coppice seems full of voices,’ she continued. ‘It sounds as +though there were people deriding us. Listen! Wasn’t that a laugh +that sounded from that tree? And over yonder did not the grass murmur +something as my dress brushed against it?’ + +‘No, no,’ he said, anxious to reassure her, ‘the garden loves us; and, +if it said anything, it would not be to vex or annoy us. Don’t you +remember all the sweet words which sounded through the leaves? You are +nervous and fancy things.’ + +But she shook her head and faltered: ‘I know very well that the garden +is our friend.... So it must be some one who has broken into it. I am +certain I hear some one. I am trembling all over. Oh! take me away and +hide me somewhere, I beseech you.’ + +Then they went on again, scanning every tree and bush, and imagining +that they could see faces peering at them from behind every trunk. +Albine was certain, she said, that there were steps pursuing them in the +distance. ‘Let us hide ourselves,’ she begged. + +She had turned quite scarlet. It was new-born modesty, a sense of +shame which had laid hold of her like a fever, mantling over the snowy +whiteness of her skin, which never previously had known that flush. +Serge was alarmed at seeing her thus crimson, her face full of distress, +her eyes brimming with tears. He tried to clasp her in his arms again +and to soothe her with a caress; but she slipped away from him, and, +with a despairing gesture, made sign that they were not alone. And her +blushes grew deeper as her eyes fell upon her bare arms. She shuddered +when her loose hanging hair stirred against her neck and shoulders. +The slightest touch of a waving bough or a passing insect, the softest +breath of air, now made her tremble as if some invisible hand were +grasping at her. + +‘Calm yourself,’ begged Serge, ‘there is no one. You are as crimson as +though you had a fever. Let us rest here for a moment. Do; I beg you.’ + +She had no fever at all, she said, but she wanted to get back as quickly +as possible, so that no one might laugh at her. And, ever increasing her +pace, she plucked handfuls of leaves and tendrils from the hedges, which +she entwined about her. She fastened a branch of mulberry over her hair, +twisted bindweed round her arms, and tied it to her wrists, and circled +her neck with such long sprays of laurustinus, that her bosom was hidden +as by a veil of leaves. + +And that shame of hers proved contagious. Serge, who first had jested, +asking her if she were going to a ball, glanced at himself, and likewise +felt alarmed and ashamed, to a point that he also wound foliage about +his person. + +Meantime, they could discover no way out of the labyrinth of bushes, but +all at once, at the end of the path, they found themselves face to face +with an obstacle, a tall, grey, grave mass of stone. It was the wall of +the Paradou. + +‘Come away! come away!’ cried Albine. + +And she sought to drag him thence; but they had not taken another twenty +steps before they again came upon the wall. They then skirted it at a +ran, panic-stricken. It stretched along, gloomy and stern, without +a break in its surface. But suddenly, at a point where it fringed a +meadow, it seemed to fall away. A great breach gaped in it, like a huge +window of light opening on to the neighbouring valley. It must have been +the very hole that Albine had one day spoken of, which she said she had +blocked up with brambles and stones. But the brambles now lay scattered +around like severed bits of rope, the stones had been thrown some +distance away, and the breach itself seemed to have been enlarged by +some furious hand. + + + + +XVII + +‘Ah! I felt sure of it,’ cried Albine, in accents of supreme despair. +‘I begged you to take me away--Serge, I beseech you, don’t look through +it.’ + +But Serge, in spite of himself, stood rooted to the ground, on the +threshold of the breach through which he gazed. Down below, in the +depths of the valley, the setting sun cast a sheet of gold upon the +village of Les Artaud, which showed vision-like amidst the twilight in +which the neighbouring fields were already steeped. One could plainly +distinguish the houses that straggled along the high road; the little +yards with their dunghills, and the narrow gardens planted with +vegetables. Higher up, the tall cypress in the graveyard reared its +dusky silhouette, and the red tiles on the church glowed brazier-like, +the dark bell looking down on them like a human face, while the old +parsonage at the side threw its doors and windows open to the evening +air. + +‘For pity’s sake,’ sobbed Albine, ‘don’t look out, Serge. Remember that +you promised you would always love me. Ah! will you ever love me enough, +now? Stay, let me cover your eyes with my hands. You know it was my +hands that cured you. You won’t push me away.’ + +But he put her from him gently. Then, while she fell down and clung to +his legs, he passed his hands across his face, as though he were wiping +from his brow and eyes some last lingering traces of sleep. It was +yonder, then, that lay the unknown world, the strange land of which he +had never dreamed without vague fear. Where had he seen that country? +From what dream was he awakening, that he felt such keen anguish +swelling up in his breast till it almost choked him? The village was +breaking out into life at the close of the day’s work. The men were +coming home from the fields with weary gait, their jackets thrown over +their shoulders; the women, standing by their doors, were beckoning to +them to hasten on; while the children, in noisy bands, chased the +fowls about and pelted them with stones. In the churchyard a couple of +scapegraces, a lad and a girl, were creeping along under the shelter of +the wall in order to escape notice. Swarms of sparrows were retiring +to roost beneath the eaves of the church; and, on the steps of the +parsonage, a blue calico skirt had just appeared, of such spreading +dimensions as to quite block the doorway. + +‘Oh! he is looking out! he is looking out!’ sobbed Albine. ‘Listen to +me. It was only just now that you promised to obey me. I beg of you to +turn round and to look upon the garden. Haven’t you been very happy in +the garden? It was the garden which gave me to you. Think of the happy +days it has in store for us, what lasting bliss and enjoyment. Instead +of which it will be death that will force its way through that hole, +if you don’t quickly flee and take me with you. See, all those people +yonder will come and thrust themselves between us. We were so quite +alone, so secluded, so well guarded by the trees! Oh! the garden is our +love! Look on the garden, I beg it of you on my knees!’ + +But Serge was quivering. He had began to recollect. The past was +re-awakening. He could distinctly hear the stir of the village life. +Those peasants, those women and children, he knew them. There was the +mayor, Bambousse, returning from Les Olivettes, calculating how much +the approaching vintage would yield him; there were the Brichets, the +husband crawling along, and the wife moaning with misery. There was +Rosalie flirting with big Fortune behind a wall. He recognised also the +pair in the churchyard, that mischievous Vincent and that bold hussy +Catherine, who were catching big grasshoppers amongst the tombstones. +Yes, and they had Voriau, the black dog, with them, helping them and +ferreting about in the dry grass, and sniffing at every crack in the old +stones. Under the eaves of the church the sparrows were twittering +and bickering before going to roost. The boldest of them flew down and +entered the church through the broken windows, and, as Serge followed +them with his eyes, he recollected all the noise they had formerly made +below the pulpit and on the step by the altar rails, where crumbs were +always put for them. And that was La Teuse yonder, on the parsonage +doorstep, looking fatter than ever in her blue calico dress. She was +turning her head to smile at Desirée, who was coming up from the yard, +laughing noisily. Then they both vanished indoors, and Serge, distracted +with all these revived memories, stretched out his arms. + +‘It is all over now,’ faltered Albine, as she sank down amongst the +broken brambles. ‘You will never love me enough again.’ + +She wept, while Serge stood rooted by the breach, straining his ears +to catch the slightest sound that might be wafted from the village, +waiting, as it were, for some voice that might fully awaken him. The +bell in the church-tower had begun to sway, and slowly through the quiet +evening air the three chimes of the _Angelus_ floated up to the Paradou. +It was a soft and silvery summons. The bell now seemed to be alive. + +‘O God!’ cried Serge, falling on his knees, quite overcome by the +emotion which the soft notes of the bell had excited in him. + +He bent down towards the ground, and he felt the three peals of the +_Angelus_ pass over his neck and echo through his heart. The voice of +the bell seemed to grow louder. It was raised again sternly, pitilessly, +for a few moments which seemed to him to be years. It summoned up +before him all his old life, his pious childhood, his happy days at the +seminary, and his first Masses in that burning valley of Les Artaud, +where he had dreamt of a solitary, saintly life. He had always heard it +speaking to him as it was doing now. He recognised every inflection of +that sacred voice, which had so constantly fallen upon his ears, like +the grave and gentle voice of a mother. Why had he so long ceased to +hear it? In former times it had promised him the coming of Mary. Had +Mary come then and taken him and carried him off into those happy green +fastnesses, which the sound of the bell could not reach? He would never +have lapsed into forgetfulness if the bell had not ceased to ring. And +as he bent his head still lower towards the earth, the contact of his +beard with his hands made him start. He could not recognise his own self +with that long silky beard. He twisted it and fumbled about in his hair +seeking for the bare circle of the tonsure, but a heavy growth of curls +now covered his whole head from his brow to the nape of his neck. + +‘Ah! you were right,’ he said, casting a look of despair at Albine. +‘It was forbidden. We have sinned, and we have merited some terrible +punishment.... But I, indeed, I tried to reassure you, I did not hear +the threats which sounded in your ears through the branches.’ + +Albine tried to clasp him in her arms again as she sobbed out, ‘Get up, +and let us escape together. Perhaps even yet there is time for us to +love each other.’ + +‘No, no; I haven’t the strength. I should stumble and fall over the +smallest pebble in the path. Listen to me. I am afraid of myself. I know +not what man dwells in me. I have murdered myself, and my hands are red +with blood. If you took me away, you would never see aught in my eyes +save tears.’ + +She kissed his wet eyes, as she answered passionately, ‘No matter! Do +you love me?’ + +He was too terrified to answer her. A heavy step set the pebbles rolling +on the other side of the wall. A growl of anger seemed to draw nigh. +Albine had not been mistaken. Some one was, indeed, there, disturbing +the woodland quiet with jealous inquisition. Then both Albine and Serge, +as if overwhelmed with shame, sought to bide themselves behind a bush. +But Brother Archangias, standing in front of the breach, could already +see them. + +The Brother remained for a moment silent, clenching his fists and +looking at Albine clinging round Serge’s neck, with the disgust of a man +who has espied some filth by the roadside. + +‘I suspected it,’ he mumbled between his teeth. ‘It was virtually +certain that they had hidden him here.’ + +Then he took a few steps, and cried out: ‘I see you. It is an +abomination. Are you a brute beast to go coursing through the woods with +that female? She has led you far astray, has she not? She has besmeared +you with filth, and now you are hairy like a goat.... Pluck a branch +from the trees wherewith to smite her on the back.’ + +Again Albine whispered in an ardent, prayerful voice: ‘Do you love me? +Do you love me?’ + +But Serge, with bowed head, kept silence, though he did not yet drive +her from him. + +‘Fortunately, I have found you,’ continued Brother Archangias. ‘I +discovered this hole.... You have disobeyed God, and have slain your own +peace. Henceforward, for ever, temptation will gnaw you with its fiery +tooth, and you will no longer have ignorance of evil to help you to +fight it. It was that creature who tempted you to your fall, was it not? +Do you not see the serpent’s tail writhing amongst her hair? The mere +sight of her shoulders is sufficient to make one vomit with disgust.... +Leave her. Touch her not, for she is the beginning of hell. In the name +of God, come forth from that garden.’ + +‘Do you love me? Oh! do you love me?’ reiterated Albine. + +But Serge hastily drew away from her as though her bare arms and +shoulders really scorched him. + +‘In the name of God! In the name of God!’ cried the Brother, in a voice +of thunder. + +Serge unresistingly stepped towards the breach. As soon as Brother +Archangias, with rough violence, had dragged him out of the Paradou, +Albine, who had fallen half fainting to the ground, with hands wildly +stretched towards the love which was deserting her, rose up again, +choking with sobs. And she fled, vanished into the midst of the trees, +whose trunks she lashed with her streaming hair. + + + + +BOOK III + + + + +I + +When Abbé Mouret had said the _Pater_, he bowed to the altar, and went +to the Epistle side. Then he came down, and made the sign of the cross +over big Fortune and Rosalie, who were kneeling, side by side, before +the altar-rails. + +‘_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et +Spiritus Sancti_.’ + +‘_Amen_,’ responded Vincent, who was serving the mass, and glancing +curiously at his big brother out of the corner of his eye. + +Fortune and Rosalie bent their heads, affected by some slight emotion, +although they had nudged each other with their elbows when they knelt +down, by way of making one another laugh. But Vincent went to get the +basin and the sprinkler. Fortune placed the ring in the basin, a thick +ring of solid silver. When the priest had blessed it, sprinkling it +crosswise, he returned it to Fortune, who slipped it upon Rosalie’s +finger. Her hand was still discoloured with grass-stains, which soap had +not been able to remove. + +‘_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_,’ Abbé Mouret murmured +again, giving them a final benediction. + +‘_Amen_,’ responded Vincent. + +It was early morning. The sun was not yet shining through the big +windows of the church. Outside one could hear the noisy twittering of +the sparrows in the branches of the service tree, whose foliage shot +through the broken panes. La Teuse, who had not previously had time to +clean the church, was now dusting the altar, craning up on her sound leg +to wipe the feet of the ochre and lake-bedaubed Christ, and arranging +the chairs as quietly as possible; all the while bowing and crossing +herself, and following the service, but not omitting a single sweep of +her feather broom. Quite alone, at the foot of the pulpit, was mother +Brichet, praying in a very demonstrative fashion. She kept on her knees, +and repeated the prayers in so loud a whisper that it seemed as if a +swarm of bluebottles had taken possession of the nave. + +At the other end of the church near the confessional, Catherine held +an infant in swaddling clothes. As it began to cry, she turned her back +upon the altar, and tossed it up, and amused it with the bell-rope, +which dangled just over its nose. + +‘_Dominus vobiscum_,’ said the priest, turning round, and spreading out +his hands. + +‘_Et cum spiritu tuo_,’ responded Vincent. + +At that moment three big girls came into the church. They were too shy +to go far up, though they jostled one another to get a better view of +what was going on. They were three friends of Rosalie, who had dropped +in for a minute or two on their way to the fields, curious as they were +to hear what his reverence would say to the bride and bridegroom. They +had big scissors hanging at their waists. At last they hid themselves +behind the font, where they pinched each other and twisted themselves +about, while trying to choke their bursts of laughter with their +clenched fists. + +‘Well,’ whispered La Rousse, a finely built girl, with copper-coloured +skin and hair, ‘there won’t be any scrimmage to get out of church when +it’s all over.’ + +‘Oh! old Bambousse is quite right,’ murmured Lisa, a short dark girl, +with gleaming eyes; ‘when one has vines, one looks after them. Since his +reverence so particularly desired to marry Rosalie, he can very well do +it all alone.’ + +The other girl, Babet, who was humpbacked, tittered. ‘There’s mother +Brichet,’ she said; ‘she is always here. She prays for the whole family. +Listen, do you hear how she’s buzzing? All that will mean something in +her pocket. She knows very well what she is about, I can tell you.’ + +‘She is playing the organ for them,’ retorted La Rousse. + +At this all three burst into a laugh. La Teuse, in the distance, +threatened them with her broom. At the altar, Abbé Mouret was taking the +sacrament. As he went from the Epistle side towards Vincent, so that the +water of ablution might be poured upon his thumb and fore-finger, Lisa +said more softly: ‘It’s nearly over. He will begin to talk to them +directly.’ + +‘Yes,’ said La Rousse, ‘and so big Fortune will still be able to go to +his work, and Rosalie won’t lose her day’s pay at the vintage. It is +very convenient to be married so early in the morning. He looks very +sheepish, that big Fortune.’ + +‘Of course,’ murmured Babet. ‘It tires him, keeping so long on his +knees. You may be sure that he has never knelt so long since his first +communion.’ + +But the girls’ attention was suddenly distracted by the baby which +Catherine was dangling in her arms. It wanted to get hold of the +bell-rope, and was quite blue with rage, frantically stretching out its +little hands and almost choking itself with crying. + +‘Ah! so the youngster is there,’ said La Rousse. + +The baby now burst into still louder wailing, and struggled like a +little Imp. + +‘Turn it over on its stomach, and let it suck,’ said Babet to Catherine. + +Catherine lifted up her head, and began to laugh, with the shamelessness +of a little minx. ‘It’s not at all amusing,’ she said, giving the baby a +shake. ‘Be quiet, will you, little pig! My sister plumped it down on my +knees.’ + +‘Naturally,’ said Babet, mischievously. ‘You could scarcely have +expected her to give the brat to Monsieur le Curé to nurse.’ + +At this sally, La Rousse almost fell over in a fit of laughter. She +leaned against the wall, holding her sides with her hands. Lisa threw +herself against her, and attempted to soothe her by pinching her back +and shoulders; while Babet laughed with a hunchback’s laugh, which +grated on the ear like the sound of a saw. + +‘If it hadn’t been for the little one,’ she continued, ‘Monsieur le Curé +would have lost all use for his holy water. Old Bambousse had made up +his mind to marry Rosalie to young Laurent, of Figuieres.’ + +However, the girls’ merriment and their chatter now came to an end, for +they saw La Teuse limping furiously towards them. At this the three big +hussies felt alarmed, stepped back, and subsided into sedateness. + +‘You worthless things!’ hissed La Teuse. ‘You come to talk a lot of +filth here, do you? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, La Rousse? You ought +to be there, on your knees, before the altar, like Rosalie. I will throw +you outside if you stir again. Do you hear?’ + +La Rousse’s copper cheeks were tinged with a rising blush, and Babet +glanced at her and tittered. + +‘And you,’ continued La Teuse, turning towards Catherine, ‘just you +leave that baby alone. You are pinching it on purpose to make it scream. +Don’t tell me you are not. Give it to me.’ + +She took the child, hushed it in her arms for a moment, and then laid +it upon a chair, where it went to sleep, peacefully like a cherub. +The church then subsided into solemn quietness, disturbed only by the +chattering of the sparrows on the rowan tree outside. At the altar, +Vincent had carried the missal to the right again, and Abbé Mouret had +just folded the corporal and slipped it within the burse. He was now +saying the concluding prayers with a solemn earnestness, which neither +the screams of the baby nor the giggling of the three girls had been +able to disturb. He seemed to hear nothing of them, but to be wholly +absorbed in the prayers which he was offering up to Heaven for the +happiness of the pair whose union he had just blessed. The sky that +morning was grey with a hazy heat, which veiled the sun. Through the +broken windows a russet vapour streamed into the church, betokening +a stormy day. Along the walls the gaudily coloured pictures of the +Stations of the Cross displayed their red, blue, and yellow patches; +at the bottom of the nave the dry woodwork of the gallery creaked and +strained; and under the doorway the tall grass by the steps thrust +ripening straw, all alive with little brown grasshoppers. The clock, +in its wooden case, made a whirring noise, as though it were some +consumptive trying to clear his throat, and then huskily struck +half-past six. + +‘_Ite, missa est_,’ said the priest, turning round to the congregation. + +‘_Deo gratias_,’ responded Vincent. + +Then, having kissed the altar, Abbé Mouret once more turned round, +and murmured over the bent heads of the newly married pair the final +benediction: ‘_Deus Abraham, Deus Isaac, et Deus Jacob vobiscum +sit_’--his voice dying away into a gentle whisper. + +‘Now, he’s going to address them,’ said Babet to her friends. + +‘He is very pale,’ observed Lisa. ‘He isn’t a bit like Monsieur Caffin, +whose fat face always seemed to be on the laugh. My little sister Rose +says that she daren’t tell him anything when she goes to confess.’ + +‘All the same,’ murmured La Rousse, ‘he’s not ugly. His illness has aged +him a little, but it seems to suit him. He has bigger eyes, and lines at +the corners of his mouth which make him look like a man. Before he had +the fever, he was too much like a girl.’ + +‘I believe he’s got some great trouble,’ said Babet. ‘He looks as though +he were pining away. His face is deadly pale, but how his eyes glitter! +When he drops his eyelids, it is just as though he were doing it to +extinguish the fire in his eyes.’ + +La Teuse again shook her broom at them. ‘Hush!’ she hissed out, so +energetically that it seemed as if a blast of wind had burst into the +church. + +Meantime Abbé Mouret had collected himself, and he began, in a rather +low voice: + +‘My dear brother, my dear sister, you are joined together in Jesus. The +institution of marriage symbolises the sacred union between Jesus and +His Church. It is a bond which nothing can break; which God wills shall +be eternal, so that man may not sever those whom Heaven has joined. In +making you flesh of each other’s flesh, and bone of each other’s bone, +God teaches you that it is your duty to walk side by side through +life, a faithful couple, along the paths which He, in His omnipotence, +appoints for you. And you must love each other with God-like love. The +slightest ill-feeling between you will be disobedience to the Creator, +Who has joined you together as a single body. Remain, then, for ever +united, after the likeness of the Church, which Jesus has espoused, in +giving to us all His body and blood.’ + +Big Fortune and Rosalie sat listening, with their noses peaked up +inquisitively. + +‘What does he say?’ asked Lisa, who was a little deaf. + +‘Oh! he says what they all say,’ answered La Rousse. ‘He has a glib +tongue, like all the priests have.’ + +Abbé Mouret went on with his address, his eyes wandering over the heads +of the newly wedded couple towards a shadowy corner of the church. And +by degrees his voice became more flexible, and he put emotion into the +words he spoke, words which he had formerly learned by heart from a +manual intended for the use of young priests. He had turned slightly +towards Rosalie, and whenever his memory failed him, he added sentences +of his own: + +‘My dear sister, submit yourself to your husband, as the Church submits +itself to Jesus. Remember that you must leave everything to follow him, +like a faithful handmaiden. You must give up father and mother, you must +cleave only to your husband, and you must obey him that you may obey God +also. And your yoke will be a yoke of love and peace. Be his comfort, +his happiness, the perfume of his days of strength, the support of his +days of weakness. Let him find you, as a grace, ever by his side. Let +him have but to reach out his hand to find yours grasping it. It is thus +that you will step along together, never losing your way, and that you +will meet with happiness in the carrying out of the divine laws. Oh! my +dear sister, my dear daughter, your humility will hear sweet fruit; it +will give birth to all the domestic virtues, to the joys of the hearth, +and the prosperity that attends a God-fearing family. Have for your +husband the love of Rachel, the wisdom of Rebecca, the constant fidelity +of Sarah. Tell yourself that a pure life is the source of all happiness. +Pray to God each morning that He may give you strength to live as a +woman who respects her responsibilities and duties; for the punishment +you would otherwise incur is terrible: you would lose your love. Oh! to +live loveless, to tear flesh from flesh, to belong no more to the one +who is half of your very self, to live on in pain and agony, bereft of +the one you have loved! In vain would you stretch out your arms to him; +he would turn away from you. You would yearn for happiness, but you +would find in your heart nothing but shame and bitterness. Hear me, my +daughter, it is in your own conduct, in your obedience, in your purity, +in your love, that God has established the strength of your union.’ + +As Abbé Mouret spoke these words, there was a burst of laughter at the +other end of the church. The baby had just woke up on the chair where La +Teuse had laid it. But it was no longer in a bad temper. Having kicked +itself free of its swaddling clothes, it was laughing merrily, and +shaking its rosy little feet in the air. It was the sight of these +little feet that made it laugh. + +Rosalie, who was beginning to find the priest’s address rather tedious, +turned her head to smile at the child. But, when she saw it kicking +about on the chair, she grew alarmed, and cast an angry look at +Catherine. + +‘Oh! you can look at me as much as you like,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m not +going to take it any more. It would only begin to cry again.’ + +And she turned aside to ferret in an ant-hole at a corner of one of the +stone flags under the gallery. + +‘Monsieur Caffin didn’t talk so long,’ now remarked La Rousse. ‘When he +married Miette, he just gave her two taps on the cheek and told her to +be good.’ + +My dear brother,’ resumed Abbé Mouret, turning towards big Fortune, ‘it +is God who, to-day, gives you a companion, for He does not wish that man +should live alone. But, if He ordains that she shall be your servant, +He demands from you that you shall be to her a master full of gentleness +and love. You will love her, because she is part of your own flesh, of +your own blood, and your own bone. You will protect her, because God has +given you strong arms only that you may stretch them over her head in +the hour of danger. Remember that she is entrusted to you, and that +you cannot abuse her submission and weakness without sin. Oh! my dear +brother, what proud happiness should be yours! Henceforth, you will no +longer live in the selfish egotism of solitude. At all hours you will +have a lovable duty before you. There is nothing better than to love, +unless it be to protect those whom we love. Your heart will expand; +your manly strength will increase a hundredfold. Oh! to be a support and +stay, to have a love given into your keeping, to see a being sink her +existence in yours and say, “Take me and do with me what you will! I +trust myself wholly to you!” And may you be accursed if you ever abandon +her! It would be a cowardly desertion which God would assuredly punish. +From the moment she gives herself to you, she becomes yours for ever. +Carry her rather in your arms, and set her not upon the ground until it +be certain that she will be there in safety. Give up everything, my dear +brother--’ + +But here the Abbé’s voice faltered, and only an indistinct murmur came +from his lips. He had quite closed his eyes, his face was deathly white, +and his voice betokened such deep distress that big Fortune himself shed +tears without knowing why. + +‘He hasn’t recovered yet,’ said Lisa. ‘It is wrong of him to fatigue +himself. See, there’s Fortune crying!’ + +‘Men are softer-hearted than women,’ murmured Babet. + +‘He spoke very well, all the same,’ remarked La Rousse. ‘Those priests +think of a lot of things that wouldn’t occur to anybody else.’ + +‘Hush!’ cried La Teuse, who was already making ready to extinguish the +candles. + +But Abbé Mouret still stammered on, trying to utter a few more +sentences. ‘It is for this reason, my dear brother, my dear sister, that +you must live in the Catholic Faith, which alone can ensure the peace of +your hearth. Your families have taught you to love God, to pray to Him +every morning and evening, to look only for the gifts of His mercy--’ + +He was unable to finish. He turned round, took the chalice off the +altar, and retired, with bowed head, into the vestry, preceded by +Vincent, who almost let the cruets and napkin fall, in trying to see +what Catherine might be doing at the end of the church. + +‘Oh! the heartless creature!’ said Rosalie, who left her husband to go +and take her baby in her arms. The child laughed. She kissed it, and +rearranged its swaddling clothes, while threatening Catherine with her +fist. ‘If it had fallen,’ she cried out, ‘I would have boxed your ears +for you, nicely.’ + +Big Fortune now came slouching along. The three girls stepped towards +him, with compressed lips. + +‘See how proud he is,’ murmured Babet to the others. ‘He is sure of +inheriting old Bambousse’s money now. I used to see him creeping along +every night under the little wall with Rosalie.’ + +Then they giggled, and big Fortune, standing there in front of them, +laughed even louder than they did. He pinched La Rousse, and let Lisa +jeer at him. He was a sturdy young blood, and cared nothing for anybody. +The priest’s address had annoyed him. + +‘Hallo! mother, come on!’ he called in his loud voice. But mother +Brichet was begging at the vestry door. She stood there, tearful and +wizen, before La Teuse, who was slipping some eggs into the pocket of +her apron. Fortune didn’t seem to feel the least sense of shame. He just +winked and remarked: ‘She is a knowing old card, my mother is. But then +the Curé likes to see people at mass.’ + +Meanwhile, Rosalie had grown calm again. Before leaving the church, she +asked Fortune if he had begged the priest to come and bless their +room, according to the custom of the country. So Fortune ran off to the +vestry, striding heavily through the church, as if it were a field. He +soon reappeared, shouting that his reverence would come. La Teuse, who +was scandalised at the noise made by all these people, who seemed to +think themselves in a public street, gently clapped her hands, and +pushed them towards the door. + +‘It is all over,’ said she; ‘go away and get to your work.’ + +She thought they had all gone, when her eye caught sight of Catherine, +whom Vincent had joined. They were bending anxiously over the ants’ +nest. Catherine was poking a long straw into the hole so roughly, that +a swarm of frightened ants had rushed out upon the floor. Vincent +declared, however, that she must get her straw right to the bottom if +she wished to find the queen. + +‘Ah! you young imps!’ cried La Teuse, ‘what are you after there? Can’t +you leave the poor little things alone? That is Mademoiselle Desirée’s +ants’ nest. She would be nicely pleased if she saw you!’ + +At this the children promptly took to their heels. + + + + +II + +Abbé Mouret, now wearing his cassock but still bareheaded, had come +back to kneel at the foot of the altar. In the grey light that streamed +through the window, his tonsure showed like a large livid spot amidst +his hair; and a slight quiver, as if from cold, sped down his neck. With +his hands tightly clasped he was praying earnestly, so absorbed in his +devotions that he did not hear the heavy footsteps of La Teuse, who +hovered around without daring to disturb him. She seemed to be grieved +at seeing him bowed down there on his knees. For a moment, she thought +that he was in tears, and thereupon she went behind the altar to watch +him. Since his return, she had never liked to leave him in the church +alone, for one evening she had found him lying in a dead faint upon the +flagstones, with icy lips and clenched teeth, like a corpse. + +‘Come in, mademoiselle!’ she said to Desirée, who was peeping through +the vestry-doorway. ‘He is still here, and he will lay himself up. You +know you are the only person that he will listen to.’ + +‘It is breakfast-time,’ she replied softly, ‘and I am very hungry.’ + +Then she gently sidled up to the priest, passed an arm round his neck, +and kissed him. + +‘Good morning, brother,’ she said. ‘Do you want to make me die of hunger +this morning?’ + +The face he turned upon her was so intensely sad, that she kissed +him again on both his cheeks. He was emerging from agony. Then, on +recognising her, he tried to put her from him, but she kept hold of one +of his hands and would not release it. She would scarcely allow him to +cross himself, but insisted upon leading him away. + +‘Come! Come! for I am very hungry. You must be hungry too.’ + +La Teuse had laid out the breakfast beneath two big mulberry trees, +whose spreading branches formed a sheltering roof at the bottom of the +little garden. The sun, which had at last succeeded in dissipating +the stormy-looking vapours of early morning, was warming the beds +of vegetables, while the mulberry-trees cast a broad shadow over the +rickety table, on which were laid two cups of milk and some thick slices +of bread. + +‘You see how nice it looks,’ said Desirée, delighted at breakfasting in +the fresh air. + +She was already cutting some of the bread into strips, which she ate +with eager appetite. And as she saw La Teuse still standing in front of +them, she said, ‘Why don’t you eat something?’ + +‘I shall, presently,’ the old servant answered. ‘My soup is warming.’ + +Then, after a moment’s silence, looking with admiration at the girl’s +big bites, she said to the priest: ‘It is quite a pleasure to see her. +Doesn’t she make you feel hungry, Monsieur le Curé? You should force +yourself.’ + +Abbé Mouret smiled as he glanced at his sister. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured; +‘she gets on famously, she grows fatter every day.’ + +‘That’s because I eat,’ said Desirée. ‘If you would eat you would get +fat, too. Are you ill again? You look very melancholy. I don’t want to +have it all over again, you know. I was so very lonely when they took +you away to cure you.’ + +‘She is right,’ said La Teuse. ‘You don’t behave reasonably, Monsieur le +Curé. You can’t expect to be strong, living, as you do, on two or three +crumbs a day, as though you were a bird. You don’t make blood; and +that’s why you are so pale. Don’t you feel ashamed of keeping as thin as +a lath when we are so fat; we who are only women? People will begin to +think that we gobble up everything and leave you nothing but the empty +plates.’ + +Then both La Teuse and Desirée, brimful of health and strength, scolded +him affectionately. His eyes seemed very large and bright, but empty, +expressionless. He was still gently smiling. + +‘I am not ill,’ he said; ‘I have nearly finished my milk.’ He had +swallowed two mouthfuls of it, but had not touched the bread. + +‘The animals, now,’ said Desirée, thoughtfully, ‘seem to get on much +more comfortably than we do. The fowls never have headaches, have they? +The rabbits grow as fat as ever one wants them to be. And you never saw +my pig looking sad.’ + +Then, turning towards her brother, she went on with an air of rapture: + +‘I have named it Matthew, because it is so like that fat man who brings +the letters. It is growing so big and strong. It is very unkind of you +to refuse to come and look at it as you always do. You will come to see +it some day, won’t you?’ + +While she was thus talking she had laid hold of her brother’s share of +bread, and was eating away at it. She had already finished one piece, +and was beginning the second, when La Teuse became aware of what she was +doing. + +‘That doesn’t belong to you, that bread! You are actually stealing his +food from him now!’ + +‘Let her have it,’ said Abbé Mouret, gently. ‘I shouldn’t have touched +it myself. Eat it all, my dear, eat it all.’ + +For a moment Desirée fell into confusion, with her eyes fixed upon the +bread, whilst she struggled to check her rising tears. Then she began to +laugh, and finished the slice. + +‘My cow,’ said she, continuing her remarks, ‘is never as sad as you are. +You were not here when uncle Pascal gave her to me, on the promise that +I would be a good girl, or you would have seen how pleased she was when +I kissed her for the first time.’ + +She paused to listen. A cock crowed in the yard, and a great uproar +followed, with flapping of wings and cackling, grunting, and hoarse +cries as if the whole yard were in a state of commotion. + +‘Ah! you know,’ resumed Desirée, clapping her hands, ‘she must be in +calf now. I took her to the bull at Beage, three leagues from here. +There are very few bulls hereabouts, you know.’ + +La Teuse shrugged her shoulders, and glanced at the priest with an +expression of annoyance. + +‘It would be much better, mademoiselle,’ said she, ‘if you were to go +and quiet your fowls. They all seem to be murdering one another.’ + +Indeed, the uproar in the yard had now become so great that the girl was +already hurrying off with a great rustling of her petticoats, when the +priest called her back. ‘The milk, my dear; you have not finished the +milk.’ + +He held out his cup to her, which he had scarcely touched. And she came +back and drank the milk without the slightest scruple, in spite of La +Teuse’s angry look. Then she again set off for the poultry-yard, where +they soon heard her reducing the fowls to peace and order. She had, +perhaps, sat down in the midst of them, for she could be heard gently +humming as though she were trying to lull them to sleep. + + + + +III + +‘Now my soup is too hot!’ grumbled La Teuse, as she returned from the +kitchen with a basin, from which a wooden spoon was projecting. + +She placed herself just in front of Abbé Mouret, and began to eat very +cautiously from the edge of the spoon. She wanted to enliven the Abbé +and to draw him out of his melancholy moodiness. Ever since he had +returned from the Paradou, he had declared himself well again, and +had never complained. Often, indeed, he smiled in so soft and sweet a +fashion, that his fever seemed to have increased his saintliness, at +least so thought the villagers. But, at intervals, he had fits of gloomy +silence, and appeared to be suffering torture which he strove to bear +uncomplainingly. It was a mute agony which bore down upon him, and, +for hours at a time, left him stupefied, a prey to a frightful inward +struggle, the violence of which could only be guessed by the sweat of +anguish that streamed down his face. + +At such times La Teuse refused to leave him, and overwhelmed him with +a torrent of gossip, until he had gradually recovered tranquillity by +crushing the rebellion of his blood. On that particular morning, the old +servant foresaw a more grievous attack than usual, and poured forth an +amazing flood of talk, while continuing her wary manoeuvres with the +spoon, which threatened to burn her tongue. + +‘Well, well,’ said she, ‘one has to live among a lot of wild beasts +to see such goings-on. Would any one ever think in a decent village of +being married by candlelight? It shows what a poor sort these Artauds +are. When I was in Normandy, I used to see weddings that threw every one +into commotion for a couple of leagues round. They would feast for three +whole days. The priest would be there, and the mayor, too; and at the +marriage of one of my cousins, all the firemen came as well. And didn’t +they have a fine time of it! But to make a priest get up before sunrise +and marry people before even the chickens have left their roost, why, +there’s no sense in it! If I had been your reverence, I should have +refused to do it. You haven’t had your proper sleep, and you may have +caught cold in the church. It is that which has upset you. Besides which +it would be better to marry brute beasts than that Rosalie and her ugly +lout. That brat of theirs dirtied one of the chairs.--But you ought to +tell me when you feel poorly, and I could make you something warm.--Eh! +Monsieur le Curé, speak to me!’ + +He answered, in a feeble voice, that he was quite well, and only needed +a little fresh air. He had just leant against one of the mulberry-trees, +and was breathing rather quickly, as if faint. + +‘Oh! all right,’ went on La Teuse, ‘do just as you like. Go on marrying +people when you haven’t the strength for it, and when you know very +well that it’s bound to upset you. I knew how it would be; I told you so +yesterday. And if you took my advice, you wouldn’t stay where you are. +The smell of the yard is bad for you. It is frightful just now. I can’t +imagine what Mademoiselle Desirée can be stirring about there. She’s +singing away, and doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Ah! that reminds me +of something I want to tell you. You know that I did all I could to keep +her from taking the cow to Beage; but she’s like you, obstinate, and +will go her own way. Fortunately, however, for her, she’s none the worse +for it. She delights to be amongst the animals and their young ones. +But come now, your reverence, do be reasonable. Let me take you to your +room. You must lie down and rest a little. What, you don’t want to! +Well, then, so much the worse for you, if you suffer! Besides, it’s +absurd to keep one’s worries locked up in one’s heart till they stifle +one.’ + +Then, in her indignation, she hastily swallowed a big spoonful of soup +at the risk of burning her throat. She rattled the handle of the spoon +against the bowl, muttering and grumbling to herself. + +‘There never was such a man,’ said she. ‘He would die rather than say +a word. But it’s all very well for him to keep silent. I know quite +enough, and it doesn’t require much cleverness to guess the rest. Well! +well! let him keep it to himself. I dare say it is better.’ + +La Teuse was jealous. Dr. Pascal had had a tremendous fight with her +in order to get her patient away at the time when he had come to the +conclusion that the young priest’s case would be quite hopeless if he +should remain at the parsonage. He had then explained to her that the +sound of the bell would aggravate and intensify Serge’s fever, that the +religious pictures and statuettes scattered about his room would fill +his brain with hallucinations, and that entirely new surroundings +were necessary if he was to be restored to health and strength and +peacefulness of mind. She, however, had vigorously shaken her head, and +declared that her ‘dear child’ would nowhere find a better nurse than +herself. Still, she had ended by yielding. She had even resigned +herself to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against this +selection of the doctor’s, which astonished her. But she retained +a strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by the +silence which Abbé Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there. +She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce him +to talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and his +obstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon about +and crying: + +‘You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Curé, if you were so happy +there--I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better +than I do.’ + +It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her +suspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not +check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At this +La Teuse’s kindly heart was filled with regret. + +‘Ah!’ she murmured, ‘it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I told +him what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to their +own ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging +in your body afterwards--It made me so angry that I would never speak of +it to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Curé, you have me to thank that nobody +knew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable! +When Abbé Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your +absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of +stories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don’t even know where +Switzerland is.--Well! well! I surely don’t want to say anything to pain +you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Very +finely they’ve cured you indeed! It would have been very much better if +they had left you with me. I shouldn’t have thought of trying to turn +your head.’ + +Abbé Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt +her. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from +him, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in her +motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her. + +‘You would never let me tell you about Abbé Caffin. As soon as I began +to speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbé Caffin had +had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was a +very holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he was +a man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things. Well, there +was a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of a +miller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school. Well, to put it +shortly, what was likely to happen did happen. When the story got about, +all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbé. But he managed +to escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there. +Then he was sent here. The poor man was punished quite enough by being +made to live in this hole of a place. I heard of the girl afterwards. +She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy.’ + +La Teuse, delighted at having been allowed to tell her story, +interpreted the priest’s silence as an encouragement to continue her +gossiping. So she drew a little nearer to him and said: + +‘He was very friendly with me, was good Monsieur Caffin, and often spoke +to me of his sin. It won’t keep him out of heaven, I’m sure. He can rest +quite peacefully out there under the turf, for he never harmed any one. +For my part, I can’t understand why people should get so angry with a +priest when such a thing unhappily befalls him. Of course it’s wrong, +and likely to anger God; but then one can confess and repent, and get +absolution. Isn’t it so, your reverence, that when one truly repents, +one is saved in spite of one’s sins?’ + +Abbé Mouret slowly raised his head. By a supreme effort he had overcome +his agony, and though his face was still very pale, he exclaimed in a +firm voice, ‘One should never sin; never! never!’ + +‘Ah! sir,’ cried the old servant, ‘you are too proud and reserved. It is +not a nice thing, that pride of yours.--If I were in your place, I would +not harden myself like that. I would talk of what was troubling me, and +not try to rend my heart in pieces. You should reconcile yourself to the +separation gradually. The worry wears off little by little. But, instead +of that, you won’t even allow people’s names to be uttered. You forbid +them to be mentioned. It is as though they were dead. Since you came +back, I have not dared to tell you the least bit of news. Well, well, +I am going to speak now, and I shall tell you all I know; because I see +quite well that it is all this silence that is preying upon your heart.’ + +He looked at her sternly, and lifted his finger to silence her. + +‘Yes, yes,’ she went on, ‘I get news from over yonder, very often +indeed, and I am going to tell it to you. To begin with, there is some +one there who is no happier than you are.’ + +‘Silence! Silence!’ said Abbé Mouret, summoning all his strength to rise +and move away. + +But La Teuse also rose and barred his way with her bulky figure. She was +angry, and cried out: + +‘There, you see, you want to be off already! But you are going to listen +to me. You know quite well that I am not over fond of the people yonder, +don’t you? If I talk to you about them, it is for your own good. Some +people say that I am jealous. Well, one day I mean to take you over +there. You would be with me, and you wouldn’t be afraid of any harm +happening. Will you go?’ + +He motioned her away from him with his hands, and his face was calm +again as he said: + +‘I desire nothing. I wish to know nothing. There is high mass to-morrow. +You must see that the altar is made ready.’ + +Then, as he walked away, he added, smiling: + +‘Don’t be uneasy, my good Teuse. I am stronger than you imagine. I shall +be able to cure myself without any one’s assistance.’ + +With these words he went off, bearing himself sturdily, with his head +erect, for he had vanquished his feelings. His cassock rustled very +gently against the borders of thyme. La Teuse, who for a moment had +remained rooted to the spot where she was standing, sulkily picked up +her basin and wooden spoon. Then, shrugging her big shoulders again and +again, she mumbled between her teeth: + +‘That’s all bravado of his. He imagines that he is differently made from +other men, just because he is a priest. Well, as a matter of fact, he is +very firm and determined. I have known some who wouldn’t have had to be +wheedled so long. And he is quite capable of crushing his heart, just +as one might crush a flea. It must be the Almighty who gives him his +strength.’ + +As she returned to the kitchen she saw Abbé Mouret standing by the gate +of the farmyard. Desirée had stopped him there to make him feel a capon +which she had been fattening for some weeks past. He told her pleasantly +that it was very heavy, and the big child chuckled with glee. + +‘Ah! well,’ said La Teuse in a fury, ‘that bird has got to crush its +heart too. But then it can’t help itself.’ + + + + +IV + +Abbé Mouret spent his days at the parsonage. He shunned the long walks +which he had been wont to take before his illness. The scorched soil of +Les Artaud, the ardent heat of that valley where the vines could never +even grow straight, distressed him. On two occasions, in the morning, he +had attempted to go out and read his breviary as he strolled along the +road; but he had not gone beyond the village. He had returned home, +overcome by the perfumes, the heat, the breadth of the landscape. It +was only in the evening, in the cool twilight air, that he ventured to +saunter a little in front of the church, on the terrace which led to +the graveyard. In the afternoons, to fill up his time, and satisfy his +craving for some kind of occupation, he had imposed upon himself the +task of pasting paper over the broken panes of the church windows, This +had kept him for a week mounted on a ladder, arranging his paper panes +with great exactness, and laying on the paste with the most scrupulous +care in order to avoid any mess. + +La Teuse stood at the foot of the ladder and watched him. And Desirée +urged that he must not fill up all the windows, or else the sparrows +would no longer be able to get through. To please her, the priest left +a pane or two in each window unfilled. Then, having completed these +repairs, he was seized with the ambition of decorating the church, +without summoning to his aid either mason or carpenter or painter. He +would do it all himself. This sort of handiwork would amuse him, he +said, and help to bring back his strength. Uncle Pascal encouraged him +every time he called at the parsonage, assuring him that such exercise +and fatigue were better than all the drugs in the world. And so Abbé +Mouret began to stop up the holes in the walls with plaster, to drive +fresh nails into the disjoined altars, and to crush and mix paints, +in order that he might put a new coating on the pulpit and +confessional-box. It was quite an event in the district, and folks +talked of it for a couple of leagues round. Peasants would come and +stand gazing, with their hands behind their backs, at his reverence’s +work. The Abbé himself, with a blue apron tied round his waist, and his +hands all soiled with his labour, became absorbed in it, and used it as +an excuse for no longer going out. He spent his days in the midst of his +repairs, and was more tranquil than he had been before; almost cheerful, +indeed, as he forgot the outer world, the trees and the sunshine and the +warm breezes, which had formerly disturbed him so much. + +‘Monsieur le Curé is free to do as he pleases, since the parish hasn’t +got to find the money,’ said old Bambousse, who came round every evening +to see how the work was progressing. + +Abbé Mouret spent all his savings on it. Some of his decorations, +indeed, were so awkward that they would have excited many people’s +smiles. The replastering of the stonework soon tired him: so he +contented himself with patching up the church walls all round to a +height of some six feet from the ground. La Teuse mixed the plaster. +When she talked of repairing the parsonage as well, for she was +continually fearing that it would topple down on their heads, he told +her that he did not think he could manage it, that a regular workman +would be necessary; a reply which led to a terrible quarrel between +them. La Teuse said it was quite ridiculous to go on ornamenting the +church, where nobody slept, while their bedrooms were in such a crazy +condition, for she was quite sure they would all be found, one morning, +crushed to death by the fallen ceilings. + +‘I shall end by bringing my bed here, and placing it behind the altar,’ +she grumbled. ‘I feel quite terrified sometimes at night.’ + +However, when the plaster was all used up, she said no more about +repairing the parsonage. The painting which the priest executed quite +delighted her. It was the chief charm of the improvements. The Abbé, +who had repaired the woodwork everywhere with bits of boards, took +particular pleasure in spreading his big brush, dipped in bright yellow +paint, over all this woodwork. The gentle, up-and-down motion of the +brush lulled him, left him thoughtless for hours whilst he gazed on the +oily streaks of paint. When everything was quite yellow, the pulpit, +the confessional-box, the altar rails, even the clock-case itself, he +ventured to try his hand at imitation marble work by way of touching up +the high altar. Then, growing bolder, he painted it all over. Glistening +with white and yellow and blue, it was pronounced superb. People who had +not been to mass for fifty years streamed into the church to see it. + +And now the paint was dry. All that remained for Abbé Mouret to do was +to edge the panels with brown beading. So, that afternoon, he set to +work at it, wishing to get it done by evening; for on the following day, +as he had reminded La Teuse, there would be high mass. She was there +ready to arrange the altar. She had already placed on the credence +the candlesticks and the silver cross, the porcelain vases filled with +artificial roses, and the laced cloth which was only used on great +festivals. The beading, however, proved so difficult of execution, that +it was not completed till late in the evening. It was growing quite dark +as the Abbé finished his last panel. + +‘It will be really too beautiful,’ said a rough voice from amidst the +greyish gloom of twilight which was filling the church. + +La Teuse, who had knelt down to get a better view of the Abbé’s brush as +it glided along his rule, started with alarm. + +‘Ah! it’s Brother Archangias,’ she said, turning round. ‘You came in by +the sacristy then? You gave me quite a turn. Your voice seemed to sound +from under the floor.’ + +Abbé Mouret had resumed his work, after greeting the Brother with a +slight nod. The Brother remained standing there in silence, with his fat +hands clasped in front of his cassock. Then, shrugging his shoulders, +as he observed with what scrupulous care the priest sought to make his +beading perfectly straight, he repeated: + +‘It will be really too beautiful.’ + +La Teuse, who knelt near by in ecstasy, started again. + +‘Dear me!’ she said, ‘I had quite forgotten you were there. You really +ought to cough before you speak. You have a voice that comes on one so +suddenly that one might think it was a voice from the grave.’ + +She rose up and drew back a little the better to admire the Abbé’s work. + +‘Why too beautiful?’ she asked. ‘Nothing can be too beautiful when it is +done for the Almighty. If his reverence had only had some gold, he would +have done it with gold, I’m sure.’ + +When the priest had finished, she hastened to change the altar-cloth, +taking the greatest care not to smudge the beading. Then she arranged +the cross, the candlesticks, and the vases symmetrically. Abbé Mouret +had gone to lean against the wooden screen which separated the choir +from the nave, by the side of Brother Archangias. Not a word passed +between them. Their eyes were fixed upon the silver crucifix, which, in +the increasing gloom, still cast some glimmer of light on the feet and +the left side and the right temple of the big Christ. When La Teuse had +finished, she came down towards them, triumphantly. + +‘Doesn’t it look lovely?’ she asked. ‘Just you see what a crowd there +will be at mass to-morrow! Those heathens will only come to God’s house +when they think He is well-to-do. Now, Monsieur le Curé, we must do as +much for the Blessed Virgin’s altar.’ + +‘Waste of money!’ growled Brother Archangias. + +But La Teuse flew into a tantrum; and, as Abbé Mouret remained silent, +she led them both before the altar of the Virgin, pushing them and +dragging them by their cassocks. + +‘Just look at it,’ said she; ‘it is too shabby for anything, now that +the high altar is so smart. It looks as though it had never been painted +at all. However much I may rub it of a morning, the dust sticks to it. +It is quite black; it is filthy. Do you know what people will say about +you, your reverence? They will say that you care nothing for the Blessed +Virgin; that’s what they’ll say.’ + +‘Well, what of it?’ queried Brother Archangias. + +La Teuse looked at him, half suffocated by indignation. + +‘What of it? It would be sinful, of course,’ she muttered. ‘This altar +is like a neglected tomb in a graveyard. If it were not for me, the +spiders would spin their webs across it, and moss would soon grow over +it. From time to time, when I can spare a bunch of flowers, I give it to +the Virgin. All the flowers in our garden used to be for her once.’ + +She had mounted the altar steps, and she took up two withered bunches of +flowers, which had been left there, forgotten. + +‘See! it is just as it is in the graveyards,’ she said, throwing the +flowers at Abbé Mouret’s feet. + +He picked them up, without replying. It was quite dark now, and Brother +Archangias stumbled about amongst the chairs and nearly fell. He growled +and muttered some angry words, in which the names of Jesus and Mary +recurred. When La Teuse, who had gone for a lamp, returned into the +church, she asked the priest: + +‘So I can put the brushes and pots away in the attic, then?’ + +‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘I have finished. We will see about the rest later +on.’ + +She walked away in front of them, carrying all the things with her, and +keeping silence, lest she should say too much. And as Abbé Mouret had +kept the withered bunches of flowers in his hand, Brother Archangias +said to him, as they passed the farmyard: ‘Throw those things away.’ + +The Abbé took a few steps more, with downcast head; and then over the +palings he flung the flowers upon a manure-heap. + + + + +V + +The Brother, who had already had his own meal, seated himself astride a +chair, while the priest dined. Since Serge’s return to Les Artaud, the +Brother had thus spent most of his evenings at the parsonage; but never +before had he imposed his presence upon the other in so rough a fashion. +He stamped on the tiled floor with his heavy boots, his voice thundered +and he smote the furniture, whilst he related how he had whipped some of +his pupils that morning, or expounded his moral principles in terms +as stern, as uncompromising as bludgeon-blows. Then feeling bored, he +suggested that he and La Teuse should have a game at cards. They had +endless bouts of ‘Beggar-my-neighbour’ together, that being the only +game which La Teuse had ever been able to learn. Abbé Mouret would +smilingly glance at the first few cards flung on the table and would +then gradually sink into reverie, remaining for hours forgetful of his +self-restraint, oblivious of his surroundings, beneath the suspicious +glances of Brother Archangias. + +That evening La Teuse felt so cross that she had talked of going to bed +as soon as the cloth was removed. The Brother, however, wanted his +game of cards. So he caught hold of her shoulders and sat her down, so +roughly that the chair creaked beneath her. And forthwith he began to +shuffle the cards. Desirée, who hated him, had gone off carrying her +dessert, which she generally took upstairs with her every evening to eat +in bed. + +‘I want the red cards,’ said La Teuse. + +Then the struggle began. The old woman at first won some of the +Brother’s best cards. But before long two aces fell together on the +table. + +‘Here’s a battle!’ she cried, wild with excitement. + +She threw down a nine, which rather alarmed her, but as the Brother, +in his turn, only put down a seven, she picked up the cards with a +triumphant air. At the end of half an hour, however, she had only gained +two aces, so that the chances remained fairly equal. And a quarter of +an hour later she lost an ace. The knaves and kings and queens were +perpetually coming and going as the battle furiously progressed. + +‘It’s a splendid game, eh?’ said Brother Archangias, turning towards +Abbé Mouret. + +But when he saw him sitting there, so absorbed in his reverie, with such +a gentle smile playing unconsciously round his lips, he roughly raised +his voice: + +‘Why, Monsieur le Curé, you are not paying any attention to us! It isn’t +polite of you. We are only playing on your account. We were trying +to amuse you. Come and watch the game. It would do you more good than +dozing and dreaming away there. Where were you just now?’ + +The priest started. He said nothing, but with quivering eyelids tried to +force himself to look at the game. The play went on vigorously. La Teuse +won her ace back, and then lost it again. On some evenings they would +fight in this way over the aces for quite four hours, and often they +would go off to bed, angry at having failed to bring the contest to a +decisive issue. + +‘But, dear me! I’ve only just remembered it!’ suddenly cried La Teuse, +who greatly feared that she was going to be beaten. ‘His reverence has +to go out to-night. He promised Fortune and Rosalie that he would go to +bless their room, according to the custom. Make haste, Monsieur le Curé! +The Brother will go with you.’ + +Abbé Mouret had already risen from his chair, and was looking for +his hat. But Brother Archangias, still holding his cards, flew into a +tantrum: ‘Oh! don’t bother about it,’ said he. ‘What does it want to +be blessed for that pigsty of theirs? It is a custom that you should do +away with. I can’t see any sense in it. Stay here and let us finish the +game. That is much the best thing to do.’ + +‘No,’ said the priest, ‘I promised to go. Those good people might feel +hurt if I didn’t. You stay here and play your game out while you are +waiting for me.’ + +La Teuse glanced uneasily at Brother Archangias. + +‘Well, yes, I will stay here,’ cried the Brother. ‘It is really too +absurd.’ + +But before Abbé Mouret could open the door, he flung his cards on the +table and rose to follow him. Then half turning back he called to La +Teuse: + +‘I should have won. Leave the cards as they are, and we will play the +game out to-morrow.’ + +‘Oh! they are all mixed now,’ answered the old servant, who had lost no +time in shuffling them together. ‘Did you suppose that I was going to +put your hand away under a glass case? And, besides, I might very well +have won, for I still had an ace left.’ + +A few strides brought Brother Archangias up with Abbé Mouret, who was +walking down the narrow path that led to the village. The Brother had +undertaken the task of keeping watch over the Abbé’s movements. He +incessantly played the spy upon him, accompanying him everywhere, or, +if he could not go in person, sending some school urchin to follow +him. With that terrible laugh of his, he was wont to remark that he was +‘God’s gendarme.’ + +And, in truth, the Abbé seemed like a culprit ever guarded by the black +shadow of the Brother’s cassock; a culprit to be treated distrustfully, +since in his weakness he might well lapse into fresh crime were he left +free from surveillance for a single moment. Thus he was watched and +guarded with all the spiteful eagerness that some jealous old maid +might have displayed, the overreaching zeal of a gaoler who might carry +precautions so far as to exclude even such rays of light as might creep +through the chinks of the prison-house. Brother Archangias was always on +the watch to keep out the sunlight, to prevent even a whiff of air from +entering, to shut up his prison so completely that nothing from outside +could gain access to it. He noted the Abbé’s slightest fits of weakness, +and by his glance divined his tender thoughts, which with a word he +pitilessly crushed, as though they were poisonous vermin. The priest’s +intervals of silence, his smiles, the paling of his brow, the faint +quivering of his limbs, were all noted by the Brother. But he never +spoke openly of the transgression. His presence alone was a sufficient +reproach. The manner in which he uttered certain words imparted to them +all the sting of a whip stroke. With a mere gesture he expressed his +utter disgust for the priest’s sin. Like one of those betrayed husbands +who enjoy torturing their wives with cruel allusions, he contented +himself with recalling the scene at the Paradou, in an indirect fashion, +by some word or phrase which sufficed to annihilate the Abbé, whenever +the latter’s flesh rebelled. + +It was nearly ten o’clock and most of the villagers of Les Artaud had +retired to rest. But from a brightly lighted house at the far end, near +the mill, there still came sounds of merriment. While keeping the best +rooms for his own use, old Bambousse had given a corner of his house to +his daughter and son-in-law. They were all assembled there, drinking a +last glass, while waiting for the priest. + +‘They are drunk,’ growled Brother Archangias. ‘Don’t you hear the row +they are making?’ + +Abbé Mouret made no reply. It was a lovely night and all looked bluish +in the moonlight, which lent to the distant part of the valley the +aspect of a sleeping lake. The priest slackened his pace that he might +the more fully enjoy the charm of that soft radiance, and now and then +he even stopped as he came upon some expanse of light, experiencing the +delightful quiver which the proximity of fresh water brings one on a +hot day. But the Brother continued striding along, grumbling and calling +him. + +‘Come along; come along! It isn’t good to loiter out of doors at this +time of night. You would be much better in bed.’ + +All at once, however, just as they were entering the village, Archangias +himself stopped short in the middle of the road. He was looking towards +the heights, where the white lines of the roads vanished amidst black +patches of pine-woods, and he growled to himself, like a dog that scents +danger. + +‘Who can be coming down so late?’ he muttered. + +But the priest, who neither saw nor heard anything, was now, in his +turn, anxious to press on. + +‘Stay! stay! there he is,’ eagerly added Brother Archangias. ‘He has +just turned the corner. See! he is in the moonlight now. One can see him +plainly. It is a tall man, with a stick.’ + +Then, after a moment’s silence, he resumed, in a voice husky with fury: +‘It is he, that beggar! I felt sure it was!’ + +Thereupon, the new-comer having now reached the bottom of the hill, Abbé +Mouret saw that it was Jeanbernat. In spite of his eighty years, the old +man set his feet down with such force, that his heavy, nailed boots +sent sparks flying from the flints on the road. And he walked along as +upright as an oak, without the aid of his stick, which he carried across +his shoulder like a musket. + +‘Ah! the villain!’ stammered the Brother, still standing motionless. +‘May the fiend light all the blazes of hell under his feet!’ + +The priest, who felt greatly disturbed, and despaired of inducing his +companion to come on, turned round to continue his journey, hoping that, +by a quick walk to the Bambousses’ house, he might yet manage to avoid +Jeanbernat. But he had not taken five strides before he heard the +bantering voice of the old man close behind him. + +‘Hie! Curé! wait for me. Are you afraid of me?’ + +And as Abbé Mouret stopped, he came up and continued: ‘Ah! those +cassocks of yours are tiresome things, aren’t they? They prevent your +getting along too quickly. It’s such a fine clear night, too, that one +can recognise you by your gown a long way off. When I was right at the +top of the hill, I said to myself, “Surely that is the little priest +down yonder.” Oh! yes, I still have very good eyes.... Well, so you +never come to see us now?’ + +‘I have had so much to do,’ murmured the priest, who had turned very +pale. + +‘Well, well, every one’s free to please himself. If I’ve mentioned the +matter, it’s only because I want you to know that I don’t bear you any +grudge for being a priest. We wouldn’t even talk about your religion, +it’s all one and the same to me. But the little one thinks that it’s I +who prevents your coming. I said to her, “The priest is an idiot,” and +I think so, indeed. Did I try to eat you during your illness? Why, I +didn’t even go upstairs to see you. Every one’s free, you know.’ + +He spoke on in the most unconcerned manner, pretending that he did not +notice the presence of Brother Archangias; but as the latter suddenly +broke into an angry grunt, he added, ‘Why, Curé, so you bring your pig +out with you?’ + +‘Take care, you bandit!’ hissed the Brother, clenching his fists. + +Jeanbernat, whose stick was still raised, then pretended to recognise +him. + +‘Hands off!’ he cried. ‘Ah! it’s you, you soul-saver! I ought to have +known you by your smell. We have a little account to settle together, +remember. I have sworn to cut off your ears in the middle of your +school. It will amuse the children you are poisoning.’ + +The Brother fell back before the raised staff, a flood of abuse rising +to his lips; but he began to stammer and went on disjointedly: + +‘I will set the gendarmes after you, scoundrel! You spat on the church; +I saw you. You give the plague to the poor people who merely pass your +door. At Saint-Eutrope you made a girl die by forcing her to chew a +consecrated wafer which you had stolen. At Beage you went and dug up the +bodies of little dead children and carried them away on your back. You +are an old sorcerer! Everybody knows it, you scoundrel! You are the +disgrace of the district. Whoever strangles you will gain heaven for the +deed.’ + +The old man listened with a sneer, twirling the while his staff between +his fingers. And between the Brother’s successive insults he ejaculated +in an undertone: + +‘Go on, go on; relieve yourself, you viper. I’ll break your back for you +by-and-by.’ + +Abbé Mouret tried to interfere, but Brother Archangias pushed him away, +exclaiming: ‘You are led by him yourself! Didn’t he make you trample +upon the cross? Deny it, if you dare!’ Then again, turning to +Jeanbernat, he yelled: ‘Ah! Satan, you must have chuckled and no mistake +when you held a priest in your grasp! May Heaven curse those who abetted +you in that sacrilege! What was it you did, at night, while he slept? +You came and moistened his tonsure with your saliva, eh? so that his +hair might grow more quickly. And then you breathed upon his chin and +his cheeks that his beard might grow a hand’s breadth in a single night. +And you rubbed all your philters into his body, and breathed into his +mouth the lasciviousness of a dog. You turned him into a brute-beast, +Satan.’ + +‘He’s idiotic,’ said Jeanbernat, resting his stick on his shoulder. ‘He +quite bores me.’ + +The Brother, however, growing bolder, thrust his fists under the old +man’s nose. + +‘And that drab of yours!’ he cried, ‘you can’t deny that you set her on +to damn the priest.’ + +Then he suddenly sprang backwards, with a shriek, for the old man, +swinging his stick with all his strength, had just broken it over his +back. Retreating yet a little further, Archangias picked from a heap of +stones beside the road a piece of flint twice the size of a man’s fist, +and threw it at Jeanbernat. It would surely have split the other’s +forehead open if he had not bent down. He, however, now likewise crossed +over to a heap of stones, sheltered himself behind it, and provided +himself with missiles; and from one heap to the other a terrible combat +began, with a perfect hail of flints. The moon now shone very brightly, +and their dark shadows fell distinctly on the ground. + +‘Yes, yes, you set that hussy on to ruin him!’ repeated the Brother, +wild with rage. ‘Ah! you are astonished that I know all about it! You +hope for some monstrous result from it all. Every morning you make the +thirteen signs of hell over that minx of yours! You would like her to +become the mother of Antichrist. You long for Antichrist, you villain! +But may this stone blind you!’ + +‘And may this one bung your mouth up!’ retorted Jeanbernat, who was +now quite calm again. ‘Is he cracked, the silly fellow, with all those +stories of his?... Shall I have to break your head for you, before I can +get on my way? Is it your catechism that has turned your brain?’ + +‘Catechism, indeed! Do you know what catechism is taught to accursed +ones like you? Ah! I will show you how to make the sign of the +cross.--This stone is for the Father, and this for the Son, and this +for the Holy Ghost. Ah! you are still standing. Wait a bit, wait a +bit. Amen!’ Then he threw a handful of small pebbles like a volley of +grape-shot. Jeanbernat, who was struck upon the shoulder, dropped the +stones he was holding, and quietly stepped forwards, while Brother +Archangias picked two fresh handfuls from the heap, blurting out: + +I am going to exterminate you. It is God who wills it. God is acting +through my arm.’ + +‘Will you be quiet!’ said the old man, grasping him by the nape of the +neck. + +Then came a short struggle amidst the dust of the road, all bluish with +moonlight. The Brother, finding himself the weaker of the two, tried +to bite. But Jeanbernat’s sinewy limbs were like coils of rope which +pinioned him so tightly that he could almost feel them cutting into +his flesh. He panted and ceased to struggle, meditating some act of +treachery. + +The old man, having got the other under him, scoffingly exclaimed: ‘I +have a good mind to break one of your arms. You see that it isn’t you +who are the stronger, but that it is I who am exterminating you.... Now +I’m going to cut your ears off. You have tried my endurance too far.’ + +Jeanbernat calmly drew his knife from his pocket. But Abbé Mouret, who +had several times attempted to part the combatants, now raised such +strenuous opposition to the old man’s design that he consented to defer +the operation till another time. + +‘You are acting foolishly, Curé,’ said he. ‘It would do this scoundrel +good to be well bled; but, since it seems to displease you, I’ll wait a +little longer; I shall be meeting him again in some quiet corner.’ + +And as the Brother broke out into a growl, Jeanbernat cried +threateningly: ‘If you don’t keep still I will cut your ears off at +once!’ + +‘But you are sitting on his chest,’ said the priest, ‘get up and let him +breathe.’ + +‘No, no; he would begin his tomfoolery again. I will give him his +liberty when I go away, but not before.... Well, I was telling you, +Curé, when this good-for-nothing interrupted us, that you would be very +welcome yonder. The little one is mistress, you know; I don’t attempt +to interfere with her any more than I do with my salad-plants. There are +only fools like this croaker here who see any harm in it. Where did you +see anything wrong, scoundrel? It was yourself who imagined it, villain +that you are!’ + +And thereupon he gave the Brother another shaking. ‘Let him get up,’ +begged Abbé Mouret. + +‘By-and-by. The little one has not been well for a long time. I did not +notice anything myself, but she told me; and now I am on my way to tell +your uncle Pascal, at Plassans. I like the night for walking; it is +quiet, and, as a rule, one isn’t delayed by meeting people.... Yes, yes, +the little one is quite ailing.’ + +The priest could not find a word to say. He staggered, and his head +sank. + +‘It made her so happy to look after you,’ continued the old man. ‘While +I smoked my pipe I used to hear her laugh. That was quite sufficient for +me. Girls are like the hawthorns; when they break out into blossom, they +do all they can. Well, now, you will come, if your heart prompts you to +it. I am sure it would please the little one. Good night, Curé.’ + +He got up slowly, keeping a firm grasp of the Brother’s wrists, to +guard against any treacherous attack. Then he proceeded on his way, with +swinging strides, without once turning his head. The Brother silently +crept to the heap of stones, and waited till the old man was some +distance off. Then, with both hands, and with mad violence, he again +began flinging stones, but they fell harmlessly upon the dusty road. +Jeanbernat did not condescend to notice them, but went his way, upright +like a tree, through the clear night. + +‘The accursed one!--Satan carries him on!’ shrieked Brother Archangias, +as he hurled his last stone. ‘An old scoundrel, that the least touch +ought to upset! But he is baked in hell’s fire. I smelt his claws.’ + +The Brother stamped with impotent rage on the scattered flints. Then he +suddenly attacked Abbé Mouret. ‘It was all your fault,’ he cried; ‘you +ought to have helped me, and, between us, we could have strangled him.’ + +Meantime, at the other end of the village, the uproar in the Bambousses’ +house had become greater than ever. The rhythmic tapping of glasses on +a table could be distinctly heard. The priest resumed his walk without +raising his head, making his way towards the flood of bright light that +streamed out of the window like the flare of a fire of vine-cuttings. +The Brother followed him gloomily; his cassock soiled with dust, and one +of his cheeks bleeding from a stone-cut. And, after a short interval of +silence, he asked, in his harsh voice: ‘Shall you go?’ + +Then as Abbé Mouret did not answer, he went on: ‘Take care! You are +lapsing into sin again. It was sufficient for that man to pass by to +send a thrill through your whole body. I saw you by the light of the +moon looking as pale as a girl. Take care! take care! Do you hear me? +Another time God will not pardon you--you will sink into the lowest +abyss! Ah! wretched piece of clay that you are, filth is mastering you!’ + +Thereupon, the priest at last raised his head. Big tears were streaming +from his eyes, and it was in gentle heartbroken accents that he spoke: +‘Why do you speak to me like that?--You are always with me, and you know +my ceaseless struggles. Do not doubt me, leave me strength to master +myself.’ + +Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night air +with such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even Brother +Archangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched. He made no +reply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek. When +they reached the Bambousses’ house, he refused to go inside. He seated +himself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned cart, where he +waited for the Abbé with dog-like patience. + +‘Ah! here is Monsieur le Curé!’ cried all the company of Bambousses and +Brichets as Serge entered. + +They filled their glasses once more. Abbé Mouret was compelled to take +one, too. There had been no regular wedding-feast; but, in the evening, +after dinner, a ten-gallon ‘Dame Jane’ had been placed upon the table, +and they were making it their business to empty it before going to bed. +There were ten of them, and old Bambousse was already with one hand +tilting over the jar whence only a thread of red liquor now flowed. +Rosalie, in a very sportive frame of mind, was dipping her baby’s chin +into her glass, while big Fortune showed off his strength by lifting +up the chairs with his teeth. All the company passed into the bedroom. +Custom required that the priest should there drink the glass of wine +which had been poured out for him. It brought good luck, and prevented +quarrels in the household. In Monsieur Caffin’s time, it had always +been a very merry ceremony, for the old priest loved a joke. He had +even gained a reputation for the skilful way in which he could drain his +glass, without leaving a single drop at the bottom of it; and the Artaud +women pretended that every drop undrunk meant a year’s less love for the +newly married pair. But with Abbé Mouret they dare not joke so freely. +However, he drank his wine at one gulp, which seemed to greatly please +old Bambousse. Mother Brichet looked at the bottom of the glass and +saw but a drop or two of the liquid remaining there. Then, after a few +jokes, they all returned to the living room, where Vincent and Catherine +had remained by themselves. Vincent, standing upon a chair, was clasping +the huge jar in his arms, and draining the last drops of wine into +Catherine’s open mouth. + +‘We are much obliged to you, Monsieur le Curé,’ said old Bambousse, as +he escorted the priest to the door. ‘Well, they’re married now, so I +suppose you are satisfied. And they are not likely to complain, I’m +sure.... Good night, sleep well, your reverence.’ + +Brother Archangias had slowly risen from his seat on the old cart. + +‘May the devil pile hot coals over them, and roast them!’ he murmured. + +Then without again opening his lips he accompanied Abbé Mouret to the +parsonage. And he waited outside till the door was closed. Even then he +did not go off without twice looking round to make sure that the +Abbé was not coming out again. As for the priest, when he reached his +bedroom, he threw himself in his clothes upon his bed, clasping his +hands to his ears, and pressing his face to the pillow, in order that he +might shut out all sound and sight. And thus stilling his senses he fell +into death-like slumber. + + + + +VI + +The next day was Sunday. As the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy +Cross fell on a high mass day, Abbé Mouret desired to celebrate the +festival with especial solemnity. He was now full of extraordinary +devotion for the Cross, and had replaced the image of the Immaculate +Conception in his bedroom by a large crucifix of black wood, before +which he spent long hours in worship. To exalt the Cross, to plant it +before him, above all else, in a halo of glory, as the one object of +his life, gave him the strength he needed to suffer and to struggle. He +sometimes dreamed of hanging there himself, in Jesus’s place, his head +crowned with thorns, nails driven through his hands and feet, and +his side rent by spears. What a coward he must be to complain of an +imaginary wound, when God bled there from His whole body, and yet +preserved on His lips the blessed smile of the Redemption! And however +unworthy it might be, he offered up his wound as a sacrifice, ended by +falling into ecstasy, and believing that blood did really stream from +his brow and side and limbs. Those were hours of relief, for he fancied +that all the impurity within him flowed forth from his wounds. And he +then usually drew himself up with the heroism of a martyr, and longed to +be called upon to suffer the most frightful tortures, in order that he +might bear them without a quiver of the flesh. + +At early dawn that day he knelt before the crucifix, and grace came upon +him abundantly as dew. He made no effort, he simply fell upon his knees, +to receive it in his heart, to be permeated with it to the marrow of his +bones in sweetest and most refreshing fulness. On the previous day he +had prayed for grace in agony, and it had not come. At times it long +remained deaf to his entreaties, and then, when he simply clasped his +hands, in quite childlike fashion, it flowed down to succour him. +It came upon him that morning like a benediction, bringing perfect +serenity, absolute trusting faith. He forgot his anguish of the previous +days, and surrendered himself wholly to the triumphant joy of the Cross. +He seemed to be cased in such impenetrable armour that the world’s most +deadly blows would glide off from it harmlessly. When he came down from +his bedroom, he stepped along with an air of serenity and victory. La +Teuse was astonished, and went to find Desirée, that he might kiss her; +and both of them clapped their hands, and said that they had not seen +him looking so well for the last six months. + +But it was in the church, at high mass, that the priest felt that he +had really recovered divine grace. It was a long time since he had +approached the altar with such loving emotion; and he had to make a +great effort to restrain himself from weeping whilst he remained with +his lips pressed to the altar-cloth. It was a solemn high mass. The +local rural guard, an uncle of Rosalie, chanted in a deep bass voice +which rumbled through the low nave like a hoarse organ. Vincent, robed +in a surplice much too large for him, which had formerly belonged to +Abbé Caffin, carried an old silver censer, and was vastly amused by the +tinkling of its chains; he swung it to a great height, so as to produce +copious clouds of smoke, and glanced behind him every now and then to +see if he had succeeded in making any one cough. The church was almost +full, for everybody wanted to see his reverence’s painting. Peasant +women laughed with pleasure because the place smelt so nice, while the +men, standing under the gallery, jerked their heads approvingly at each +deeper and deeper note that came from the rural guard. Filtering through +the paper window panes the full morning sun lighted up the brightly +painted walls, on which the women’s caps cast shadows resembling huge +butterflies. The artificial flowers, with which the altar was decorated, +almost seemed to possess the moist freshness of natural ones newly +gathered; and when the priest turned round to bless the congregation, he +felt even stronger emotion than before, as he saw his church so clean, +so full, and so steeped in music and incense and light. + +After the offertory, however, a buzzing murmur sped through the peasant +women. Vincent inquisitively turned his head, and in doing so, almost +let the charcoal in his censer fall upon the priest’s chasuble. And, +wishing to excuse himself, as he saw the Abbé looking at him with an +expression of reproof, he murmured: ‘It is your reverence’s uncle, who +has just come in.’ + +At the end of the church, standing beside one of the slender wooden +pillars that supported the gallery, Abbé Mouret then perceived Doctor +Pascal. The doctor was not wearing his usual cheerful and slightly +scoffing expression. Hat in hand, he stood there looking very grave, and +followed the service with evident impatience. The sight of the priest +at the altar, his solemn demeanour, his slow gestures, and the perfect +serenity of his countenance, appeared to gradually increase his +irritation. He could not stay there till the end of the mass, but left +the church, and walked up and down beside his horse and gig, which he +had secured to one of the parsonage shutters. + +‘Will that nephew of mine never have finished censing himself?’ he asked +of La Teuse, who was just coming out of the vestry. + +‘It is all over,’ she replied. ‘Won’t you come into the drawing-room? +His reverence is unrobing. He knows you are here.’ + +‘Well, unless he were blind, he couldn’t very well help it,’ growled the +doctor, as he followed La Teuse into the cold-looking, stiffly furnished +chamber, which she pompously called the drawing-room. Here for a few +minutes he paced up and down. The gloomy coldness of his surroundings +seemed to increase his irritation. As he strode about, flourishing +a stick he carried, he kept on striking the well-worn chair-seats of +horsehair which sounded hard and dead as stone. Then, tired of walking, +he took his stand in front of the mantelpiece, in the centre of which a +gaudily painted image of Saint Joseph occupied the place of a clock. + +‘Ah! here he comes at last,’ he said, as he heard the door opening. +And stepping towards the Abbé he went on: ‘Do you know that you made me +listen to half a mass? It is a very long time since that happened to me. +But I was bent on seeing you to-day. I have something to say to you.’ + +Then he stopped, and looked at the priest with an expression of +surprise. Silence fell. ‘You at all events are quite well,’ he resumed, +in a different voice. + +‘Yes, I am very much better than I was,’ replied Abbé Mouret, with a +smile. ‘I did not expect you before Thursday. Sunday isn’t your day for +coming. Is there something you want to tell me?’ + +Uncle Pascal did not give an immediate answer. He went on looking at the +Abbé. The latter was still fresh from the influence of the church and +the mass. His hair was fragrant with the perfume of the incense, and in +his eyes shone all the joy of the Cross. His uncle jogged his head, as +he noticed that expression of triumphant peace. + +‘I have come from the Paradou,’ he said, abruptly. ‘Jeanbernat came to +fetch me there. I have seen Albine, and she disquiets me. She needs much +careful treatment.’ + +He kept his eyes fixed upon the priest as he spoke, but he did not +detect so much as a quiver of Serge’s eyelids. + +‘She took great care of you, you know,’ he added, more roughly. ‘Without +her, my boy, you might now be in one of the cells at Les Tulettes, with +a strait waistcoat on.... Well, I promised that you would go to see her. +I will take you with me. It will be a farewell meeting. She is anxious +to go away.’ + +‘I can do nothing more than pray for the person of whom you speak,’ said +Abbé Mouret, softly. + +And as the doctor, losing his temper, brought his stick down heavily +upon the couch, he added calmly, but in a firm voice: + +‘I am a priest, and can only help with prayers.’ + +‘Ah, well! Yes, you are right,’ said Uncle Pascal, dropping down into +an armchair, ‘it is I who am an old fool. Yes, I wept like a child, as +I came here alone in my gig. That is what comes of living amongst books. +One learns a lot from them, but one makes a fool of oneself in the +world. How could I guess that it would all turn out so badly?’ + +He rose from his chair and began to walk about again, looking +exceedingly troubled. + +‘But yes, but yes, I ought to have guessed. It was all quite natural. +Though with one in your position, it was bound to be abominable! You +are not as other men. But listen to me, I assure you that otherwise you +would never have recovered. It was she alone, with the atmosphere she +set round you, who saved you from madness. There is no need for me to +tell you what a state you were in. It is one of my most wonderful cures. +But I can’t take any pride, any pleasure in it, for now the poor girl is +dying of it!’ + +Abbé Mouret remained there erect, perfectly calm, his face reflecting +all the quiet serenity of a martyr whom nothing that man might do could +disturb. + +‘God will take mercy upon her,’ he said. + +‘God! God!’ muttered the doctor below his breath. ‘Ah! He would do +better not to interfere. We might manage matters if we were left +to ourselves.’ Then, raising his voice, he added: ‘I thought I had +considered everything carefully, that is the most wonderful part of it. +Oh! what a fool I was! You would stay there, I thought, for a month to +recover your strength. The shade of the trees, the cheerful chatter of +the girl, all the youthfulness about you would quickly bring you round. +And then you, on your side, it seemed to me, would do something to +reclaim the poor child from her wild ways; you would civilise her, and, +between us, we should turn her into a young lady, for whom we should, +by-and-by, find a suitable husband. It seemed such a perfect scheme. And +then how was I to guess that old philosophising Jeanbernat would never +stir an inch from his lettuce-beds? Well! well! I myself never left +my own laboratory. I had such pressing work there.... And it is all my +fault! Ah! I am a stupid bungler!’ + +He was choking, and wished to go off. And he began to look about him for +his hat, though, all the while, he had it on his head. + +‘Good-bye!’ he stammered; ‘I am going. So you won’t come? Do, now--for +my sake! You see how miserable, how upset I am. I swear to you that she +shall go away immediately afterwards. That is all settled. My gig is +here; you might be back in an hour. Come, do come, I beg you.’ + +The priest made a sweeping gesture; such a gesture as the doctor had +seen him make before the altar. + +‘No,’ he said, ‘I cannot.’ + +Then, as he accompanied his uncle out of the room, he added: + +‘Tell her to fall on her knees and pray to God. God will hear her as He +heard me, and He will comfort her as He has comforted me. There is no +other means of salvation.’ + +The doctor looked him full in the face, and shrugged his shoulders. + +‘Good-bye, then,’ he repeated. ‘You are quite well now, and have no +further need of me.’ + +But, as he was unfastening his horse, Desirée, who had heard his voice, +came running up. She was extremely attached to her uncle. When she had +been younger he had been wont to listen to her childish prattle for +hours without showing the least sign of weariness. And, even now, he +did his best to spoil her, and manifested the greatest interest in her +farmyard, often spending a whole afternoon with her amongst her fowls +and ducks, and smiling at her with his bright eyes. He seemed to +consider her superior to other girls. And so she now flung herself round +his neck, in an impulse of affection, and cried: + +‘Aren’t you going to stay and have some lunch with us?’ + +But having kissed her, he said he could not remain, and unfastened her +arms from his neck with a somewhat pettish air. She laughed however, and +again clasped her arms round him. + +‘Oh! but you must,’ she persisted. ‘I have some eggs that have only just +been laid. I have been looking in the nests, and there are fourteen eggs +this morning. And, if you will stay, we can have a fowl, the white +one, that is always quarrelling with the others. When you were here on +Thursday, you know, it pecked the big spotted hen’s eye out.’ + +But her uncle persisted in his refusal. He was irritated to find that he +could not unfasten the knot in which he had tied his reins. And then she +began to skip round him, clapping her hands and repeating in a sing-song +voice: ‘Yes! yes! you’ll stay, and we will eat it up, we’ll eat it up!’ + +Her uncle could no longer resist her blandishments; he raised his head +and smiled at her. She seemed so full of life and health and sincerity; +her gaiety was as frank and natural as the sheet of sunlight which was +gilding her bare arms. + +‘You big silly!’ he said; and clasping her by the wrists as she +continued skipping gleefully about him, he went on: ‘No, dear; not +to-day. I have to go to see a poor girl who is ill. But I will come some +other morning. I promise you faithfully.’ + +‘When? when?’ she persisted. ‘On Thursday? The cow is in calf, you know, +and she hasn’t seemed at all well these last two days. You are a doctor, +and you ought to be able to give her something to do her good.’ + +Abbé Mouret, who had calmly remained there, could not restrain a slight +laugh. + +The doctor gaily got into his gig and exclaimed: ‘All right, my dear, +I will attend to your cow. Come and let me kiss you. Ah! how nice +and healthy you are! And you are worth more than all the others put +together. Ah! if every one was like my big silly, this earth would be +too beautiful!’ + +He set his horse off with a cluck of his tongue, and continued talking +to himself as the gig rattled down the hill. + +‘Yes, yes! there should be nothing but animals. Ah! if they were mere +animals, how happy and gay and strong they would all be! It has gone +well with the girl, who is as happy as her cow; but it has gone badly +with the lad, who is in torture beneath his cassock. A drop too much +blood, a little too much nerve, and one’s whole life is wrecked! ... +They are true Rougons and true Macquarts those children there! The +tail-end of the stock--its final degeneracy.’ + +Then, urging on his horse, he drove at a trot up the hill that led to +the Paradou. + + + + +VII + +Sunday was a busy day for Abbé Mouret. He had to think of vespers, which +he generally said to empty seats, for even mother Brichet did not carry +her piety so far as to go back to church in the afternoon. Then, at four +o’clock, Brother Archangias brought the little rogues from his school +to repeat their catechism to his reverence. This lesson sometimes lasted +until late. When the children showed themselves quite intractable, La +Teuse was summoned to frighten them with her broom. + +On that particular Sunday, about four o’clock, Desirée found herself +quite alone in the parsonage. As she felt a little bored, she went to +gather some food for her rabbits in the churchyard, where there were +some magnificent poppies, of which rabbits are extremely fond. Dragging +herself about on her knees between the grave-stones, she gathered +apronfuls of juicy verdure on which her pets fell greedily. + +‘Oh! what lovely plantains!’ she muttered, stooping before Abbé Caffin’s +tombstone, and delighted with the discovery she had made. + +There were, indeed, some magnificent plantains spreading out their broad +leaves beside the stone. Desirée had just finished filling her apron +with them when she fancied she heard a strange noise behind her. A +rustling of branches and a rolling of small pebbles came from the ravine +which skirted one side of the graveyard, and at the bottom of which +flowed the Mascle, a stream which descended from the high lands of +the Paradou. But the ascent here was so rough, so impracticable, that +Desirée imagined that the noise could only have been made by some lost +dog or straying goat. She stepped quickly to the edge, and, as she +looked over, she was amazed to see amidst the brambles a girl who was +climbing up the rocks with extraordinary agility. + +‘I will give you a hand,’ she said. ‘You might easily break your neck +there.’ + +The girl, directly she saw she was discovered, started back, as though +she would rather go down again, but after a moment’s hesitation she +ventured to take the hand that was held out to her. + +‘Oh! I know who you are,’ said Desirée, with a beaming smile, and +letting her apron fall that she might grasp the girl by the waist. ‘You +once gave me some blackbirds, but they all died, poor little dears. I +was so sorry about it.--Wait a bit, I know your name, I have heard it +before. La Teuse often mentions it when Serge isn’t there; but she +told me that I was not to repeat it. Wait a moment, I shall remember it +directly!’ + +She tried to recall the name, and grew quite grave in the attempt. Then, +having succeeded in remembering it, she became gay again, and seemingly +found great pleasure in dwelling upon its musical sound. + +‘Albine! Albine!---- What a sweet name it is! At first I used to think +you must be a tomtit, because I once had a tomtit with a name very like +yours, though I don’t remember exactly what it was.’ + +Albine did not smile. Her face was very pale, and there was a feverish +gleam in her eyes. A few drops of blood trickled from her hands. When +she had recovered her breath, she hastily exclaimed: + +No! no! leave it alone. You will only stain your handkerchief. It is +nothing but a scratch. I didn’t want to come by the road, as I should +have been seen--so I preferred coming along the bed of the torrent---- +Is Serge there?’ + +Desirée did not feel at all shocked at hearing the girl pronounce +her brother’s name thus familiarly and with an expression of subdued +passion. She simply replied that he was in the church hearing the +children say their catechism. + +‘You must not speak at all loudly,’ she added, raising her finger to +her lips. ‘Serge forbade me to talk loudly when he is catechising the +children, and we shall get into trouble if we don’t keep quiet. Let us +go into the stable--shall we? We can talk better there.’ + +‘I want to see Serge,’ said Albine, simply. + +Desirée cast a hasty glance at the church, and then whispered, ‘Yes, +yes; Serge will be finely caught. Come with me. We will hide ourselves, +and keep quite quiet. We shall have some fine fun!’ + +She had picked up the herbage which had fallen from her apron, and +quitting the graveyard she stole back to the parsonage, telling Albine +to hide herself behind her and make herself as little as possible. As +they stealthily glided through the farmyard, they caught sight of La +Teuse, who was crossing over to the vestry, but she did not appear to +notice them. + +‘There! There!’ said Desirée, quite delighted, as they stowed themselves +away in the stable; ‘keep quiet, and no one will know that we are here. +There is some straw there for you to lie down upon.’ + +Albine seated herself on a truss of straw. + +‘And Serge?’ she asked, persisting in her one fixed idea. + +‘Listen! You can hear his voice. When he claps his hands, it will be all +over, and the children will go away--Listen! he is telling them a tale.’ + +They could indeed just hear Abbé Mouret’s voice, which was wafted to +them through the vestry doorway which La Teuse had doubtless left open. +It came to them like a solemn murmur, in which they could distinguish +the name of Jesus thrice repeated. Albine trembled. She sprang up as +though to hasten to that beloved voice whose caressing accents she knew +so well, but all sound of it suddenly died away, shut off by the +closing of the door. Then she sat down again, to wait, her hands tightly +clasped, and her clear eyes gleaming with the intensity of her thoughts. +Desirée, who was lying at her feet, gazed up at her with innocent +admiration. + +‘How beautiful you are!’ she whispered. ‘You are like an image that +Serge used to have in his bedroom. It was quite white like you are, with +great curls floating about the neck; and the heart was quite bare and +uncovered, just in the place where I can feel yours beating---- But +you are not listening to me. You are looking quite sad. Let us play at +something? Will you?’ + +Then she stopped short, holding her breath and saying between her teeth: +‘Ah! the wretches! they will get us caught!’ She still had her apron +full of herbage with her, and her pets were taking it by assault. A +troop of fowls had surrounded her, clucking and calling each other, and +pecking at the hanging green stuff. The goat pushed its head slyly under +her arm, and began to eat the longer leaves. Even the cow, which was +tethered to the wall, strained at its cord and poked out its nose, +kissing her with its warm breath. + +‘Oh! you thieves!’ cried Desirée. ‘But this is for the rabbits, not for +you! Leave me alone, won’t you! You, there, will get your ears boxed, if +you don’t go away! And you too will have your tail pulled if I catch you +at it again. The wretches! they will be eating my hands soon!’ + +She drove the goat off, dispersed the fowls with her feet, and tapped +the cow’s nose with her fists. But the creatures just shook themselves, +and then came back more greedily than ever, surrounding her, jumping +on her, and tearing open her apron. At this she whispered to Albine, as +though she were afraid the animals might hear her. + +‘Aren’t they amusing, the dears? Watch them eat.’ + +Albine looked on with a grave expression. + +‘Now, now, be good,’ resumed Desirée; ‘you shall all have some, but you +must wait your turns. Now, big Lisa, you first. Eh! how fond you are of +plantain, aren’t you?’ + +Big Lisa was the cow. She slowly munched a handful of the juicy leaves +which had grown beside Abbé Caffin’s tomb. A thread of saliva hung down +from her mouth, and her great brown eyes shone with quiet enjoyment. + +‘There! now it’s your turn,’ continued Desirée, turning towards the +goat. ‘You are fond of poppies, I know; and you like the flowers best, +don’t you? The buds that shine in your teeth like red-hot butterflies! +See, here are some splendid ones; they came from the left-hand corner, +where there was a burial last year.’ + +As she spoke, she gave the goat a bunch of scarlet flowers, which the +animal ate from her hand. When there was nothing left in her grasp +but the stalks, she pushed these between its teeth. Behind her, in the +meanwhile, the fowls were desperately pecking away at her petticoats. +She threw them some wild chicory and dandelions which she had gathered +amongst the old slabs that were ranged alongside the church walls. +It was particularly over the dandelions that the fowls quarrelled, so +voraciously indeed, with such scratchings and flapping of wings, +that the other fowls in the yard heard them. And then came a general +invasion. The big yellow cock, Alexander, was the first to appear; +having seized a dandelion and torn it in halves, without attempting to +eat it, he called to the hens who were still outside to come and peck. +Then a white hen strutted in, then a black one, and then a whole crowd +of hens, who hustled one another, and trod on one another’s tails, and +ended by forming a wild flood of feathers. Behind the fowls came the +pigeons, and the ducks, and the geese, and, last of all, the turkeys. +Desirée laughed at seeing herself thus surrounded by this noisy, +squabbling mob. + +‘This is what always happens,’ said she, ‘every time that I bring any +green stuff from the graveyard. They nearly kill each other to get at +it; they must find it very nice.’ + +Then she made a fight to keep a few handfuls of the leaves from the +greedy beaks which rose all round her, saying that something must really +be saved for the rabbits. She would surely get angry with them if +they went on like that, and give them nothing but dry bread in future. +However, she was obliged to give way. The geese tugged at her apron +so violently that she was almost pulled down upon her knees; the ducks +gobbled away at her ankles; two of the pigeons flew upon her head, and +some of the fowls fluttered about her shoulders. It was the ferocity of +creatures who smell flesh: the fat plantains, the crimson poppies, +the milky dandelions, in which remained some of the life of the dead. +Desirée laughed loudly, and felt that she was on the point of slipping +down, and letting go of her last two handfuls, when the fowls were +panic-stricken by a terrible grunting. + +‘Ah! it’s you, my fatty,’ she exclaimed, quite delighted; ‘eat them up, +and set me at liberty.’ + +The pig waddled in; he was no longer the little pig of former days--pink +as a newly painted toy, with a tiny little tail, like a bit of string; +but a fat wobbling creature, fit to be killed, with a belly as round +as a monk’s, and a back all bristling with rough hairs, that reeked of +fatness. His stomach had grown quite yellow from his habit of sleeping +on the manure heap. Waddling along on his shaky feet, he charged with +lowered snout at the scared fowls, and so left Desirée at liberty to +escape, and take the rabbits the few scraps of green stuff which she had +so strenuously defended. When she came back, all was peace again. The +stupid, ecstatic-looking geese were lazily swaying their long necks +about, the ducks and turkeys were waddling in ungainly fashion alongside +the wall; the fowls were quietly clucking and peaking at invisible +grains on the hard ground of the stable; while the pig, the goat, and +the big cow, were drowsily blinking their eyes, as though they were +falling asleep. Outside it had just begun to rain. + +‘Ah! well, there’s a shower coming on!’ cried Desirée, throwing herself +down on the straw. ‘You had better stay where you are, my dears, if you +don’t want to get soaked.’ + +Then she turned to Albine and added: ‘How stupid they all look, don’t +they? They only wake up just to eat!’ + +Albine still remained silent. The merry laughter of that buxom girl +as she struggled amidst those greedy necks and gluttonous beaks, which +tickled and kissed her, and seemed bent on devouring her very flesh, had +rendered the unhappy daughter of the Paradou yet paler than she had been +before. So much gaiety, so much vitality, so much boisterous health made +her despair. She strained her feverish arms to her desolate bosom, which +desertion had parched. + +‘And Serge?’ she asked again, in the same clear, stubborn voice. + +‘Hush!’ said Desirée. ‘I heard him just now. He hasn’t finished yet---- +We have been making a pretty disturbance; La Teuse must surely have +grown deaf this afternoon---- Let us keep quiet now. I like to hear the +rain fall.’ + +The shower beat in at the open doorway, casting big drops upon the +threshold. The restless fowls, after venturing out for a moment, had +quickly retreated to the far end of the stable; where, indeed, with the +exception of three ducks who remained quietly walking in the rain, all +the pets had now taken refuge, clustering round the girl’s skirts. It +was growing very warm amongst the straw. Desirée pulled two big trusses +together, made a bed of them, and lay down at full length. She felt +extremely comfortable there. + +‘It is so nice,’ she murmured. ‘Come and lie down like me. It is so +springy and soft, all this straw; and it tickles one so funnily in the +neck. Do you roll about in the straw at home? There is nothing I am +fonder of---- Sometimes I tickle the soles of my feet with it. That is +very funny, too----’ + +But at that moment, the big yellow cock, who had been gravely stalking +towards her, jumped upon her breast. + +‘Get away with you, Alexander! get away!’ she cried. ‘What a tiresome +creature he is! The idea of his perching himself on me---- You are too +rough, sir, and you scratch me with your claws. Do you hear me? I don’t +want you to go away, but you must be good, and mustn’t peck at my hair.’ + +Then she troubled herself no further about him. The cock still +maintained his position, every now and then glancing inquisitively at +the girl’s chin with his gleaming eye. The other birds all began to +cluster round her. After rolling amongst the straw, she was now lying +lazily on her back with her arms stretched out. + +‘Ah! how pleasant it is,’ she said; ‘but then it makes me feel so +sleepy. Straw always makes one drowsy, doesn’t it? Serge doesn’t like +it. Perhaps you don’t either. What do you like? Tell me, so that I may +know.’ + +She was gradually dozing off. For a moment she opened her eyes widely, +as though she were looking for something, and then her eyelids fell with +a tranquil smile of content. She seemed to be asleep, but after a few +minutes she opened her eyes again, and said: + +‘The cow is going to have a calf---- That will be so nice, and will +please me more than anything.’ + +Then she sank into deep slumber. The fowls had ended by perching on +her body; she was buried beneath a wave of living plumage. Hens were +brooding over her feet; geese stretched their soft downy necks over her +legs. The pig lay against her left side, while on the right, the goat +poked its bearded head under her arm. The pigeons were roosting and +nestling all over her, on her hands, her waist, and her shoulders. And +there she lay asleep, in all her rosy freshness, caressed by the cow’s +warm breath, while the big cock still squatted just below her bosom with +gleaming comb and quivering wings. + +Outside, the rain was falling less heavily. A sunbeam, escaping from +beneath a cloud, gilded the fine drops of water. Albine, who had +remained perfectly still, watched the slumber of Desirée, that big, +plump girl who found her great delight in rolling about in the straw. +She wished that she, too, could slumber away so peacefully, and feel +such pleasure, because a few straws had tickled her neck. And she felt +jealous of those strong arms, that firm bosom, all that vitality, all +that purely animal development which made the other like a tranquil +easy-minded sister of the big red and white cow. + +However, the rain had now quite ceased. The three cats of the parsonage +filed out into the yard one after the other, keeping close to the wall, +and taking the greatest precautions to avoid wetting their paws. They +peeped into the stable, and then stalked up to the sleeping girl, and +lay down, purring, close by her. Moumou, the big black cat, curled +itself up close to her cheek, and gently licked her chin. + +‘And Serge?’ murmured Albine, quite mechanically. + +What was it that kept them apart? Who was it that prevented them from +being happy together? Why might she not love him, and why might she +not be loved, freely and in the broad sunlight, as the trees lived and +loved? She knew not, but she felt that she had been forsaken, and had +received a mortal wound. Yet she was possessed by a stubborn, determined +longing, a very necessity, indeed, of once more clasping her love in +her arms, of concealing him somewhere, that he might be hers in all +felicity. She rose to her feet. The vestry door had just been opened +again. A clapping of hands sounded, followed by the uproar of a swarm +of children clattering in wooden shoes over the stone flags. The +catechising was over. Then Albine gently glided out of the stable, where +she had been waiting for an hour amidst the reeking warmth that emanated +from Desirée’s pets. + +As she quietly slipped through the passage that led to the vestry, +she caught sight of La Teuse, who was going to her kitchen, and who +fortunately did not turn her head. Certain, now, of not being seen and +stopped, Albine softly pushed the door which was before her, keeping +hold of it in order that it might make no noise as it closed again. + +And she found herself in the church. + + + + +VIII + +At first she could see nobody. Outside, the rain had again begun to fall +in fine close drops. The church looked very grey and gloomy. She passed +behind the high altar, and walked on towards the pulpit. In the middle +of the nave, there were only a number of empty benches, left there in +disorder by the urchins of the catechism class. Amidst all this void +came a low tic-tac from the swaying pendulum. She went down the church +to knock at the confessional-box, which she saw standing at the other +end. But, just as she passed the Chapel of the Dead, she caught sight +of Abbé Mouret prostrated before the great bleeding Christ. He did not +stir; he must have thought that it was only La Teuse putting the seats +in order behind him. + +But Albine laid her hand upon his shoulder. + +‘Serge,’ she said, ‘I have come for you.’ + +The priest raised his head with a start. His face was very pale. He +remained on his knees and crossed himself, while his lips still quivered +with the words of his prayer. + +‘I have been waiting for you,’ she continued. ‘Every morning and every +evening I looked to see if you were not coming. I have counted the days +till I could keep the reckoning no longer. Ah! for weeks and weeks---- +Then, when I grew sure that you were not coming, I set out myself, and +came here. I said to myself: “I will fetch him away with me.” Give me +your hand and let us go.’ + +She stretched out her hands, as though to help him to rise. But he only +crossed himself, afresh. He still continued his prayers as he looked at +her. He had succeeded in calming the first quiver of his flesh. From +the Divine grace which had been streaming around him since the early +morning, like a celestial bath, he derived a superhuman strength. + +‘It is not right for you to be here,’ he said, gravely. ‘Go away. You +are aggravating your sufferings.’ + +‘I suffer no longer,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I am well again; I am +cured, now that I see you once more---- Listen! I made myself out +worse than I really was, to induce them to go and fetch you. I am quite +willing to confess it now. And that promise of going away, of leaving +the neighbourhood, you didn’t suppose I should have kept it, did you? +No, indeed, unless I had carried you away with me on my shoulders. The +others don’t know it, but you must know that I cannot now live anywhere +but at your side.’ + +She grew quite cheerful again, and drew close to the priest with the +caressing ways of a child of nature, never noticing his cold and rigid +demeanour. And she became impatient, clapped her hands, and exclaimed: + +‘Come, Serge; make up your mind and come. We are only losing time. There +is no necessity to think so much about it. It is quite simple; I am +going to take you with me. If you don’t want any one to see you, we will +go along by the Mascle. It is not very easy walking, but I managed it +all by myself; and, when we are together, we can help each other. You +know the way, don’t you? We cross the churchyard, we descend to the +torrent, and then we shall only have to follow its course right up to +the garden. And one is quite at home down there. Nobody can see us, +there is nothing but brambles and big round stones. The bed of the +stream is nearly dry. As I came along, I thought: “By-and-by, when he is +with me, we will walk along gently together and kiss one another.” Come, +Serge, be quick; I am waiting for you.’ + +The priest no longer appeared to hear her. He had betaken himself to +his prayers again, and was asking Heaven to grant him the courage of the +saints. Before entering upon the supreme struggle, he was arming himself +with the flaming sword of faith. For a moment he had feared he was +wavering. He had required all a martyr’s courage and endurance to remain +firmly kneeling there on the flagstones, while Albine was calling +him: his heart had leapt out towards her, all his blood had surged +passionately through his veins, filling him with an intense yearning to +clasp her in his arms and kiss her hair. Her mere breath had awakened +all the memory of their love; the vast garden, their saunters beneath +the trees, and all the joy of their companionship. + +But Divine grace was poured down upon him more abundantly, and the +torturing strife, during which all his blood seemed to quit his veins, +lasted but a moment. Nothing human then remained within him. He had +become wholly God’s. + +Albine, however, again touched him on the shoulder. She was growing +uneasy and angry. + +‘Why do you not speak to me?’ she asked. ‘You can’t refuse; you will +come with me? Remember that I shall die if you refuse. But no! you +can’t; it is impossible. We lived together once; it was vowed that we +should never separate. Twenty times, at least, did you give yourself to +me. You bade me take you wholly, your limbs, your breath, your very life +itself. I did not dream it all. There is nothing of you that you have +not given to me; not a hair in your head which is not mine. Your hands +are mine. For days and days have I held them clasped in mine. Your face, +your lips, your eyes, your brow, all, all are mine, and I have lavished +my love upon them. Do you hear me, Serge?’ + +She stood erect before him, full of proud assertion, with outstretched +arms. And, in a louder voice, she repeated: + +‘Do you hear me, Serge? You belong to me.’ + +Then Abbé Mouret slowly rose to his feet. He leant against the altar, +and replied: + +‘No. You are mistaken. I belong to God.’ + +He was full of serenity. His shorn face seemed like that of some stone +saint, whom no impulse of the flesh can disturb. His cassock fell around +him in straight folds like a black winding-sheet, concealing all the +outlines of his body. Albine dropped back at the sight of that sombre +phantom of her former love. She missed his freely flowing beard, his +freely flowing curls. And in the midst of his shorn locks she saw the +pallid circle of his tonsure, which disquieted her as if it had been +some mysterious evil, some malignant sore which had grown there, and +would eat away all memory of the happy days they had spent together. She +could recognise neither his hands, once so warm with caresses, nor his +lissom neck, once so sonorous with laughter; nor his agile feet, which +had carried her into the recesses of the woodlands. Could this, indeed, +be the strong youth with whom she had lived one whole season--the youth +with soft down gleaming on his bare breast, with skin browned by the +sun’s rays, with every limb full of vibrating life? At this present +hour he seemed fleshless; his hair had fallen away from him, and all his +virility had withered within that womanish gown, which left him sexless. + +‘Oh! you frighten me,’ she murmured. ‘Did you think then that I was +dead, that you put on mourning? Take off that black thing; put on a +blouse. You can tuck up the sleeves, and we will catch crayfishes again. +Your arms used to be as white as mine.’ + +She laid her hand on his cassock, as though to tear it off him; but he +repulsed her with a gesture, without touching her. He looked at her now +and strengthened himself against temptation by never allowing his eyes +to leave her. She seemed to him to have grown taller. She was no longer +the playful damsel adorned with bunches of wild-flowers, and casting to +the winds gay, gipsy laughter, nor was she the amorosa in white skirts, +gracefully bending her slender form as she sauntered lingeringly beside +the hedges. Now, there was a velvety bloom upon her lips; her hips were +gracefully rounded; her bosom was in full bloom. She had become a woman, +with a long oval face that seemed expressive of fruitfulness. Life +slumbered within her. And her cheeks glowed with luscious maturity. + +The priest, bathed in the voluptuous atmosphere that seemed to emanate +from all that feminine ripeness, took a bitter pleasure in defying the +caresses of her coral lips, the tempting smile of her eyes, the witching +charm of her bosom, and all the intoxication which seemed to pour from +her at every movement. He even carried his temerity so far as to search +with his gaze for the spots that he had once so hotly kissed, the +corners of her eyes and lips, her narrow temples, soft as satin, and the +ambery nape of her neck, which was like velvet. And never, even in +her embrace, had he tasted such felicity as he now felt in martyring +himself, by boldly looking in the face the love that he refused. At +last, fearing lest he might there yield to some new allurement of the +flesh, he dropped his eyes, and said, very gently: + +‘I cannot hear you here. Let us go out, if you, indeed, persist in +adding to the pain of both of us. Our presence in this place is a +scandal. We are in God’s house.’ + +‘God!’ cried Albine, excitedly, suddenly becoming a child of nature +once more. ‘God! Who is He? I know nothing of your God! I want to know +nothing of Him if He has stolen you away from me, who have never harmed +Him. My uncle Jeanbernat was right then when he said that your God was +only an invention to frighten people, and make them weep! You are lying; +you love me no longer, and that God of yours does not exist.’ + +‘You are in His house now,’ said Abbé Mouret, sternly. ‘You blaspheme. +With a breath He might turn you into dust.’ + +She laughed with proud disdain, and raised her hands as if to defy +Heaven. + +‘Ah! then,’ said she, ‘you prefer your God to me. You think He is +stronger than I am, and you imagine that He will love you better than +I did. Oh! but you are a child, a foolish child. Come, leave all this +folly. We will return to the garden together, and love each other, and +be happy and free. That, that is life!’ + +This time she succeeded in throwing an arm round his waist, and she +tried to drag him away. But he, quivering all over, freed himself from +her embrace, and again took his stand against the altar. + +‘Go away!’ he faltered. ‘If you still love me, go away.... O Lord, +pardon her, and pardon me too, for thus defiling this Thy house. Should +I go with her beyond the door, I might, perhaps, follow her. Here, in +Thy presence, I am strong. Suffer that I may remain here, to protect +Thee from insult.’ + +Albine remained silent for a moment. Then, in a calm voice, she said: + +‘Well, let us stay here, then. I wish to speak to you. You cannot, +surely, be cruel. You will understand me. You will not let me go away +alone. Oh! do not begin to excuse yourself. I will not lay my hands upon +you again, since it distresses you. I am quite calm now as you can see. +We will talk quietly, as we used to do in the old days when we lost our +way, and did not hurry to find it again, that we might have the more +time to talk together.’ + +She smiled at that memory, and continued: + +‘I don’t know about these things myself. My uncle Jeanbernat used to +forbid me to go to church. “Silly girl,” he’d say to me, “why do you +want to go to a stuffy building when you have got a garden to run about +in?” I grew up quite happy and contented. I used to look in the birds’ +nests without even taking the eggs. I did not even pluck the flowers, +for fear of hurting the plants; and you know that I could never torture +an insect. Why, then, should God be angry with me?’ + +‘You should learn to know Him, pray to Him, and render Him the constant +worship which is His due,’ answered the priest. + +‘Ah! it would please you if I did, would it not?’ she said. ‘You would +forgive me, and love me again? Well, I will do all that you wish me. +Tell me about God, and I will believe in Him, and worship Him. All that +you tell me shall be a truth to which I will listen on my knees. Have I +ever had a thought that was not your own? We will begin our long walks +again; and you shall teach me, and make of me whatever you will. Say +“yes,” I beg of you.’ + +Abbé Mouret pointed to his cassock. + +‘I cannot,’ he simply said. ‘I am a priest.’ + +‘A priest!’ she repeated after him, the smile dying out of her eyes. ‘My +uncle says that priests have neither wife, nor sister, nor mother. So +that is true, then. But why did you ever come? It was you who took me +for your sister, for your wife. Were you then lying?’ + +The priest raised his pale face, moist with the sweat of agony. ‘I have +sinned,’ he murmured. + +‘When I saw you so free,’ the girl went on, ‘I thought that you were +no longer a priest. I believed that all that was over, that you would +always remain there with me, and for my sake.---- And now, what would +you have me do, if you rob me of my whole life?’ + +‘What I do,’ he answered; ‘kneel down, suffer on your knees, and never +rise until God pardons you.’ + +‘Are you a coward, then?’ she exclaimed, her anger roused once more, her +lips curving scornfully. + +He staggered, and kept silence. Agony held him by the throat; but he +proved stronger than pain. He held his head erect, and a smile almost +played about his trembling lips. Albine for a moment defied him with +her fixed glance; then, carried away by a fresh burst of passion, she +exclaimed: + +‘Well, answer me. Accuse me! Say it was I who came to tempt you! That +will be the climax! Speak, and say what you can for yourself. Strike me +if you like. I should prefer your blows to that corpse-like stiffness +you put on. Is there no blood left in your veins? Have you no spirit? +Don’t you hear me calling you a coward? Yes, indeed, you are a coward. +You should never have loved me, since you may not be a man. Is it that +black robe of yours which holds you back? Tear it off! When you are +naked, perhaps you will remember yourself again.’ + +The priest slowly repeated his former words: + +‘I have sinned. I had no excuse for my sin. I do penitence for my sin +without hope of pardon. If I tore off my cassock, I should tear away my +very flesh, for I have given myself wholly to God, soul and body. I am a +priest.’ + +‘And I! what is to become of me?’ cried Albine. + +He looked unflinchingly at her. + +‘May your sufferings be reckoned against me as so many crimes! May I be +eternally punished for the desertion in which I am forced to leave you! +That will be only just. All unworthy though I be, I pray for you each +night.’ + +She shrugged her shoulders with an air of great discouragement. Her +anger was subsiding. She almost felt inclined to pity him. + +‘You are mad,’ she murmured. ‘Keep your prayers. It is you yourself that +I want. But you will never understand me. There were so many things +I wanted to tell you! Yet you stand there and irritate me with your +chatter of another world. Come, let us try to talk sensibly. Let us wait +for a moment till we are calmer. You cannot dismiss me in this way, +I cannot leave you here. It is because you are here that you are so +corpse-like, so cold that I dare not touch you. We won’t talk any more +just now. We will wait a little.’ + +She ceased speaking, and took a few steps, examining the little church. +The rain was still gently pattering against the windows; and the cold +damp light seemed to moisten the walls. Not a sound came from outside +save the monotonous plashing of the rain. The sparrows were doubtless +crouching for shelter under the tiles, and the rowan-tree’s deserted +branches showed but indistinctly in the veiling, drenching downpour. +Five o’clock struck, grated out, stroke by stroke, from the wheezy chest +of the old clock; and then the silence fell again, seeming to grow yet +deeper, dimmer, and more despairing. The priest’s painting work, as yet +scarcely dry, gave to the high altar and the wainscoting an appearance +of gloomy cleanliness, like that of some convent chapel where the sun +never shines. Grievous anguish seemed to fill the nave, splashed with +the blood that flowed from the limbs of the huge Christ; while, along +the walls, the fourteen scenes of the Passion displayed their awful +story in red and yellow daubs, reeking with horror. It was life that was +suffering the last agonies there, amidst that deathlike quiver of the +atmosphere, upon those altars which resembled tombs, in that bare vault +which looked like a sepulchre. The surroundings all spoke of slaughter +and gloom, terror and anguish and nothingness. A faint scent of incense +still lingered there, like the last expiring breath of some dead girl, +who had been hurriedly stifled beneath the flagstones. + +‘Ah,’ said Albine at last, ‘how sweet it used to be in the sunshine! +Don’t you remember? One morning we walked past a hedge of tall rose +bushes, to the left of the flower-garden. I recollect the very colour of +the grass; it was almost blue, shot with green. When we reached the end +of the hedge we turned and walked back again, so sweet was the perfume +of the sunny air. And we did nothing else, that morning; we took just +twenty paces forward and then twenty paces back. It was so sweet a spot +you would not leave it. The bees buzzed all around; and there was a +tomtit that never left us, but skipped along by our side from branch to +branch. You whispered to me, “How delightful is life!” Ah! life! it was +the green grass, the trees, the running waters, the sky, and the sun, +amongst which we seemed all fair and golden.’ + +She mused for another moment and then continued: ‘Life ‘twas the +Paradou. How vast it used to seem to us! Never were we able to find the +end of it. The sea of foliage rolled freely with rustling waves as far +as the eye could reach. And all that glorious blue overhead! we were +free to grow, and soar, and roam, like the clouds without meeting more +obstacles than they. The very air was ours!’ + +She stopped and pointed to the low walls of the church. + +‘But, here, you are in a grave. You cannot stretch out your hand without +hurting it against the stones. The roof hides the sky from you and blots +out the sun. It is all so small and confined that your limbs grow stiff +and cramped as though you were buried alive.’ + +‘No,’ answered the priest. ‘The church is wide as the world.’ + +But she waved her hands towards the crosses, and the dying Christ, and +the pictures of the Passion. + +‘And you live in the very midst of death. The grass, the trees, the +springs, the sun, the sky, all are in the death throes around you.’ + +‘No, no; all revives, all grows purified and reascends to the source of +light.’ + +He had now drawn himself quite erect, with flashing eyes. And feeling +that he was now invincible, so permeated with faith as to disdain +temptation, he quitted the altar, took Albine’s hand, and led her, as +though she had been his sister, to the ghastly pictures of the Stations +of the Cross. + +‘See,’ he said, ‘this is what God suffered! Jesus is cruelly scourged. +Look! His shoulders are naked; His flesh is torn; His blood flows down +His back.... And Jesus is crowned with thorns. Tears of blood trickle +down His gashed brow. On His temple is a jagged wound.... Again Jesus is +insulted by the soldiers. His murderers have scoffingly thrown a purple +robe around His shoulders, and they spit upon His face and strike Him, +and press the thorny crown deep into His flesh.’ + +Albine turned away her head, that she might not see the crudely painted +pictures, in which the ochreous flesh of Christ had been plentifully +bedaubed with carmine wounds. The purple robe round His shoulders seemed +like a shred of His skin torn away. + +‘Why suffer? why die?’ she said. ‘O Serge, if you would only +remember!... You told me, that morning, that you were tired. But I knew +that you were only pretending, for the air was quite cool and we had +only been walking for a quarter of an hour. But you wanted to sit down +that you might hold me in your arms. Right down in the orchard, by +the edge of a stream, there was a cherry tree--you remember it, don’t +you?--which you never could pass without wishing to kiss my hands. And +your kisses ran all up my arms and shoulders to my lips. Cherry time was +over, and so you devoured my lips.... It used to make us feel so sad to +see the flowers fading, and one day, when you found a dead bird in the +grass, you turned quite pale, and caught me to your breast, as if to +forbid the earth to take me.’ + +But the priest drew her towards the other Stations of the Cross. + +‘Hush! hush!’ he cried, ‘look here, and here! Bow down in grief and +pity---- Jesus falls beneath the weight of His cross. The ascent of +Calvary is very tiring. He has dropped down on His knees. But He does +not stay to wipe even the sweat from His brow, He rises up again and +continues His journey.... And again Jesus falls beneath the weight of +His cross. At each step He staggers. This time He has fallen on His +side, so heavily that for a moment He lies there quite breathless. His +lacerated hands have relaxed their hold upon the cross. His bruised and +aching feet leave blood-stained prints behind them. Agonising weariness +overwhelms Him, for He carries upon His shoulders the sins of the whole +world.’ + +Albine gazed at the pictured Jesus, lying in a blue shirt prostrate +beneath the cross, the blackness of which bedimmed the gold of His +aureole. Then, with her glance wandering far away, she said: + +‘Oh! those meadow-paths! Have you no memory left, Serge? Have you +forgotten those soft grassy walks through the meadows, amidst very seas +of greenery? On the afternoon I am telling you of, we had only meant +to stay out of doors an hour; but we went wandering on and were still +wandering when the stars came out above us. Ah! how velvety it was, that +endless carpet, soft as finest silk! It was just like a green sea whose +gentle waters lapped us round. And well we knew whither those beguiling +paths that led nowhere, were taking us! They were taking us to our love, +to the joy of living together, to the certainty of happiness.’ + +With his hands trembling with anguish, Abbé Mouret pointed to the +remaining pictures. + +‘Jesus,’ he stammered, ‘Jesus is nailed to the cross. The nails are +hammered through His outspread hands. A single nail suffices for his +feet, whose bones split asunder. He, Himself, while His flesh quivers +with pain, fixes His eyes upon heaven and smiles.... Jesus is crucified +between two thieves. The weight of His body terribly aggravates His +wounds. From His brow, from His limbs, does a bloody sweat stream down. +The two thieves insult Him, the passers-by mock at Him, the soldiers +cast lots for His raiment. And the shadowy darkness grows deeper and the +sun hides himself.... Jesus dies upon the cross. He utters a piercing +cry and gives up the ghost. Oh! most terrible of deaths! The veil of the +temple is rent in twain from top to bottom. The earth quakes, the stones +are broken, and the very graves open.’ + +The priest had fallen on his knees, his voice choked by sobs, his eyes +fixed upon the three crosses of Calvary, where writhed the gaunt pallid +bodies of the crucified. Albine placed herself in front of the paintings +in order that he might no longer see them. + +‘One evening,’ she said, ‘I lay through the long gloaming with my head +upon your lap. It was in the forest, at the end of that great avenue of +chestnut-trees, through which the setting sun shot a parting ray. Ah! +what a caressing farewell He bade us! He lingered awhile by our feet +with a kindly smile, as if saying “Till to-morrow.” The sky slowly grew +paler. I told you merrily that it was taking off its blue gown, and +donning its gold-flowered robe of black to go out for the evening. +And it was not night that fell, but a soft dimness, a veil of love and +mystery, reminding us of those dusky paths, where the foliage arches +overhead, one of those paths in which one hides for a moment with the +certainty of finding the joyousness of daylight at the other end. + +‘That evening the calm clearness of the twilight gave promise of a +splendid morrow. When I saw that it did not grow dark as quickly as you +wished, I pretended to fall asleep. I may confess it to you now, but +I was not really sleeping while you kissed me on the eyes. I felt your +kisses and tried to keep from laughing. And then, when the darkness +really came, it was like one long caress. The trees slept no more than +I did. At night, don’t you remember, the flowers always breathed a +stronger perfume.’ + +Then, as he still remained on his knees, while tears streamed down his +face, she caught him by the wrists, and pulled him to his feet, resuming +passionately: + +‘Oh! if you knew you would bid me carry you off; you would fasten your +arms about my neck, lest I should go away without you.... Yesterday I +had a longing to see the garden once more. It seems larger, deeper, +more unfathomable than ever. I discovered there new scents, so sweetly +aromatic that they brought tears into my eyes. In the avenues I found a +rain of sunbeams that thrilled me with desire. The roses spoke to me +of you. The bullfinches were amazed at seeing me alone. All the garden +broke out into sighs. Oh! come! Never has the grass spread itself out +more softly. I have marked with a flower the hidden nook whither I +long to take you. It is a nest of greenery in the midst of a tangle of +brushwood. And there one can hear all the teeming life of the garden, of +the trees and the streams and the sky. The earth’s very breathing +will softly lull us to rest there. Oh! come! come! and let us love one +another amidst that universal loving!’ + +But he pushed her from him. He had returned to the Chapel of the +Dead and stood in front of the painted papier-mache Christ, big as a +ten-year-old boy, that writhed in such horridly realistic agony. There +were real iron nails driven into the figure’s limbs, and the wounds +gaped in the torn and bleeding flesh. + +‘O Jesus, Who hast died for us!’ cried the priest, ‘convince her of our +nothingness! Tell her that we are but dust, rottenness, and damnation! +Ah! suffer that I may hide my head in a hair-cloth and rest it against +Thy feet and stay there, motionless, until I rot away in death. The +earth will no longer exist for me. The sun will no longer shine. I +shall see nothing more, feel nothing, hear nothing. Nought of all this +wretched world will come to turn my soul from its adoration of Thee.’ + +He was gradually becoming more and more excited, and he stepped towards +Albine with upraised hands. + +‘You said rightly. It is Death that is present here; Death that is +before my eyes; Death that delivers and saves one from all rottenness. +Hear me! I renounce, I deny life, I wholly refuse it, I spit upon it. +Those flowers of yours stink; your sun dazzles and blinds; your +grass makes lepers of those that lie upon it; your garden is but +a charnel-place where all rots and putrefies. The earth reeks with +abomination. You lie when you talk of love and light and gladsome life +in the depths of your palace of greenery. There is nought but darkness +there. Those trees of yours exhale a poison which transforms men into +beasts; your thickets are charged with the venom of vipers; your streams +carry pestilence in their blue waters. If I could snatch away from that +world of nature, which you extol, its kirtle of sunshine and its girdle +of greenery, you would see it hideous like a very fury, a skeleton, +rotting away with disease and vice. + +‘And even if you spoke the truth, even if your hands were really filled +with pleasures, even if you should carry me to a couch of roses and +offer me the dreams of Paradise, I would defend myself yet the more +desperately from your embraces. There is war between us; war eternal and +implacable. See! the church is very small; it is poverty-stricken; it is +ugly; its confessional-box and pulpit are made of common deal, its font +is merely of plaster, its altars are formed of four boards which I have +painted myself. But what of that? It is yet vaster than your garden, +greater than the valley, greater, even, than the whole earth. It is an +impregnable fortress which nothing can ever break down. The winds, the +sun, the forests, the ocean, all that is, may combine to assault it; yet +it will stand erect and unshaken for ever! + +‘Yes, let all the jungles tower aloft and assail the walls with their +thorny arms, let all the legions of insects swarm out of their holes +in the ground and gnaw at the walls; the church, ruinous though it may +seem, will never fall before the invasion of life. It is Death, Death +the inexpugnable!... And do you know what will one day happen? The +tiny church will grow and spread to such a colossal size, and will cast +around such a mighty shadow, that all that nature, you speak of, will +give up the ghost. Ah! Death, the Death of everything, with the skies +gaping to receive our souls, above the curse-stricken ruins of the +world!’ + +As he shouted those last words, he pushed Albine forcibly towards the +door. She, extremely pale, retreated step by step. When he had finished +in a gasping voice she very gravely answered: + +‘It is all over, then? You drive me away? Yet, I am your wife. It is you +who made me so. And God, since He permitted it, cannot punish us to such +a point as this.’ + +She was now on the threshold, and she added: + +‘Listen! Every day, at sunset, I go to the end of the garden, to the +spot where the wall has fallen in. I shall wait for you there.’ + +And then she disappeared. The vestry door fell back with a sound like a +deep sigh. + + + + +IX + +The church was perfectly silent, except for the murmuring sound of the +rain, which was falling heavily once more. In that sudden change to +quietude the priest’s anger subsided, and he even felt moved. It was +with his face streaming with tears, his frame shaken by sobs, that he +went back to throw himself on his knees before the great crucifix. A +torrent of ardent thanksgiving burst from his lips. + +‘Thanks be to Thee, O God, for the help which Thou hast graciously +bestowed upon me. Without Thy grace I should have hearkened unto the +promptings of my flesh, and should have miserably returned to my sin. It +was Thy grace that girded my loins as with armour for battle; Thy grace +was indeed my armour, my courage, the support of my soul, that kept me +erect, beyond weakness. Oh! my God, Thou wert in me; it was Thy voice +that spoke in me, for I no longer felt the cowardice of the flesh, I +could have cut asunder my very heart-strings. And now, O God, I offer +Thee my bleeding heart. It no longer belongs to any creature of this +world; it is Thine alone. To give it to Thee I have wrenched it from all +worldly affection. But think not, O God, that I take any pride to myself +for this victory. I know that without Thee I am nothing; and I humbly +cast myself at Thy feet.’ + +He sank down upon the altar steps, unable to utter another word, while +his breath panted incense-like from his parted lips. The divine grace +bathed him in ineffable ecstasy. He sought Jesus in the recesses of his +being, in that sanctuary of love which he was ever preparing for His +worthy reception. And Jesus was now present there. The Abbé knew it by +the sweet influences which permeated him. And thereupon he joined with +Jesus in that spiritual converse which at times bore him away from earth +to companionship with God. He sighed out the verse from the ‘Song of +Solomon,’ ‘My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth his flock +among the lilies, until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away.’ He +pondered over the words of the ‘Imitation:’ ‘It is a great art to know +how to talk with Jesus, and it requires much prudence to keep Him near +one.’ And then, with adorable condescension, Jesus came down to him, +and spoke with him for hours of his needs, his happiness, and his hopes. +Their confidences were not less affectionate and touching than those +of two friends, who meet after long separation and quietly retire to +converse on the bank of some lonely stream; for during those hours of +divine condescension Jesus deigned to be his friend, his best, most +faithful friend, one who never forsook him, and who in return for a +little love gave him all the treasures of eternal life. That day the +priest was eager to prolong the sweet converse, and indeed, when six +o’clock sounded through the quiet church, he was still listening to the +words which echoed through his soul. + +On his side there was unreserved confession, unimpeded by the restraints +of language, natural effusion of the heart which spoke even more quickly +than the mind. Abbé Mouret told everything to Jesus, as to a God who +had come down in all the intimacy of the most loving tenderness, and who +would listen to everything. He confessed that he still loved Albine; and +he was surprised that he had been able to speak sternly to her and drive +her away, without his whole being breaking out into revolt. He marvelled +at it, and smiled as though it were some wonderful miracle performed by +another. And Jesus told him that he must not be astonished, and that the +greatest saints were often but unconscious instruments in the hands of +God. Then the Abbé gave expression to a doubt. Had he not lost merit in +seeking refuge in the Cross and even in the Passion of his Saviour? Had +he not shown that he possessed as yet but little courage, since he had +not dared to fight unaided? But Jesus evinced kindly tolerance, and +answered that man’s weakness was God’s continual care, and that He +especially loved those suffering souls, to whose assistance He went, +like a friend to the bedside of a sick companion. + +But was it a sin to love Albine, a sin for which he, Serge, would +be damned? No; if his love was clean of all fleshly taint, and added +another hope to his desire for eternal life. But, then, how was he to +love her? In silence; without speaking a word to her, without taking a +step towards her; simply allowing his pure affection to breathe forth, +like a sweet perfume, pleasing unto heaven. And Jesus smiled with +increasing kindliness, drawing nearer as if to encourage confession, in +such wise that the priest grew bolder and began to recapitulate Albine’s +charms. She had hair that was fair and golden as an angel’s; she was +very white, with big soft eyes, like those of the aureoled saints. Jesus +seemed to listen to this in silence, though a smile still played upon +His face. And the priest continued: She had grown much taller. She was +now like a queen, with rounded form and splendid shoulders. Oh! to clasp +her waist, were it only for a second, and to feel her shoulders drawn +close by his embrace! But the smile on the divine countenance then +paled and died away, as a star sinks and falls beneath the horizon. +Abbé Mouret now spoke all alone. Ah! had he not shown himself too +hard-hearted? Why had he driven her away without one single word of +affection, since Heaven allowed him to love her? + +‘I do love her! I do love her!’ he cried aloud, in a distracted voice, +that rang through the church. + +He thought he saw her still standing there. She was stretching out her +arms to him; she was beautiful enough to make him break all his vows. He +threw himself upon her bosom without thought of the reverence due to +his surroundings, he clasped her and rained kisses upon her face. It was +before her that he now knelt, imploring her mercy, and beseeching her to +forgive him his unkindness. He told her that, at times a voice which was +not his own spoke through his lips. Could he himself ever have treated +her harshly? It was the strange voice that had repulsed her. It could +not, surely, be he himself, for he would have been unable to touch a +hair of her head without loving emotion. And yet he had driven her away. +The church was really empty! Whither should he hasten to find her again, +to bring her back, and wipe her tears away with kisses? The rain was +streaming down more violently than ever. The roads must be rivers +of mud. He pictured her to himself lashed by the downpour, tottering +alongside the ditches, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin. No! +no! it could not have been himself; it was that other voice, the jealous +voice that had so cruelly sought to slay his love. + +‘O Jesus!’ he cried in desperation, ‘be merciful and give her back to +me!’ + +But his Lord was no longer there. Then Abbé Mouret, awaking with a +start, turned horribly pale. He understood it all. He had not known +how to keep Jesus with him. He had lost his friend, and had been left +defenceless against the powers of evil. Instead of that inward light, +which had shone so brightly within him as he received his God, he now +found utter darkness, a foul vapour that irritated his senses. Jesus had +withdrawn His grace on leaving him; and he, who since early morning +had been so strong with heaven-sent help, now felt utterly miserable, +forsaken, weak and helpless as an infant. How frightful was his fall! +How galling its bitterness! To have straggled so heroically, to have +remained unshaken, invincible, implacable, while the temptress actually +stood before him, with all her warm life, her swelling bosom and +superb shoulders, her perfume of love and passion; and then to fall +so shamefully, to throb with desire, when she had disappeared, leaving +behind her but the echo of her skirts, and the fragrance diffused from +her white neck! Now, these mere recollections sufficed to make her all +powerful, her influence permeated the church. + +‘Jesus! Jesus!’ cried the priest, once more, ‘return, come back to me; +speak to me once again!’ + +But Jesus remained deaf to his cry. For a moment Abbé Mouret raised his +arms to heaven in desperate entreaty. His shoulders cracked and strained +beneath the wild violence of his supplications. But soon his hands fell +down again in discouragement. Heaven preserved that hopeless silence +which suppliants at times encounter. Then he once more sat down on the +altar steps, heart-crushed and with ashen face, pressing his elbows to +his sides, as though he were trying to reduce his flesh to the smallest +proportions possible. + +‘My God! Thou deserted me!’ he murmured. ‘Nevertheless, Thy will be +done!’ + +He spoke not another word, but sat there, panting breathlessly, like a +hunted beast that cowers motionless in fear of the hounds. Ever since +his sin, he had thus seemed to be the sport of the divine grace. It +denied itself to his most ardent prayers; it poured down upon him, +unexpectedly and refreshingly, when he had lost all hope of winning it +for long years to come. + +At first he had been inclined to rebel against this dispensation of +Heaven, complaining like a betrayed lover, and demanding the immediate +return of that consoling grace, whose kiss made him so strong. But +afterwards, after unavailing outbursts of anger, he had learned to +understand that humility profited him most and could alone enable him to +endure the withdrawal of the divine assistance. Then, for hours and for +days, he would humble himself and wait for comfort which came not. In +vain he cast himself unreservedly into the hands of God, annihilated +himself before the Divinity, wearied himself with the incessant +repetition of prayers. He could not perceive God’s presence with him; +and his flesh, breaking free from all restraint, rose up in rebellious +desire. It was a slow agony of temptation, in which the weapons of faith +fell, one by one, from his faltering hands, in which he lay inert in +the clutch of passion, in which he beheld with horror his own ignominy, +without having the courage to raise his little finger to free himself +from the thraldom of sin. + +Such was now his life. He had felt sin’s attacks in every form. Not +a day passed that he was not tried. Sin assumed a thousand guises, +assailed him through his eyes and ears, flew boldly at his throat, +leaped treacherously upon his shoulders, or stole torturingly into +his bones. His transgression was ever present, he almost always beheld +Albine dazzling as the sunshine, lighting up the greenery of the +Paradou. He only ceased to see her in those rare moments when the divine +grace deigned to close his eyes with its cool caresses. And he strove to +hide his sufferings as one hides those of some disgraceful disease. He +wrapped himself in the endless silence, which no one knew how to make +him break, filling the parsonage with his martyrdom and resignation, and +exasperating La Teuse, who, at times, when his back was turned, would +shake her fist at heaven. + +This time he was alone now, and need take no care to hide his torment. +Sin had just struck him such an overwhelming blow, that he had not +strength left to move from the altar steps, where he had fallen. He +remained there, sighing, and groaning, parched with agony, incapable of +a single tear. And he thought of the calm unruffled life that had once +been his. Ah! the perfect peace, the full confidence of his first days +at Les Artaud! The path of salvation had seemed so straight and easy +then! He had smiled at the very mention of temptation. He had lived in +the midst of wickedness, without knowledge of it, without fear of it, +certain of being able to withstand it. He had been a model priest, so +pure and chaste, so inexperienced and innocent in God’s sight, that God +had led him by the hand like a little child. + +But now, all that childlike innocence was dead, God visited him in the +morning, and forthwith tried him. A state of temptation became his life +on earth. Now that full manhood and sin had come upon him, he entered +into the everlasting struggle. Could it be that God really loved him +more now than before? The great saints have all left fragments of their +torn flesh upon the thorns of the way of sorrow. He tried to gather some +consolation from this circumstance. At each laceration of his flesh, +each racking of his bones, he tried to assure himself of some exceeding +great reward. And then, no infliction that Heaven might now cast upon +him could be too heavy. He even looked back with scorn on his former +serenity, his easy fervour, which had set him on his knees with mere +girlish enthusiasm, and left him unconscious even of the bruising of the +hard stones. He strove also to discover pleasure in pain, in plunging +into it, annihilating himself in it. But, even while he poured out +thanks to God, his teeth chattered with growing terror, and the voice of +his rebellious blood cried out to him that this was all falsehood, and +that the only happiness worth desiring was in Albine’s arms, amongst the +flowers of the Paradou. + +Yet he had put aside Mary for Jesus, sacrificing his heart that he might +subdue his flesh, and hoping to implant some virility in his faith. +Mary disquieted him too much, with her smoothly braided hair, her +outstretched hands, and her womanly smile. He could never kneel before +her without dropping his eyes, for fear of catching sight of the hem of +her dress. Then, too, he accused her of having treated him too tenderly +in former times. She had kept him sheltered so long within the folds of +her robe, that he had let himself slip from her arms to those of a human +creature without being conscious even of the change of his affection. +He thought of all the roughness of Brother Archangias, of his refusal +to worship Mary, of the distrustful glances with which he had seemed +to watch her. He himself despaired of ever rising to such a height of +roughness, and so he simply left her, hiding her images and deserting +her altar. Yet she remained in his heart, like some love which, though +unavowed, is ever present. Sin, with sacrilege whose very horror made +him shudder, made use of her to tempt him. + +Whenever he still invoked her, as he did at times of irrepressible +emotion, it was Albine who showed herself beneath the white veil, with +the blue scarf knotted round her waist and the golden roses blooming on +her bare feet. All the representations of the Virgin, the Virgin with +the royal mantle of cloth-of-gold, the Virgin crowned with stars, the +Virgin visited by the Angel of the Annunciation, the peaceful Virgin +poised between a lily and a distaff, all brought him some memory of +Albine, her smiling eyes or her delicately curved mouth or her softly +rounded cheeks. + +Thereupon, by a supreme effort, he drove the female element from his +worship, and sought refuge in Jesus, though even His gentle mildness +sometimes proved a source of disquietude to him. What he needed was a +jealous God, an implacable God, the Jehovah of the Old Testament, girded +with thunder and manifesting Himself only to chastise the terrified +world. He had done with the saints and the angels and the Divine Mother; +he bowed down before God Himself alone, the omnipotent Master, who +demanded from him his every breath. And he felt the hand of this God +laid heavily upon him, holding him helpless at His mercy through space +and time, like a guilty atom. Ah! to be nothing, to be damned, to dream +of hell, to wrestle vainly against hideous temptations, all that was +surely good. + +From Jesus he took but the cross. He was seized with that passion for +the cross which has made so many lips press themselves again and again +to the crucifix till they were worn away with kissing. He took up the +cross and followed Jesus. He sought to make it heavier, the mightiest of +burdens; it was great joy to him to fall beneath its weight, to drag it +on his knees, his back half broken. In it he beheld the only source +of strength for the soul, of joy for the mind, of the consummation of +virtue and the perfection of holiness. In it lay all that was good; all +ended in death upon it. To suffer and to die, those words ever sounded +in his ears, as the end and goal of mortal wisdom. And, when he had +fastened himself to the cross, he enjoyed the boundless consolation of +God’s love. It was no longer, now, upon Mary that he lavished filial +tenderness or lover’s passion. He loved for love’s mere sake, with an +absolute abstract love. He loved God with a love that lifted him out of +himself, out of all else, and wrapped him round with a dazzling radiance +of glory. He was like a torch that burns away with blazing light. And +death seemed to him to be only a great impulse of love. + +But what had he omitted to do that he was thus so sorely tried? With +his hand he wiped away the perspiration that streamed down his brow, +and reflected that, that very morning, he had made his usual +self-examination without finding any great guilt within him. Was he not +leading a life of great austerity and mortification of the flesh? Did he +not love God solely and blindly? Ah! how he would have blessed His Holy +Name had He only restored him his peace, deeming him now sufficiently +punished for his transgression! But, perhaps, that sin of his could +never be expiated. And then, in spite of himself, his mind reverted to +Albine and the Paradou, and all their memories. + +At first he tried to make excuses for himself. He had fallen, one +evening, senseless upon the tiled floor of his bedroom, stricken with +brain fever. For three weeks he had remained unconscious. His blood +surged furiously through his veins and raged within him like a torrent +that had burst its banks. His whole body, from the crown of his head to +the soles of his feet, was so scoured and renewed and wrought afresh +by the mighty labouring of his ailment, that in his delirium he had +sometimes thought he could hear the very hammer blows of workmen that +nailed his bones together again. Then, one morning, he had awakened, +feeling like a new being. He was born a second time, freed of all that +his five-and-twenty years of life had successively implanted in him. His +childish piety, his education at the seminary, the faith of his early +priesthood, had all vanished, had been carried off, and their place was +bare and empty. In truth, it could be hell alone that had thus prepared +him for the reception of evil, disarming him of all his former weapons, +and reducing his body to languor and softness, through which sin might +readily enter. + +He, perfectly unconscious of it all, unknowingly surrendered himself +to the gradual approach of evil. When he had reopened his eyes in the +Paradou, he had felt himself an infant once more, with no memory of the +past, no knowledge of his priesthood. He experienced a gentle pleasure, +a glad feeling of surprise at thus beginning life afresh, as though it +were all new and strange to him and would be delightful to learn. Oh! +the sweet apprenticeship, the charming observations, the delicious +discoveries! That Paradou was a vast abode of felicity; and hell, in +placing him there, had known full well that he would be defenceless. +Never, in his first youth, had he known such enjoyment in growing. That +first youth of his, when he now thought of it, seemed quite black and +gloomy, graceless, wan and inactive, as if it had been spent far away +from the sunlight. + +But at the Paradou, how joyfully had he hailed the sun! How admiringly +had he gazed at the first tree, at the first flower, at the tiniest +insect he had seen, at the most insignificant pebble he had picked up! +The very stones charmed him. The horizon was a source of never-ending +amazement. One clear morning, the memory of which still filled his eyes, +bringing back a perfume of jasmine, a lark’s clear song, he had been so +affected by emotion that he felt all power desert his limbs. He had long +found pleasure in learning the sensations of life. And, ah! the morning +when Albine had been born beside him amidst the roses! As he thought of +it, an ecstatic smile broke out upon his face. She rose up like a +star that was necessary to the very sun’s existence. She illumined +everything, she made everything clear. She made his life complete. + +Then in fancy he once again walked with her through the Paradou. He +remembered the little curls that waved behind her neck as she ran on +before him. She exhaled delicious scent, and the touch of her warm +swaying skirts seemed like a caress. And when she clasped him with her +supple curving arms, he half expected to see her, so slight and slender +she was, twine herself around him. It was she who went foremost. She led +him through winding paths, where they loitered, that their walk might +last the longer. It was she who instilled into him love for nature; and +it was by watching the loves of the plants that he had learned to love +her, with a love that was long, indeed, in bursting into life, but whose +sweetness had been theirs at last. Beneath the shade of the giant tree +they had reached their journey’s goal. Oh! to clasp her once again--yet +once again! + +A low groan suddenly came from the priest. He hastily sprang up and then +flung himself down again. Temptation had just assailed him afresh. Into +what paths were his recollections leading him? Did he not know, only +too well, that Satan avails himself of every wile to insinuate +his serpent-head into the soul, even when it is absorbed in +self-examination? No! no! he had no excuse. His illness had in no wise +authorised him to sin. He should have set strict guard upon himself, +and have sought God anew upon recovering from his fever. And what a +frightful proof he now had of his vileness: he was not even able to +make calm confession of his sin. Would he never be able to silence his +nature? He wildly thought of scooping his brains out of his skull that +he might be able to think no more, and of opening his veins that his +blood might no longer torment him. For a moment he buried his face +within his hands, shuddering as though the beasts that he felt prowling +around him might infect him with the hot breath of temptation. + +But his thoughts strayed on in spite of himself, and his blood throbbed +wildly in his very heart. Though he held his clenched fists to his eyes, +he still saw Albine, dazzling like a sun. Every effort that he made to +press the vision from his sight only made her shine out before him with +increased brilliancy. Was God, then, utterly forsaking him, that he +could find no refuge from temptation? And, in spite of all his efforts +to control his thoughts, he espied every tiny blade of grass that thrust +itself up by Albine’s skirts; he saw a little thistle-flower fastened in +her hair, against which he remembered that he had pricked his lips. +Even the perfumed atmosphere of the Paradou floated round him, and +well-remembered sounds came back, the repeated call of a bird, then an +interval of hushed silence, then a sigh floating through the trees. + +Why did not Heaven at once strike him dead with its lightning? That +would have been less cruel. It was with a voluptuous pang, like the +pangs which assail the damned, that he recalled his transgression. He +shuddered when he again heard in his heart the abominable words that he +had spoken at Albine’s feet. Their echoes were now accusing him before +the throne of God. He had acknowledged Woman as his sovereign. He had +yielded to her as a slave, kissing her feet, longing to be the water she +drank and the bread she ate. He began to understand now why he could +no longer recover self-control. God had given him over to Woman. But he +would chastise her, scourge her, break her very limbs to force her to +let him go! It was she who was the slave; she, the creature of impurity, +to whom the Church should have denied a soul. Then he braced himself, +and shook his fists at the vision of Albine; but his fists opened and +his hands glided along her shoulders in a loving caress, while his lips, +just now breathing out anger and insult, pressed themselves to her hair, +stammering forth words of adoration. + +Abbé Mouret opened his eyes again. The burning apparition of Albine +vanished. It was sudden and unexpected solace. He was able to weep. +Tears flowed slowly and refreshingly down his cheeks, and he drew a long +breath, still fearing to move, lest the Evil One should again grip +him by the neck, for he yet thought that he heard the snarl of a beast +behind him. And then he found such pleasure in the cessation of his +sufferings that his one thought was to prolong the enjoyment of it. + +Outside the rain had ceased falling. The sun was setting in a vast +crimson glow, which spread across the windows like curtains of +rose-coloured satin. The church was quite warm and bright in the parting +breath of the sinking luminary. The priest thanked God for the respite +He had been pleased to vouchsafe to him. A broad ray of light, like a +beam of gold-dust, streamed through the nave and illumined the far end +of the building, the clock, the pulpit, and the high altar. Perhaps the +Divine grace was returning to him from heaven along that radiant path. +He watched with interest the atoms that came and went with prodigious +speed through the ray, like a swarm of busy messengers ever hastening +with news from the sun to the earth. A thousand lighted candles +would not have filled the church with such splendour. Curtains of +cloth-of-gold seemed to hang behind the high altar; treasures of the +goldsmith’s art covered all the ledges; candle-holders arose in dazzling +sheaves; censers glowed full of burning gems; sacred vases gleamed +like fiery comets; and around all there seemed to be a rain of luminous +flowers amidst waving lacework--beds, bouquets, and garlands of roses, +from whose expanding petals dropped showers of stars. + +Never had Abbé Mouret desired such magnificence for his poor church. He +smiled, and dreamt of how he might retain all that splendour there, and +then arrange it most effectively. He would have preferred to see the +curtains of cloth-of-gold hung rather higher; the vases, too, needed +more careful arrangement; and he thought that the bouquets of flowers +might be tied up more neatly, and the garlands be more regularly shaped. +Yet how wondrously magnificent it all was! He was the pontiff of a +church of gold. Bishops, princes, princesses, arrayed in royal mantles, +multitudes of believers, bending to the ground, were coming to visit it, +encamping in the valley, waiting for weeks at the door until they should +be able to enter. They kissed his feet, for even his feet had turned +to gold, and worked miracles. The bath of gold mounted to his knees. +A golden heart was beating within his golden breast, with so clear a +musical pulsation that the waiting crowds could hear it from outside. +Then a feeling of overweening pride seized upon him. He was an idol. +The golden beam mounted still higher, the high altar was all ablaze +with glory, and the priest grew certain that the Divine grace must be +returning to him, such was his inward satisfaction. The fierce snarl +behind him had now grown gentle and coaxing, and he only felt on his +shoulder a soft velvety pressure, as though some giant cat were lightly +caressing him. + +He still pursued his reverie. Never before had he seen things under such +a favourable light. Everything seemed quite easy to him now that he once +more felt full of strength. Since Albine was waiting for him, he would +go and join her. It was only natural. On the previous morning he had +married Fortune and Rosalie. The Church did not forbid marriages. He saw +that young couple again as they knelt before him, smiling and nudging +each other while his hands were held over them in benediction. Then, in +the evening, they had shown him their room. Each word that he had spoken +to them echoed loudly in his ear. He had told Fortune that God had sent +him a companion, because He did not wish man to live alone; and he had +told Rosalie that she must cleave to her husband, never leaving him, +but always acting as his obedient helpmate. But he had said these things +also for Albine and himself. Was she not his companion, his obedient +helpmate, whom God had sent to him that his manhood might not wither up +in solitude? Besides, they had been joined the one to the other. He felt +surprised that he had not understood and recognised it at once; that he +had not gone away with her, as his duty plainly required that he should +have done. But he had quite made up his mind now; he would certainly +join her in the morning. He could be with her in half an hour. He would +go through the village, and take the road up the hill; it was much the +shortest way. He could do what he pleased; he was the master, and no one +would presume to say anything to him. If any one looked at him, a wave +of his hand would force them to bend their heads. He would live with +Albine. He would call her his wife. They would be very happy together. + +The golden stream mounted still higher, and played amongst his fingers. +Again did he seem to be immersed in a bath of gold. He would take +the altar-vases away to ornament his house, he would keep up a fine +establishment, he would pay his servants with fragments of chalices +which he could easily break with his fingers. He would hang his +bridal-bed with the cloth-of-gold that draped the altar; and he would +give his wife for jewels the golden hearts and chaplets and crosses that +hung from the necks of the Virgin and the saints. The church itself, if +another storey were added to it, would supply them with a palace. God +would have no objection to make since He had allowed them to love each +other. And, besides, was it not he who was now God, with the people +kissing his golden miracle-working feet? + +Abbé Mouret rose. He made that sweeping gesture of Jeanbernat’s, that +wide gesture of negation, that took in everything as far as the horizon. + +‘There is nothing, nothing, nothing!’ he said. ‘God does not exist.’ + +A mighty shudder seemed to sweep through the church. The terrified +priest turned deadly pale and listened. Who had spoken? Who was it that +had blasphemed? Suddenly the velvety caress, whose gentle pressure +he had felt upon his shoulder, turned fierce and savage: sharp talons +seemed to be rending his flesh, and once more he felt his blood +streaming forth. Yet he remained on his feet, struggling against the +sudden attack. He cursed and reviled the triumphant sin that sniggered +and grinned round his temples, whilst all the hammers of the Evil One +battered at them. Why had he not been on his guard against Satan’s +wiles? Did he not know full well that it was his habit to glide up +softly with gentle paws that he might drive them like blades into the +very vitals of his victim? + +His anger increased as he thought how he had been entrapped, like a mere +child. Was he destined, then, to be ever hurled to the ground, with sin +crouching victoriously on his breast? This time he had actually denied +his God. It was all one fatal descent. His transgression had destroyed +his faith, and then dogma had tottered. One single doubt of the +flesh, pleading abomination, sufficed to sweep heaven away. The divine +ordinances irritated one; the divine mysteries made one smile. Then came +other temptations and allurements; gold, power, unrestrained liberty, +an irresistible longing for enjoyment, culminating in luxuriousness, +sprawling on a bed of wealth and pride. And then God was robbed. His +vessels were broken to adorn woman’s impurity. Ah! well, then, he was +damned. Nothing could make any difference to him now. Sin might speak +aloud. It was useless to struggle further. The monsters who had hovered +about his neck were battening on his vitals now. He yielded to them with +hideous satisfaction. He shook his fists at the church. No; he believed +no longer in the divinity of Christ; he believed no longer in the Holy +Trinity; he believed in naught but himself, and his muscles and the +appetites of his body. He wanted to live. He felt the necessity of being +a man. Oh! to speed along through the open air, to be lusty and strong, +to owe obedience to no jealous master, to fell one’s enemies with +stones, to carry off the fair maidens that passed upon one’s shoulders. +He would break out from that living tomb where cruel hands had thrust +him. He would awaken his manhood, which had only been slumbering. And +might he die of shame if he should find that it were really dead! And +might the Divinity be accursed if, by the touch of His finger, He had +made him different from the rest of mankind. + +The priest stood erect, his mind all dazed and scared. He fancied that, +at this fresh outburst of blasphemy, the church was falling down upon +him. The sunlight, which had poured over the high altar, had gradually +spread and mounted the walls like ruddy fire. Flames soared and licked +the rafters, then died away in a sanguineous, ember-like glow. And all +at once the church became quite black. It was as though the fires of the +setting sun had burst the roof asunder, pierced the walls, thrown open +wide breaches on every side to some exterior foe. The gloomy framework +seemed to shake beneath some violent assault. Night was coming on +quickly. + +Then, in the far distance, the priest heard a gentle murmur rising from +the valley of Les Artaud. The time had been when he had not understood +the impassioned language of those burning lands, where writhed but +knotted vine-stocks, withered almond-trees, and decrepit olives +sprawling with crippled limbs. Protected by his ignorance, he had passed +undisturbed through all that world of passion. But, to-day, his ear +detected the slightest sigh of the leaves that lay panting in the heat. +Afar off, on the edge of the horizon, the hills, still hot with the +sinking luminary’s farewell, seemed to set themselves in motion with the +tramp of an army on the march. Nearer at hand, the scattered rocks, +the stones along the road, all the pebbles in the valley, throbbed and +rolled as if possessed by a craving for motion. Then the tracts of ruddy +soil, the few fields that had been reduced to cultivation, seemed to +heave and growl like rivers that had burst their banks, bearing along in +a blood-like flood the engenderings of seeds, the births of roots, the +embraces of plants. Soon everything was in motion. The vine-branches +appeared to crawl along like huge insects; the parched corn and the dry +grass formed into dense, lance-waving battalions; the trees stretched +out their boughs like wrestlers making ready for a contest; the fallen +leaves skipped forward; the very dust on the road rolled on. It was a +moving multitude reinforced by fresh recruits at every step; a legion, +the sound of whose coming went on in front of it; an outburst of +passionate life, sweeping everything along in a mighty whirlwind of +fruitfulness. And all at once the assault began. From the limits of +the horizon, the whole countryside, the hills and stones and fields and +trees, rushed upon the church. At the first shock, the building quivered +and cracked. The walls were pierced and the tiles on the roof were +thrown down. But the great Christ, although shaken, did not fall. + +A short respite followed. Outside, the voices sounded more angrily, and +the priest could now distinguish human ones amongst them. The Artauds, +those bastards who sprang up out of the rocky soil with the persistence +of brambles, were now in their turn blowing a blast that reeked of +teeming life. They had planted everywhere forests of humanity that +swallowed up all around them. They came up to the church, they shattered +the door with a push, and threatened to block up the very nave with the +invading scions of their race. Behind them came the beasts; the oxen +that tried to batter down the walls with their horns, the flocks of +asses, goats, and sheep, that dashed against the ruined church like +living waves, while swarms of wood-lice and crickets attacked the +foundations and reduced them to dust with their sawlike teeth. Yet +again, on the other side, there was Desirée’s poultry-yard, where the +dunghill reeked with suffocating fumes. Here the big cock, Alexander, +sounded the assault, and the hens loosened the stones with their beaks, +and the rabbits burrowed under the very altars; whilst the pig, too +fat to stir, grunted and waited till all the sacred ornaments should be +reduced to warm ashes in which he might wallow at his ease. + +A great roar ascended, and a second assault was delivered. The +villagers, the animals, all that overflowing sea of life assailed the +church with such impetuosity that the rafters bent and curved. This +time a part of the walls tottered and fell down, the ceiling shook, +the woodwork of the windows was carried away, and the grey mist of the +evening streamed in through the frightful gaping breaches. The great +Christ now only clung to His cross by the nail that pierced His left +hand. + +A mighty shout hailed the downfall of the block of wall. Yet the church +still stood there firmly, in spite of the injuries it had received. It +offered a stern, silent, unflinching resistance, clutching desperately +to the tiniest stones of its foundations. It seemed as though, to keep +itself from falling, it required only the support of its slenderest +pillar, which, by some miracle of equilibration, held up the gaping +roof. Then Abbé Mouret beheld the rude plants of the plateau, the +dreadful-looking growths that had become hard as iron amidst the +arid rocks, that were knotted like snakes and bossy with muscles, set +themselves to work. The rust-hued lichens gnawed away at the rough +plasterwork like fiery leprosy. Then the thyme-plants thrust their roots +between the bricks like so many iron wedges. The lavenders insinuated +hooked fingers into the loosened stonework, and by slow persistent +efforts tore the blocks asunder. The junipers, the rosemaries, the +prickly holly bushes, climbed higher and battered the walls with +irresistible blows; and even the grass, the grass whose dry blades +slipped beneath the great door, stiffened itself into steel-like spears +and made its way down the nave, where it forced up the flagstones with +powerful levers. It was a victorious revolt, it was revolutionary nature +constructing barricades out of the overturned altars, and wrecking the +church which had for centuries cast too deep a shadow over it. The +other combatants had fallen back, and let the plants, the thyme and the +lavender and the lichens, complete the overthrow of the building with +their ceaseless little blows, their constant gnawing, which proved more +destructive than the heavier onslaught of the stronger assailants. + +Then, suddenly, the end came. The rowan-tree, whose topmost branches had +already forced their way through the broken windows under the vaulted +roof, rushed in violently with its formidable stream of greenery. It +planted itself in the centre of the nave and grew there monstrously. +Its trunk expanded till its girth became so colossal that it seemed as +though it would burst the church asunder like a girdle spanning it too +closely. Its branches shot out in knotted arms, each one of which broke +down a piece of the wall or thrust off a strip of the roof, and they +went on multiplying without cessation, each branch ramifying, till a +fresh tree sprang out of each single knot, with such impetuosity of +growth that the ruins of the church, pierced through and through like a +sieve, flew into fragments, scattering a fine dust to the four quarters +of the heavens. + +Now the giant tree seemed to reach the stars; its forest of branches was +a forest of legs, arms, and breasts full of sap; the long locks of women +streamed down from it; men’s heads burst out from the bark; and up aloft +pairs of lovers, lying languid by the edges of their nests, filled the +air with the music of their delights. + +A final blast of the storm which had broken over the church swept away +the dust of its remains: the pulpit and the confessional-box, which +had been ground into powder, the lacerated holy pictures, the shattered +sacred vessels, all the litter at which the legion of sparrows that had +once dwelt amongst the tiles was eagerly pecking. The great Christ, +torn from the cross, hung for a moment from one of the streaming women’s +curls, and then was whirled away into the black darkness, in the depths +of which it sank with a loud crash. The Tree of Life had pierced the +heavens; it overtopped the stars. + +Abbé Mouret was filled with the mad joy of an accursed spirit at the +sight before him. The church was vanquished; God no longer had a house. +And thenceforward God could no longer trouble him. He was free to rejoin +Albine, since it was she who triumphed. He laughed at himself for having +declared, an hour previously, that the church would swallow up the +whole earth with its shadow. The earth, indeed, had avenged itself +by consuming the church. The mad laughter into which he broke had +the effect of suddenly awakening him from his hallucination. He +gazed stupidly round the nave, which the evening shadows were slowly +darkening. Through the windows he could see patches of star-spangled +sky; and he was about to stretch out his arms to feel the walls, when he +heard Desirée calling to him from the vestry-passage: + +‘Serge! Serge! Are you there? Why don’t you answer? I have been looking +for you for this last half-hour.’ + +She came in; she was holding a lighted lamp; and the priest then saw +that the church was still standing. He could no longer understand +anything, but remained in a horrible state of doubt betwixt the +unconquerable church, springing up again from its ashes, and Albine, the +all-powerful, who could shake the very throne of God by a single breath. + + + + +X + +Desirée came up to him, full of merry chatter. + +‘Are you there? Are you there?’ she cried. ‘Why are you playing at +hide-and-seek? I called out to you at the top of my voice at least a +dozen times. I thought you must have gone out.’ + +She pried into all the gloomy corners with an inquisitive glance, and +even stepped up to the confessional-box, as though she had expected +to surprise some one hiding there. Then she came back to Serge, +disappointed, and continued: + +‘So you are quite alone? Have you been asleep? What amusement do you +find in shutting yourself up all alone in the dark? Come along; it is +time we went to dinner.’ + +The Abbé drew his feverish hands across his brow to wipe away the traces +of the thoughts which he feared were plain for all the world to read. He +fumbled mechanically at the buttons of his cassock, which seemed to him +all disarranged. Then he followed his sister with stern-set face and +never a sign of emotion, stiffened by that priestly energy which throws +the dignity of sacerdotalism like a veil over the agonies of the flesh. +Desirée did not even suspect that there was anything the matter with +him. She simply said as they entered the dining-room: + +‘I have had such a good sleep; but you have been talking too much, and +have made yourself quite pale.’ + +In the evening, after dinner, Brother Archangias came in to have his +game of cards with La Teuse. He was in a very merry mood that night; +and, when the Brother was merry, it was his habit to prod La Teuse +in the sides with his big fists, an attention which she returned by +heartily boxing his ears. This skirmishing made them both laugh, with a +laughter that shook the very ceiling. The Brother, too, when he was in +these gay humours, would devise all kinds of pranks. He would try to +smash plates with his nose, and would offer to wager that he could break +through the dining-room door in battering-ram fashion. He would also +empty the snuff out of his box into the old servant’s coffee, or would +thrust a handful of pebbles down her neck. The merest trifle would give +rise to these noisy outbursts of gaiety in the very midst of his wonted +surliness. Some little incident, at which nobody else laughed, often +sufficed to throw him into a state of wild hilarity, make him stamp his +feet, twirl himself round like a top, and hold in his splitting sides. + +‘What is it that makes you so gay to-night?’ La Teuse inquired. + +He made no reply, bestriding a chair and galloping round the table on +it. + +‘Well! well! go on making a baby of yourself!’ said the old woman; ‘and, +my gracious, what a big baby you are! If the Lord is looking at you, He +must be very well pleased with you!’ + +The Brother had just slipped off the chair and was lying on the floor, +with his legs in the air. + +‘He does see me, and is pleased to see me as I am. It is His wish that I +should be gay. When He wishes me to be merry for a time, He rings a bell +in my body, and then I begin to roll about; and all Paradise smiles as +it watches me.’ + +He dragged himself on his back to the wall, and then, supporting himself +on the nape of his neck, he hoisted up his body as high as he could and +began drumming on the wall with his heels. His cassock slipped down and +exposed to view his black breeches, which were patched at the knees with +green cloth. + +‘Look, Monsieur le Curé,’ he said, ‘you see how high I can reach with +my heels. I dare bet that you couldn’t do as much. Come! look amused and +laugh a little. It is better to drag oneself along on one’s back than to +think about a hussy as you are always doing. You know what I mean. For +my part, when I take to scratching myself I imagine myself to be God’s +dog, and that’s what makes me say that all Paradise looks out of the +windows to smile at me. You might just as well laugh too, Monsieur le +Curé. It’s all done for the saints and you. See! here’s a turn-over for +Saint Joseph; here’s another for Saint Michael, and another for Saint +John, and another for Saint Mark, and another for Saint Matthew----’ + +So he went on, enumerating a whole string of saints, and turning +somersaults all round the room. + +Abbé Mouret, who had been sitting in perfect silence, with his hands +resting on the edge of the table, was at last constrained to smile. As +a rule, the Brother’s sportiveness only disquieted him. La Teuse, as +Archangias rolled within her reach, kicked at him with her foot. + +‘Come!’ she said, ‘are we to have our game to-night?’ + +His only reply was a grunt. Then, upon all fours, he sprang towards La +Teuse as if he meant to bite her. But in lieu thereof he spat upon her +petticoats. + +‘Let me alone! will you?’ she cried. ‘What are you up to now? I begin +to think you have gone crazy. What it is that amuses you so much I can’t +conceive.’ + +‘What makes me gay is my own affair,’ he replied, rising to his feet and +shaking himself. ‘It is not necessary to explain it to you, La Teuse. +However, as you want a game of cards, let us have it.’ + +Then the game began. It was a terrible struggle. The Brother hurled +his cards upon the table. Whenever he cried out the windows shook +sonorously. La Teuse at last seemed to be winning. She had secured three +aces for some time already, and was casting longing eyes at the fourth. +But Brother Archangias began to indulge in fresh outbursts of gaiety. +He pushed up the table, at the risk of breaking the lamp. He cheated +outrageously, and defended himself by means of the most abominable +lies, ‘Just for a joke,’ said he. Then he suddenly began to sing the +‘Vespers,’ beating time on the palm of his left hand with his cards. +When his gaiety reached a climax, and he could find no adequate means +of expressing it, he always took to chanting the ‘Vespers,’ which he +repeated for hours at a time. La Teuse, who well knew his habits, cried +out to him, amidst the bellowing with which he shook the room: + +‘Make a little less noise, do! It is quite distracting. You are much too +lively to-night.’ + +But he set to work on the ‘Complines.’ Abbé Mouret had now seated +himself by the window. He appeared to pay no attention to what went on +around him, apparently neither hearing nor seeing anything of it. At +dinner he had eaten with his ordinary appetite and had even managed to +reply to Desirée’s everlasting rattle of questions. But now he had given +up the struggle, his strength at an end, racked, exhausted as he was +by the internal tempest that still raged within him. He even lacked the +courage to rise from his seat and go upstairs to his own room. Moreover, +he was afraid that if he turned his face towards the lamplight, the +tears, which he could no longer keep from his eyes, would be noticed. So +he pressed his face close to the window and gazed out into the darkness, +growing gradually more drowsy, sinking into a kind of nightmare stupor. + +Brother Archangias, still busy at his psalm-singing, winked and nodded +in the direction of the dozing priest. + +‘What’s the matter?’ asked La Teuse. + +The Brother replied by a yet more significant wink. + +‘Well, what do you mean? Can’t you speak? Ah! there’s a king. That’s +capital!--so I take your queen.’ + +The Brother laid down his cards, bent over the table, and whispered +close to La Teuse’s face: ‘That hussy has been here.’ + +‘I know that well enough,’ answered La Teuse. ‘I saw her go with +mademoiselle into the poultry-yard.’ + +At this he gave her a terrible look, and shook his fist in her face. + +‘You saw her, and you let her come in! You ought to have called me, and +we would have hung her up by the feet to a nail in your kitchen.’ + +But at this the old woman lost her temper, and, lowering her voice +solely in order that she might not awaken Abbé Mouret, she replied: +‘Don’t you go talking about hanging people up in my kitchen! I certainly +saw her, and I even kept my back turned when she went to join his +reverence in the church when the catechising was over. But all that +was no business of mine. I had my cooking to attend to! As for the girl +herself, I detest her. But if his reverence wishes to see her--why, she +is welcome to come whenever she pleases. I’d let her in myself!’ + +‘If you were to do that, La Teuse,’ retorted the Brother ragefully, ‘I +would strangle you, that I would.’ + +But she laughed at him. + +‘Don’t talk any of your nonsense to me, my man! Don’t you know that it +is forbidden you to lay your hands upon a woman, just as it’s forbidden +for a donkey to have anything to do with the _Pater Noster_? Just you +try to strangle me and you’ll see what I’ll do! But do be quiet now, and +let us finish the game. See, here’s another king.’ + +But the Brother, holding up a card, went on growling: + +‘She must have come by some road that the devil alone knows for me to +have missed her to-day. Every afternoon I go and keep guard up yonder +by the Paradou. If ever I find them together again, I will acquaint +the hussy with a stout dogwood stick which I have cut expressly for her +benefit. And I shall keep a watch in the church as well now.’ + +He played his card, which La Teuse took with a knave. Then he threw +himself back in his chair and again burst into one of his loud laughs. +He did not seem to be able to work himself up into a genuine rage that +evening. + +‘Well, well,’ he grumbled, ‘never mind, even if she did see him, she had +a smacking fall on her nose. I’ll tell you all about it, La Teuse. It +was raining, you know. I was standing by the school-door when I caught +sight of her coming down from the church. She was walking along quite +straight and upright, in her stuck-up fashion, in spite of the pouring +rain. But when she got into the road, she tumbled down full length, no +doubt because the ground was so slippery. Oh! how I did laugh! How I did +laugh! I clapped my hands, too. When she picked herself up again, I saw +she was bleeding at the wrist. I shall feel happy over it for a week. +I cannot think of her lying there on the ground without feeling the +greatest delight.’ + +Then, turning his attention to the game, he puffed out his cheeks and +began to chant the _De profundis_. When he had got to the end of it, he +began it all over again. The game came to a conclusion in the midst of +this dirge. It was he who was beaten, but his defeat did not seem to vex +him in the least. + +When La Teuse had locked the door behind him, after first awakening Abbé +Mouret, his voice could still be heard, as he went his way through +the black night, singing the last verse of the psalm, _Et ipse redimet +Israel ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus_, with extraordinary jubilation. + + + + +XI + +That night Abbé Mouret slept very heavily. When he opened his eyes in +the morning, later than usual, his face and hands were wet with tears. +He had been weeping all through the night while he slept. He did not say +his mass that day. In spite of his long rest, he had not recovered from +his excessive weariness of the previous evening, and he remained in +his bedroom till noon, sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. The +condition of stupor into which he more and more deeply sank, took all +sensation of suffering away from him. He was conscious only of a great +void and blank as he sat there overpowered and benumbed. Even to +read his breviary cost him a great effort. Its Latin seemed to him a +barbarous language, which he would never again be able to pronounce. + +Having tossed the book upon his bed he gazed for hours through his open +window at the surrounding country. In the far distance he saw the long +wall of the Paradou, creeping like a thin white line amongst the gloomy +patches of the pine plantations to the crest of the hills. On the left, +hidden by one of those plantations, was the breach. He could not see it, +but he knew it was there. He remembered every bit of bramble scattered +among the stones. On the previous night he would not have thus dared to +gaze upon that dreaded scene. But now with impunity he allowed himself +to trace the whole line of the wall, as it emerged again and again +from the clumps of verdure which here and there concealed it. His +blood pulsed none the faster for this scrutiny. Temptation, as though +disdaining his present weakness, left him free from attack. Forsaken by +the Divine grace, he was incapable of entering upon any struggle, the +thought of sin could no longer even impassion him; it was sheer stupor +alone that now rendered him willing to accept that which he had the day +before so strenuously refused. + +At one moment he caught himself talking aloud and saying that, since +the breach in the wall was still open, he would go and join Albine at +sunset. This decision brought him a slight feeling of worry, but he did +not think that he could do otherwise. She was expecting him to go, +and she was his wife. When he tried to picture her face, he could only +imagine her as very pale and a long way off. Then he felt a little +uneasy as to their future manner of life together. It would be difficult +for them to remain in the neighbourhood; they would have to go away +somewhere, without any one knowing anything about it. And then, when +they had managed to conceal themselves, they would need a deal of money +in order to live happily and comfortably. He tried a score of times to +hit upon some scheme by which they could get away and live together like +happy lovers, but he could devise nothing satisfactory. Now that he was +no longer wild with passion, the practical side of the situation +alarmed him. He found himself, in all his weakness, face to face with a +complicated problem with which he was incompetent to grapple. + +Where could they get horses for their escape? And if they went away +on foot, would they not be stopped and detained as vagabonds? Was he +capable of securing any employment by which he could earn bread for his +wife? He had never been taught any kind of trade. He was quite ignorant +of actual life. He ransacked his memory, and he could remember nothing +but strings of prayers, details of ceremonies, and pages of Bouvier’s +‘Instruction Theologique,’ which he had learned by heart at the +seminary. He worried too over matters of no real concern. He asked +himself whether he would dare to give his arm to his wife in the street. +He certainly could not walk with a woman clinging to his arm. He would +surely appear so strange and awkward that every one would turn round +to stare at him. They would guess that he was a priest and would insult +Albine. It would be vain for him to try to obliterate the traces of +his priesthood. He would always wear that mournful pallor and carry the +odour of incense about with him. And what if he should have children +some day? As this thought suddenly occurred to him, he quite started. He +felt a strange repugnance at the very idea. He felt sure that he should +not care for any children that might be born to him. Suppose there were +two of them, a little boy and a little girl. He could never let them get +on his knees; it would distress him to feel their hands clutching at his +clothes. The thought of the little girl troubled him the most; he +could already see womanly tenderness shining in the depths of her big, +childish eyes. No! no! he would have no children. + +Nevertheless he resolved that he would flee with Albine that evening. +But when the evening came, he felt too weary. So he deferred his flight +till the next morning. And the next morning he made a fresh pretext +for delay. He could not leave his sister alone with La Teuse. He would +prepare a letter, directing that she should be taken to her uncle +Pascal’s. For three days he was ever on the point of writing that +letter, and the paper and pen and ink were lying ready on the table +in his room. Then, on the third day, he went off, leaving the letter +unwritten. He took up his hat quite suddenly and set off for the +Paradou in a state of mingled stupor and resignation, as though he were +unwillingly performing some compulsory task which he saw no means of +avoiding. Albine’s image was now effaced from his memory; he no longer +beheld her, but he was driven on by old resolves whose lingering +influence, though they themselves were dead, still worked upon him in +his silence and loneliness. + +He took no pains to escape notice when he set foot out of doors. He +stopped at the end of the village to talk for a moment to Rosalie. She +told him that her baby was suffering from convulsions; but she laughed, +as she spoke, with the laugh that was natural to her. Then he struck +out through the rocks, and walked straight on towards the breach in the +wall. By force of habit he had brought his breviary with him. Finding +the way long, he opened the book and read the regulation prayers. When +he put it back again under his arm, he had forgotten the Paradou. He +went on walking steadily, thinking about a new chasuble that he wished +to purchase to replace the old gold-broidered one, which was certainly +falling into shreds. For some time past he had been saving up +twenty-sous pieces, and he calculated that by the end of seven months +he would have got the necessary amount of money together. He had reached +the hills when the song of a peasant in the distance reminded him of +a canticle which had been familiar to him at the seminary. He tried to +recall the first lines of it, but his recollection failed him. It vexed +him to find that his memory was so poor. And when, at last, he succeeded +in remembering the words, he found a soothing pleasure in humming the +verses, which came back to his mind one by one. It was a hymn of homage +to Mary. He smiled as though some soft breath from the days of his +childhood were playing upon his face. Ah! how happy he had then been! +Why shouldn’t he be as happy again? He had not grown any bigger, he +wanted nothing more than the same old happiness, unruffled peace, a nook +in the chapel, where his knees marked his place, a life of seclusion, +enlivened by the delightful puerilities of childhood. Little by little +he raised his voice, singing the canticle in flutelike tones, when he +suddenly became aware of the breach immediately in front of him. + +For a moment he seemed surprised. Then, the smile dying from his face, +he murmured quietly: + +‘Albine must be expecting me. The sun is already setting.’ + +But just as he was about to push some stones aside to make himself a +passage, he was startled by a snore. He sprang down again: he had only +just missed setting his foot upon the very face of Brother Archangias, +who was lying on the ground there sleeping soundly. Slumber had +overtaken him while he kept guard over the entrance to the Paradou. He +barred the approach to it, lying at full length before its threshold, +with arms and legs spread out. His right hand, thrown back behind his +head, still clutched his dogwood staff, which he seemed to brandish like +a fiery sword. And he snored loudly in the midst of the brambles, his +face exposed to the sun, without a quiver on his tanned skin. A swarm of +big flies was hovering over his open mouth. + +Abbé Mouret looked at him for a moment. He envied the slumber of that +dust-wallowing saint. He wished to drive the flies away, but they +persistently returned, and clung around the purple lips of the Brother, +who was quite unconscious of their presence. Then the Abbé strode over +his big body and entered the Paradou. + + + + +XII + +Albine was seated on a patch of grass a few paces away from the wall. +She sprang up as she caught sight of Serge. + +‘Ah! you have come!’ she cried, trembling from head to foot. + +‘Yes,’ he answered calmly, ‘I have come.’ + +She flung herself upon his neck, but she did not kiss him. To her bare +arms the beads of his neckband seemed very cold. She scrutinised him, +already feeling uneasy, and resuming: + +‘What is the matter with you? Why don’t you kiss my cheeks as you used +to do? Oh! if you are ill, I will cure you once again. Now that you +are here, all our old happiness will return. There will be no more +wretchedness.... See! I am smiling. You must smile, too, Serge.’ + +But his face remained grave. + +‘I have been troubled, too,’ she went on. ‘I am still quite pale, am I +not? For a whole week I have been living on that patch of grass, where +you found me. I wanted one thing only, to see you coming back through +the breach in the wall. At every sound I sprang up and rushed to meet +you. But, alas! it was not you I heard. It was only the leaves rustling +in the wind. But I was sure that you would come. I should have waited +for you for years.’ + +Then she asked him: + +‘Do you still love me?’ + +‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I love you still.’ + +They stood looking at each other, feeling rather ill at ease. And deep +silence fell between them. Serge, who evinced perfect calmness, did not +attempt to break it. Albine twice opened her mouth to speak, but closed +it immediately, surprised at the words that rose to her lips. She could +summon up nothing but expressions tinged with bitterness. She felt tears +welling into her eyes. What could be the matter with her that she did +not feel happy now that her love had come back? + +‘Listen to me,’ she said at last. ‘We must not stay here. It is that +hole that freezes us! Let us go back to our old home. Give me your +hand.’ + +They plunged into the depths of the Paradou. Autumn was fast +approaching, and the trees seemed anxious as they stood there with their +yellowing crests from which the leaves were falling one by one. The +paths were already littered with dead foliage soaked with moisture, +which gave out a sound as of sighing beneath one’s tread. And away +beyond the lawns misty vapour ascended, throwing a mourning veil over +the blue distance. And the whole garden was wrapped in silence, broken +only by some sorrowful moans that sounded quiveringly. + +Serge began to shiver beneath the avenue of tall trees, along which they +were walking. + +‘How cold it is here!’ said he in an undertone. + +‘You are cold indeed,’ murmured Albine, sadly. ‘My hand is no longer +able to warm you. Shall I wrap you round with part of my dress? Come, +all our love will now be born afresh.’ + +She led him to the parterre, the flower-garden. The great thicket-like +rosary was still fragrant with perfume, but there was a tinge of +bitterness in the scent of the surviving blossoms, and their foliage, +which had expanded in wild profusion, lay strewn upon the ground. Serge +displayed such unwillingness to enter the tangled jungle, that they +lingered on its borders, trying to detect in the distance the paths +along which they had passed in the spring-time. Albine recollected +every little nook. She pointed to the grotto where the marble woman lay +sleeping; to the hanging screens of honeysuckle and clematis; the fields +of violets; the fountain that spurted out crimson carnations; the steps +down which flowed golden gilliflowers; the ruined colonnade, in the +midst of which the lilies were rearing a snowy pavilion. It was +there that they had been born again beneath the sunlight. And she +recapitulated every detail of that first day together, how they had +walked, and how fragrant had been the air beneath the cool shade. Serge +seemed to be listening, but he suddenly asked a question which showed +that he had not understood her. The slight shiver which made his face +turn pale never left him. + +Then she led him towards the orchard, but they could not reach it. The +stream was too much swollen. Serge no longer thought of taking Albine +upon his back and lightly bounding across with her to the other side. +Yet there the apple-trees and the pear-trees were still laden with +fruit, and the vines, now with scantier foliage, bent beneath the weight +of their gleaming clusters, each grape freckled by the sun’s caress. +Ah! how they had gambolled beneath the appetising shade of those ancient +trees! What merry children had they then been! Albine smiled as she +thought of how she had clambered up into the cherry-tree that had broken +down beneath her. He, Serge, must at least remember what a quantity of +plums they had eaten. He only answered by a nod. He already seemed quite +weary. The orchard, with its green depths and chaos of mossy trunks, +disquieted him and suggested to his mind some dark, dank spot, teeming +with snakes and nettles. + +Then she led him to the meadow-lands, where he had to take a few steps +amongst the grass. It reached to his shoulders now, and seemed to him +like a swarm of clinging arms that tried to bind his limbs and pull him +down and drown him beneath an endless sea of greenery. He begged Albine +to go no further. She was walking on in front, and at first she did not +stop; but when she saw how distressed he appeared, she halted and +came back and stood beside him. She also was growing gradually more +low-spirited, and at last she shuddered like himself. Still she went on +talking. With a sweeping gesture she pointed out to him the streams, +the rows of willows, the grassy expanse stretching far away towards +the horizon. All that had formerly been theirs. For whole days they had +lived there. Over yonder, between those three willows by the water’s +edge, they had played at being lovers. And they would then have been +delighted if the grass had been taller than themselves so that they +might have lost themselves in its depths, and have been the more +secluded, like larks nesting at the bottom of a field of corn. Why, +then, did he tremble so to-day, when the tip of his foot just sank into +the grass? + +Then she led him to the forest. But the huge trees seemed to inspire +Serge with still greater dread. He did not know them again, so sternly +solemn seemed their bare black trunks. Here, more than anywhere else, +amidst those austere columns, through which the light now freely +streamed, the past seemed quite dead. The first rains had washed the +traces of their footsteps from the sandy paths, the winds had swept +every other lingering memorial into the underbrush. But Albine, with +grief at her throat, shot out a protesting glance. She could still +plainly see their lightest footprints on the sandy gravel, and, as they +passed each bush, the warmth with which they had once brushed against it +surged to her cheeks. With eyes full of soft entreaty, she still strove +to awaken Serge’s memory. It was along that path that they had walked +in silence, full of emotion, but as yet not daring to confess that they +loved one another. It was in that clearing that they had lingered one +evening till very late watching the stars, which had rained upon +them like golden drops of warmth. Farther, beneath that oak they had +exchanged their first kiss. Its fragrance still clung to the tree, and +the very moss still remembered it. It was false to say that the forest +had become voiceless and bare. + +Serge, however, turned away his head, that he might escape the gaze of +Albine’s eyes, which oppressed him. + +Then she led him to the great rocks. There, perhaps, he would no longer +shudder with that appearance of debility which so distressed her. At +that hour the rocks were still warm with the red glow of the setting +sun. They still wore an aspect of tragic passion, with their hot ledges +of stone whereon the fleshy plants writhed monstrously. Without speaking +a word, without even turning her head, Albine led Serge up the rough +ascent, wishing to take him ever higher and higher, far up beyond the +springs, till they should emerge into the full light on the summit. They +would there see the cedar, beneath whose shade they had first felt +the thrill of desire, and there amidst the glowing stones they would +assuredly find passion once more. But Serge soon began to stumble +pitiably. He could walk no further. He fell a first time on his knees. +Albine, by a mighty effort, raised him and for a moment carried him +along, but afterwards he fell again, and remained, quite overcome, on +the ground. In front of him, beneath him, spread the vast Paradou. + +‘You have lied!’ cried Albine. ‘You love me no longer!’ + +She burst into tears as she stood there by his side, feeling that she +could not carry him any higher. There was no sign of anger in her +now. She was simply weeping over their dying love. Serge lay dazed and +stupefied. + +‘The garden is all dead. I feel so very cold,’ he murmured. But she took +his head between her hands, and showed him the Paradou. + +‘Look at it! Ah! it is your eyes that are dead; your ears and your limbs +and your whole body. You have passed by all the scenes of our happiness +without seeing them or hearing them or feeling their presence. You have +done nothing but slip and stumble, and now you have fallen down here in +sheer weariness and boredom.... You love me no more.’ + +He protested, but in a gentle, quiet fashion. Then, for the first time, +she spoke out passionately. + +‘Be quiet! As if the garden could ever die! It will sleep for the +winter, but it will wake up again in May, and will restore to us all +the love we have entrusted to its keeping. Our kisses will blossom again +amongst the flower-beds, and our vows will bud again with the trees and +plants. If you could only see it and understand it, you would know that +it throbs with even deeper passion, and loves even more absorbingly at +this autumn-time, when it falls asleep in its fruitfulness.... But you +love me no more, and so you can no longer understand.’ + +He raised his eyes to her as if begging her not to be angry. His face +was pinched and pale with an expression of childish fear. The sound of +her voice made him tremble. He ended by persuading her to rest a little +while by his side. They could talk quietly and discuss matters. Then, +with the Paradou spreading out in front of them, they began to speak of +their love, but without even touching one another’s fingers. + +‘I love you; indeed I love you,’ said Serge, in his calm, quiet voice. +‘If I did not love you, I should not be here: I should not have come. +I am very weary, it is true. I don’t know why. I thought I should find +that pleasant warmth again, of which the mere memory was so delightful. +But I am cold, the garden seems quite black. I cannot see anything of +what I left here. But it is not my fault. I am trying hard to be as you +would wish me and to please you.’ + +‘You love me no longer!’ Albine repeated once more. + +‘Yes, I do love you. I suffered grievously the other day after I had +driven you away.... Oh! I loved you with such passion that, had you come +back and thrown yourself in my arms, I should almost have crushed you +to death.... And for hours your image remained present before me. When +I shut my eyes, you gleamed out with all the brightness of the sun and +threw a flame around me.... Then I trampled down every obstacle, and +came here.’ + +He remained silent for a moment, as if in thought. Then he spoke again: + +‘And now my arms feel as though they were broken. If I tried to clasp +you, I could not hold you; I should let you fall.... Wait till this +shudder has passed away. Give me your hands, and let me kiss them again. +Be gentle and do not look at me with such angry eyes. Help me to find my +heart again.’ + +He spoke with such genuine sadness, such evident longing to begin +the past anew, that Albine was touched. For a moment all her wonted +gentleness returned to her, and she questioned him anxiously: + +‘What is the matter with you? What makes you so ill?’ + +‘I do not know. It is as though all my blood had left my veins. Just +now, as I was coming here, I felt as if some one had flung a robe of ice +around my shoulders, which turned me into stone from head to foot.... I +have felt it before, but where I don’t remember.’ + +She interrupted him with a kindly laugh. + +‘You are a child. You have caught cold, that’s all. At any rate, it is +not I that you are afraid of, is it? We won’t stop in the garden during +the winter, like a couple of wild things. We will go wherever you like, +to some big town. We can love each other there, amongst all the people, +as quietly as amongst the trees. You will see that I can be something +else than a wilding, for ever bird’s-nesting and tramping about for +hours. When I was a little girl, I used to wear embroidered skirts and +fine stockings and laces and all kinds of finery. I dare say you never +heard of that.’ + +He was not listening to her. He suddenly gave vent to a little cry, and +said: ‘Ah! now I recollect!’ + +She asked him what he meant, but he would not answer her. He had just +remembered the feeling he had long ago experienced in the chapel of the +seminary. That was the icy robe enwrapping his shoulders and turning him +to stone. And then his life as a priest took complete possession of his +thoughts. The vague recollections which had haunted him as he walked +from Les Artaud to the Paradou became more and more distinct and assumed +complete mastery over him. While Albine talked on of the happy life that +they would lead together, he heard the tinkling of the sanctuary bell +that signalled the elevation of the Host, and he saw the monstrance +trace gleaming crosses over the heads of kneeling multitudes. + +‘And for your sake,’ Albine was saying, ‘I will put on my broidered +skirts again.... I want you to be bright and gay. We will try to find +something to make you lively. Perhaps you will love me better when you +see me looking beautiful and prettily dressed, like a fine lady. I will +wear my comb properly and won’t let my hair fall wildly about my neck +any more. And I won’t roll my sleeves up over my elbows; I will fasten +my dress so as to hide my shoulders. I still know how to bow and how to +walk along quite properly. Yes, I will make you a nice little wife, as I +walk through the streets leaning on your arm.’ + +‘Did you ever go to church when you were a little girl?’ he asked her in +an undertone, as if, in spite of himself, he were continuing aloud the +reverie which prevented him from hearing her. ‘I could never pass a +church without entering it. As soon as the door closed silently +behind me, I felt as though I were in Paradise itself, with the angels +whispering stories of love in my ears and the saints caressing me with +their breath. Ah! I would have liked to live there for ever, in that +absorbing beatitude.’ + +She looked at him with steady eyes, a passing blaze kindling in her +loving glance. Nevertheless, submissive still, she answered: + +‘I will do as you may fancy. I learned music once. I was quite a clever +young lady and was taught all the accomplishments. I will go back to +school and start music again. If there is any tune you would like to +hear me play, you will only have to tell me, and I will practise it for +months and months, so as to play it to you some evening in our own home +when we are by ourselves in some snug little room, with the curtains +closely drawn. And you will pay me with just one kiss, won’t you? A kiss +right on the lips, which will awaken all your love again!’ + +‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured, answering his own thoughts only; ‘my great +pleasure at first was to light the candles, prepare the cruets, and +carry the missal. Then, afterwards, I was filled with bliss at the +approach of God, and felt as though I could die of sheer love. Those are +my only recollections. I know of nothing else. When I raise my hand, it +is to give a benediction. When my lips protrude it is to kiss the altar. +If I look for my heart, I can no longer find it. I have offered it to +God, and He has taken it.’ + +Albine grew very pale and her eyes gleamed like fire. In a quivering +voice she resumed: + +‘I should not like my little girl to leave me. You can send the boy to +college, if you wish, but the little girl must always keep with me. I +myself will teach her to read. Oh! I shall remember everything, and +if indeed there be anything that I find I have forgotten, I will have +masters to teach me.... Yes, we will keep our dear little ones always +about our knees. You will be happy so, won’t you? Speak to me; tell me +that you will then feel warm again, and will smile, and feel no regrets +for anything you have left behind.’ + +But Serge continued: + +‘I have often thought of the stone-saints that have been censed in their +niches for centuries past. They must have become quite saturated with +incense; and I am like one of them. I have the fragrance of incense +in the inmost parts of my being. It is that embalmment that gives me +serenity, deathlike tranquillity of body, and the peace which I enjoy in +no longer living.... Ah! may nothing ever disturb my quiescence! May I +ever remain cold and rigid, with a ceaseless smile on my granite lips, +incapable of descending among men! That is my one, my only desire!’ + +At this Albine sprang to her feet, exasperated, threatening. She shook +Serge and cried: + +‘What are you saying? What is it you are dreaming aloud? Am I not your +wife? Haven’t you come here to be my husband?’ + +He recoiled, trembling yet more violently. + +‘No! Leave me! I am afraid!’ he faltered. + +‘But our life together, our happiness, the children we shall have?’ + +‘No, no; I am afraid.’ And he broke out into a supreme cry: ‘I cannot! I +cannot!’ + +For a moment Albine remained silent, gazing at the unhappy man who lay +shivering at her feet. Her face flared. She opened her arms as if to +seize him and strain him to her breast with wild angry passion. But +another idea came to her, and she merely took him by the hand and raised +him to his feet. + +‘Come!’ said she. + +She led him away to that giant tree, to the very spot where their love +had reigned supreme. There was the same bliss-inspiring shade, there was +the same trunk as of yore, the same branches spreading far around, like +sheltering and protecting arms. The tree still towered aloft, kindly, +robust, powerful, and fertile. As on the day of their nuptials, +languorous warmth, the glimmer of a summer’s night fading on the bare +shoulder of some fair girl, a sob of love dying away into passionate +silence, lingered about the clearing as it lay there bathed in dim green +light. And, in the distance, the Paradou, in spite of the first +chills of autumn, sighed once more with passion, again becoming love’s +accomplice. From the parterre, from the orchard, from the meadow-lands, +from the forest, from the great rocks, from the spreading heavens, +came back a ripple of voluptuous joy. Never had the garden, even on the +warmest evenings of spring-time, shown such deep tenderness as now, on +this fair autumn evening, when the plants and trees seemed to be bidding +one another goodnight ere they sank to sleep. And the scent of ripened +germs wafted the intoxication of desire athwart the scanty leaves. + +‘Do you hear? Do you hear?’ faltered Albine in Serge’s ear, when she had +let him slip upon the grass at the foot of the tree. + +Serge was weeping. + +‘You see that the Paradou is not dead,’ she added. ‘It is crying out +to us to love each other. It still desires our union. Oh, do remember! +Clasp me to your heart!’ + +Serge still wept. + +Albine said nothing more. She flung her arms around him; she pressed her +warm lips to his corpse-like face; but tears were still his only answer. + +Then, after a long silence, Albine spoke. She stood erect, full of +contempt and determination. + +‘Away with you! Go!’ she said, in a low voice. + +Serge rose with difficulty. He picked up his breviary, which had fallen +upon the grass. And he walked away. + +‘Away with you! Go!’ repeated Albine, in louder tones, as she followed +and drove him before her. + +Thus she urged him on from bush to bush till she had driven him back +to the breach in the wall, in the midst of the stern-looking trees. +And there, as she saw Serge hesitate, with lowered head she cried out +violently: + +‘Away with you Go!’ + +And slowly she herself went back into the Paradou, without even turning +her head. Night was fast falling, and the garden was but a huge bier of +shadows. + + + + +XIII + +Brother Archangias, aroused from his slumber, stood erect in the breach, +striking the stones with his stick and swearing abominably. + +‘May the devil break their legs for them! May he drag them to hell by +their feet, with their noses trailing in their abomination!’ + +But when he saw Albine driving away the priest, he stopped for a moment +in surprise. Then he struck the stones yet more vigorously, and burst +into a roar of laughter. + +‘Good-bye, you hussy! A pleasant journey to you! Go back to your mates +the wolves! A priest is no fit companion for such as you.’ + +Then, looking at Abbé Mouret, he growled: + +‘I knew you were in there. I saw that the stones had been disturbed.... +Listen to me, Monsieur le Curé. Your sin has made me your superior, and +God tells you, through my mouth, that hell has no torments severe enough +for a priest who lets himself succumb to the lusts of the flesh. If He +were to pardon you now, He would be too indulgent, it would be contrary +to His own justice.’ + +They slowly walked down the hill towards Les Artaud. The priest had +not opened his lips; but gradually he raised his head erect: he was no +longer trembling. As in the distance he caught sight of the Solitaire +looming blackly against the purplish sky, and the ruddy glow of the +tiles on the church, a faint smile came to his lips, while to his calm +eyes there rose an expression of perfect serenity. + +Meantime the Brother was every now and then giving a vicious kick at the +stones that came in his way. Presently he turned to his companion: + +‘Is it all over this time?’ he asked. ‘When I was your age I was +possessed too. A demon was ever gnawing at me. But, after a time, he +grew weary of it, and took himself off. Now that he has gone I live +quietly enough.... Oh! I knew very well that you would go. For three +weeks past I have been keeping watch upon you. I used to look into the +garden through the breach in the wall. I should have liked to cut the +trees down. I have often hurled stones at them; it was delightful to +break the branches. Tell me, now, is it so very nice to be there?’ + +He made Abbé Mouret stop in the middle of the road, and glared at him +with a terrible expression of jealousy. The thought of the priest’s +life in the Paradou tortured him. But the Abbé kept perfect silence, so +Archangias set off again, jeering as he went. Then, in a louder voice, +he said: + +‘You see, when a priest behaves as you have done, he scandalises every +other priest. I myself felt sullied by your conduct. However, you +are now behaving more sensibly. There is no need for you to make any +confession. I know what has happened well enough. Heaven has broken your +back for you, as it has done for so many others. So much the better! So +much the better!’ + +He clapped his hands triumphantly. But Abbé Mouret, immersed in deep +reverie, with a smile spreading over his whole face, did not even hear +him. When the Brother quitted him at the parsonage door, he went round +and entered the church. It was grey and gloomy, as on that terrible +rainy evening when temptation had racked him so violently. And it still +remained poverty-stricken and meditative, bare of all that gleaming +gold and sighing passion that had seemed to him to sweep in from the +countryside. It preserved solemn silence. But a breath of mercy seemed +to fill it. + +Kneeling before the great Christ and bursting into tears, which he let +flow down his cheeks as though they were so many blessings, the priest +murmured: + +‘O God, it is not true that Thou art pitiless. I know it, I feel it: +Thou hast already pardoned me. I feel it in the outpouring of Thy grace, +which, for hours now, has been flowing through me in a sweet stream, +bringing me back, slowly but surely, perfect peace and spiritual health. +O God, it was at the very moment when I was about to forsake Thee that +Thou didst protect me most effectually. Thou didst hide Thyself from me, +the better to rescue me from evil. Thou didst allow my flesh to run its +course, that I might be convinced of its nothingness. And now, O God, +I see that Thou hast for ever marked me with Thy seal, that awful seal, +pregnant with blessings, which sets a man apart from other men, and +whose mark is so ineffaceable that, sooner or later, it makes itself +manifest even upon those who sin. Thou hast broken me with sin and +temptation. Thou hast ravaged me with Thy flames. Thou hast willed +that there should be nought left of me save ruins wherein Thou mightest +safely descend. I am an empty tabernacle wherein Thou may’st dwell. +Blessed art Thou, O God!’ + +He prostrated himself and continued stammering in the dust. The church +triumphed. It remained firm and unshaken over the priest’s head, with +its altars and its confessional, its pulpit, its crosses, and its holy +images. The world had ceased to exist. Temptation was extinguished like +a fire that was henceforth unnecessary for the Abbé’s purification. He +was entering into supernatural peace. And he raised this supreme cry: + +‘To the exclusion of life and its creatures and of everything that be in +it, I belong to Thee, O God; to Thee, Thee alone, through all eternity!’ + + + + +XIV + +At that moment Albine was still wandering about the Paradou with all +the mute agony of a wounded animal. She had ceased to weep. Her face was +very white and a deep crease showed upon her brow. Why did she have to +suffer that deathlike agony? Of what fault had she been guilty, that +the garden no longer kept the promises it had held out to her since +her childhood’s days? She questioned herself as she walked along, never +heeding the avenues through which the gloom was slowly stealing. She +had always obeyed the voices of the trees. She could not remember having +injured a single flower. She had ever been the beloved daughter of the +greenery, hearkening to it submissively, yielding to it with full belief +in the happiness which it promised to her. And when, on that supreme +day, the Paradou had cried to her to cast herself beneath the +giant-tree, she had done so in compliance with its voice. If she then +had nothing to reproach herself with, it must be the garden which had +betrayed her; the garden which was torturing her for the mere sake of +seeing her suffer. + +She halted and looked around her. The great gloomy masses of foliage +preserved deep silence. The paths were blocked with black walls of +darkness. The distant lawns were lulling to sleep the breezes that +kissed them. And she thrust out her hands with a gesture of hopelessness +and raised a cry of protest. It could not all end thus. But her voice +choked beneath the silent trees. Thrice did she implore the Paradou to +answer her, but never an explanation fell from its lofty branches, not +a leaf seemed to be moved with pity for her. Then she resumed her weary +wandering, and felt that she was entering into the fatal sternness of +winter. Now that she had ceased to rebelliously question the earth, she +caught sound of a gentle murmur speeding along the ground. It was the +farewell of the plants, wishing one another a happy death. To have drunk +in the sunshine for a whole season, to have lived ever blossoming, +to have breathed continual perfume, and then, at the first blast, to +depart, with the hope of springing up again elsewhere, was not that +sufficiently long and full a life which obstinate craving for further +existence would mar? Ah! how sweet death must be; how sweet to have an +endless night before one, wherein to dream of the short days of life and +to recall eternally its fugitive joys! + +She stayed her steps once more; but she no longer protested as she stood +there amidst the deep stillness of the Paradou. She now believed that +she understood everything. The garden doubtless had death in store for +her as a supreme culminating happiness. It was to death that it had all +along been leading her in its tender fashion. After love, there could be +nought but death. And never had the garden loved her so much as it did +now; she had shown herself ungrateful in accusing it, for all the time +she had remained its best beloved child. The motionless boughs, the +paths blocked up with darkness, the lawns where the breezes fell asleep, +had only become mute in order that they might lure her on to taste the +joys of long silence. They wished her to be with them in their winter +rest, they dreamt of carrying her off, swathed in their dry leaves with +her eyes frozen like the waters of the springs, her limbs stiffened like +the bare branches, and her blood sleeping the sleep of the sap. And, +yes, she would live their life to the very end, and die their death. +Perhaps they had already willed that she should spring up next summer as +a rose in the flower-garden, or a pale willow in the meadow-lands, or a +tender birch in the forest. Yes, it was the great law of life; she was +about to die. + +Then, for the last time, she resumed her walk through the Paradou in +quest of death. What fragrant plant might need her sweet-scented tresses +to increase the perfume of its leaves? What flower might wish the gift +of her satinlike skin, the snowy whiteness of her arms, the tender pink +of her bosom? To what weakly tree should she offer her young blood? She +would have liked to be of service to the weeds vegetating beside the +paths, to slay herself there so that from her flesh some huge greenery +might spring, lofty and sapful, laden with birds at May-time, and +passionately caressed by the sun. But for a long while the Paradou still +maintained silence as if it had not yet made up its mind to confide to +her in what last kiss it would spirit away her life. She had to wander +all over it again, seeking, pilgrim-like, for her favourite spots. Night +was now more swiftly approaching, and it seemed to her as if she were +being gradually sucked into the earth. She climbed to the great rocks +and questioned them, asking whether it was upon their stony beds that +she must breathe her last breath. She crossed the forest with lingering +steps, hoping that some oak would topple down and bury her beneath the +majesty of its fall. She skirted the streams that flowed through the +meadows, bending down at almost every step she took so as to peep into +the depths and see whether a couch had not been prepared for her amongst +the water lilies. But nowhere did Death call her; nowhere did he offer +her his cold hands. Yet, she was not mistaken. It was, indeed, the +Paradou that was about to teach her to die, as, indeed, it had taught +her to love. She again began to scour the bushes, more eagerly even than +on those warm mornings of the past when she had gone searching for love. +And, suddenly, just as she was reaching the parterre, she came upon +death, amidst all the evening fragrance. She ran forward, breaking out +into a rapturous laugh. She was to die amongst the flowers. + +First she hastened to the thicket-like rosary. There, in the last +flickering of the gloaming, she searched the beds and gathered all the +roses that hung languishing at the approach of winter. She plucked them +from down below, quite heedless of their thorns; she plucked them in +front of her, with both hands; she plucked them from above, rising upon +tip-toes and pulling down the boughs. So eager was she, so desperate +was her haste, that she even broke the branches, she, who had ever shown +herself tender to the tiniest blades of grass. Soon her arms were full +of roses, she tottered beneath her burden of flowers. And having quite +stripped the rose trees, carrying away even the fallen petals, she +turned her steps to the pavilion; and when she had let her load of +blossoms slip upon the floor of the room with the blue ceiling, she +again went down to the garden. + +This time she sought the violets. She made huge bunches of them, +which she pressed one by one against her breast. Then she sought the +carnations, plucking them all, even to the buds; massing them together +in big sheaves of white blossoms that suggested bowls of milk, and big +sheaves of the red ones, that seemed like bowls of blood. Then, too, +she sought the stocks, the patches of mirabilis, the heliotropes and +the lilies. She tore the last blossoming stocks off by the handful, +pitilessly crumpling their satin ruches; she devastated the beds of +mirabilis, whose flowers were scarcely opening to the evening air; she +mowed down the field of heliotropes, piling her harvest of blooms into +a heap; and she thrust bundles of lilies under her arms like handles +of reeds. When she was again laden with as much as she could carry, +she returned to the pavilion to cast the violets, the carnations, the +lilies, the stocks, the heliotrope, and the mirabilis by the side of +the roses. And then, without stopping to draw breath, she went down yet +again. + +This time she repaired to that gloomy corner which seemed like the +graveyard of the flower-garden. A warm autumn had there brought on a +second crop of spring flowers. She raided the borders of tuberoses and +hyacinths; going down upon her knees, and gathering her harvest with +all a miser’s care, lest she should miss a single blossom. The tuberoses +seemed to her to be extremely precious flowers, which would distil drops +of gold and wealth and wondrous sweetness. The hyacinths, beaded with +pearly blooms, were like necklets, whose every pearl would pour forth +joys unknown to man. And although she almost buried herself beneath the +mass of tuberoses and hyacinths which she plucked, she next stripped a +field of poppies, and even found means to crop an expanse of marigolds +farther on. All these she heaped over the tuberoses and hyacinths, and +then ran back to the room with the blue ceiling, taking the greatest +care as she went that the breeze should not rob her of a single pistil. +And once more did she come downstairs. + +But what was she to gather now? She had stripped the parterre bare. As +she rose upon the tips of her shoes in the dim gloom, she could only see +the garden lying there naked and dead, deprived of the tender eyes of +its roses, the crimson smile of its carnations, and the perfumed locks +of its heliotropes. Nevertheless, she could not return with empty arms. +So she laid hands upon the herbs and leafy plants. She crawled over the +ground, as though she would have carried off the very soil itself in +a clutch of supreme passion. She filled her skirt with a harvest of +aromatic plants, southernwood, mint, verbenas. She came across a border +of balm, and left not a leaf of it unplucked. She even broke off two big +fennels which she threw over her shoulders like a couple of trees. Had +she been able, she would have carried all the greenery of the garden +away with her between her teeth. When she reached the threshold of the +pavilion, she turned round and gave a last look at the Paradou. It was +quite dark now. The night had fully come and cast a black veil over +everything. Then for the last time she went up the stairs, never more to +step down them. + +The spacious room was quickly decked. She had placed a lighted lamp upon +the table. She sorted out the flowers heaped upon the floor and arranged +them in big bunches, which she distributed about the room. First she +placed some lilies behind the lamp on the table, forming with them a +lofty lacelike screen which softened the light with its snowy purity. +Then she threw handfuls of carnations and stocks over the old sofa, +which was already strewn with red bouquets that had faded a century +ago, till all these were hidden, and the sofa looked like a huge bed of +stocks bristling with carnations. Next she placed the four armchairs in +front of the alcove. On the first one she piled marigolds, on the second +poppies, on the third mirabilis, and on the fourth heliotrope. The +chairs were completely buried in bloom, with nothing but the tips of +their arms visible. At last she thought of the bed. She pushed a little +table near the head of it, and reared thereon a huge pile of violets. +Then she covered the whole bed with the hyacinths and tuberoses she +had plucked. They were so abundant that they formed a thick couch +overflowing all around, so that the bed now looked like one colossal +bloom. + +The roses still remained. And these she scattered chancewise all over +the room, without even looking to see where they fell. Some of them +dropped upon the table, the sofa, and the chairs; and a corner of the +bed was inundated with them. For some minutes there was a rain of roses, +a real downpour of heavy blossoms, which settled in flowery pools in the +hollows of the floor. But as the heap seemed scarcely diminished, she +finished by weaving garlands of roses which she hung upon the walls. +She twined wreaths around the necks and arms and waists of the plaster +cupids that sported over the alcove. The blue ceiling, the oval panels, +edged with flesh-coloured ribbon, the voluptuous paintings, preyed upon +by time, were all hung with a mantle, a drapery of roses. The big room +was fully decked at last. Now she could die there. + +For a moment she remained standing, glancing around her. She was looking +to see if death was there. And she gathered up the aromatic greenery, +the southernwood, the mint, the verbenas, the balm, and the fennel. She +broke them and twisted them and made wedges of them with which to stop +up every little chink and cranny about the windows and the door. Then +she drew the white coarsely sewn calico curtains and, without even a +sigh, laid herself upon the bed, on all the florescence of hyacinths and +tuberoses. + +And then a final rapture was granted her. With her eyes wide open she +smiled at the room. Ah! how she had loved there! And how happily she was +there going to die! At that supreme moment the plaster cupids suggested +nothing impure to her; the amorous paintings disturbed her no more. She +was conscious of nothing beneath that blue ceiling save the intoxicating +perfume of the flowers. And it seemed to her as if this perfume was none +other than the old love-fragrance which had always warmed the room, now +increased a hundredfold, till it had become so strong and penetrating +that it would surely suffocate her. Perchance it was the breath of the +lady who had died there a century ago. In perfect stillness, with her +hands clasped over her heart, she continued smiling, while she listened +to the whispers of the perfumes in her buzzing head. They were singing +to her a soft strange melody of fragrance, which slowly and very gently +lulled her to sleep. + +At first there was a prelude, bright and childlike; her hands, that had +just now twisted and twined the aromatic greenery, exhaled the pungency +of crushed herbage, and recalled her old girlish ramblings through the +wildness of the Paradou. Then there came a flutelike song, a song of +short musky notes, rising from the violets that lay upon the table near +the head of the bed; and this flutelike strain, trilling melodiously to +the soft accompaniment of the lilies on the other table, sang to her of +the first joys of love, its first confession, and first kiss beneath the +trees of the forest. But she began to stifle as passion drew nigh with +the clove-like breath of the carnations, which burst upon her in brazen +notes that seemed to drown all others. She thought that death was nigh +when the poppies and the marigolds broke into a wailing strain, which +recalled the torment of desire. But suddenly all grew quieter; she felt +that she could breathe more freely; she glided into greater serenity, +lulled by a descending scale that came from the throats of the stocks, +and died away amidst a delightful hymn from the heliotropes, which, with +their vanilla-like breath, proclaimed the approach of nuptial bliss. +Here and there the mirabilis gently trilled. Then came a hush. And +afterwards the roses languidly made their entry. Their voices streamed +from the ceiling, like the strains of a distant choir. It was a chorus +of great breadth, to which she at first listened with a slight quiver. +Then the volume of the strain increased, and soon her whole frame +vibrated with the mighty sounds that burst in waves around her. The +nuptials were at hand, the trumpet blasts of the roses announced +them. She pressed her hands more closely to her heart as she lay there +panting, gasping, dying. When she opened her lips for the kiss which was +to stifle her, the hyacinths and tuberoses shot out their perfume and +enveloped her with so deep, so great a sigh that the chorus of the roses +could be heard no more. + +And then, amidst the final gasp of the flowers, Albine died. + + + + +XV + +About three o’clock the next afternoon, La Teuse and Brother Archangias, +who were chatting on the parsonage-steps, saw Doctor Pascal’s gig +come at full gallop through the village. The whip was being vigorously +brandished from beneath the lowered hood. + +‘Where can he be off to at that rate?’ murmured the old servant. ‘He +will break his neck.’ + +The gig had just reached the rising ground on which the church was +built. Suddenly, the horse reared and stopped, and the doctor’s head, +with its long white hair all dishevelled appeared from under the hood. + +‘Is Serge there?’ he cried, in a voice full of indignant excitement. + +La Teuse had stepped to the edge of the hill. ‘Monsieur le Curé is in +his room,’ she said. ‘He must be reading his breviary. Do you want to +speak to him? Shall I call him?’ + +Uncle Pascal, who seemed almost distracted, made an angry gesture with +his whip hand. Bending still further forward, at the risk of falling +out, he replied: + +‘Ah! he’s reading his breviary, is he? No! no! don’t call him. I should +strangle him, and that would do no good. I wanted to tell him that +Albine was dead. Dead! do you hear me? Tell him, from me, that she is +dead!’ + +And he drove off, lashing his horse so fiercely that it almost bolted. +But, twenty paces away, he pulled up again, and once more stretching out +his head, cried loudly: + +‘Tell him, too, from me, that she was _enceinte_! It will please him to +know that.’ + +Then the gig rolled on wildly again, jolting dangerously as it ascended +the stony hill that led to the Paradou. La Teuse was quite dumbfounded. +But Brother Archangias sniggered and looked at her with savage delight +glittering in his eyes. She noticed this at last, and thrust him away +from her, almost making him fall down the steps. + +‘Be off with you!’ she stammered, full of anger, seeking to relieve her +feelings by abusing him. ‘I shall grow to hate you. Is it possible to +rejoice at any one’s death? I wasn’t fond of the girl, myself; but it is +very sad to die at her age. Be off with you, and don’t go on sniggering +like that, or I will throw my scissors in your face!’ + +It was only about one o’clock that a peasant, who had gone to Plassans +to sell vegetables, had told Doctor Pascal of Albine’s death, and had +added that Jeanbernat wished to see him. The doctor now was feeling a +little relieved by what he had just shouted as he passed the parsonage. +He had gone out of his way expressly to give himself that satisfaction. +He reproached himself for the death of the girl as for a crime in which +he had participated. All along the road he had never ceased overwhelming +himself with insults, and though he wiped the tears from his eyes that +he might see where to guide his horse, he ever angrily drove his gig +over heaps of stones, as if hoping that he would overturn himself and +break one of his limbs. However, when he reached the long lane that +skirted the endless wall of the park, a glimmer of hope broke upon him. +Perhaps Albine was only in a dead faint. The peasant had told him that +she had suffocated herself with flowers. Ah! if he could only get there +in time, if he could only save her! And he lashed his horse ferociously +as though he were lashing himself. + +It was a lovely day. The pavilion was all bathed in sunlight, just as +it had been in the fair spring-time. But the leaves of the ivy which +mounted to the roof were spotted and patched with rust, and bees +no longer buzzed round the tall gilliflowers. Doctor Pascal hastily +tethered his horse and pushed open the gate of the little garden. All +around still prevailed that perfect silence amidst which Jeanbernat +had been wont to smoke his pipe; but, to-day, the old man was no longer +seated on his bench watching his lettuces. + +‘Jeanbernat!’ called the doctor. + +No one answered. Then, on entering the vestibule, he saw something that +he had never seen before. At the end of the passage, below the dark +staircase, was a door opening into the Paradou, and he could see the +vast garden spreading there beneath the pale sunlight, with all its +autumn melancholy, its sere and yellow foliage. The doctor hurried +through the doorway and took a few steps over the damp grass. + +‘Ah! it is you, doctor!’ said Jeanbernat in a calm voice. + +The old man was digging a hole at the foot of a mulberry-tree. He had +straightened his tall figure on hearing the approach of footsteps. +But he promptly betook himself to his task again, throwing out at each +effort a huge mass of rich soil. + +‘What are you doing there?’ asked Doctor Pascal. + +Jeanbernat straightened himself again and wiped the sweat off his +face with the sleeve of his jacket. ‘I am digging a hole,’ he answered +simply. ‘She always loved the garden, and it will please her to sleep +here.’ + +The doctor nearly choked with emotion. For a moment he stood by the +edge of the grave, incapable of speaking, but watching Jeanbernat as the +other sturdily dug on. + +‘Where is she?’ he asked at last. + +‘Up there, in her room. I left her on the bed. I should like you to +go and listen to her heart before she is put away in here. I listened +myself, but I couldn’t hear anything at all.’ + +The doctor went upstairs. The room had not been disturbed. Only a +window had been opened. There the withered flowers, stifled by their own +perfumes, exhaled but the faint odour of dead beauty. Within the alcove, +however, there still hung an asphyxiating warmth, which seemed to +trickle into the room and gradually disperse in tiny puffs. Albine, +snowy-pale, with her hands upon her heart and a smile playing over her +face, lay sleeping on her couch of hyacinths and tuberoses. And she +was quite happy, since she was quite dead. Standing by the bedside, +the doctor gazed at her for a long time, with a keen expression such as +comes into the eyes of scientists who attempt to work resurrections. But +he did not even disturb her clasped hands. He kissed her brow, on the +spot where her latent maternity had already set a slight shadow. Below, +in the garden, Jeanbernat was still driving his spade into the ground in +heavy, regular fashion. + +A quarter of an hour later, however, the old man came upstairs. He had +completed his work. He found the doctor seated by the bedside, buried +in such a deep reverie that he did not seem conscious of the heavy tears +that were trickling down his cheeks. + +The two men only glanced at each other. Then, after an interval of +silence, Jeanbernat slowly said: + +‘Well, was I not right? There is nothing, nothing, nothing. It is all +mere nonsense.’ + +He remained standing and began to pick up the roses that had fallen from +the bed, throwing them, one by one, upon Albine’s skirts. + +‘The flowers,’ he said, ‘live only for a day, while the rough nettles, +like me, wear out the very stones amidst which they spring.... Now it’s +all over; I can kick the bucket; I am nearly distracted. My last ray of +sunlight has been snuffed out. It’s all nonsense, as I said before.’ + +He threw himself upon one of the chairs in his turn. He did not shed +a tear; he bore himself with rigid despair, like some automaton whose +mechanism is broken. Mechanically he reached out his hand and took a +book that lay on the little table strewn with violets. It was one of the +books stored away in the loft, an odd volume of Holbach,* which he had +been reading since the morning, while watching by Albine’s body. As the +doctor still remained silent, buried in distressful thought, he began to +turn its pages over. But a sadden idea occurred to him. + + * Doubtless Holbach’s now forgotten _Catechism of Nature_, into + which M. Zola himself may well have peeped whilst writing this + story.--ED. + +‘If you will help me,’ he said to the doctor, ‘we will carry her +downstairs, and bury her with all her flowers.’ + +Uncle Pascal shuddered. Then he explained to the old man that it was not +allowed for one to keep the dead in that fashion. + +‘What! it isn’t allowed!’ cried Jeanbernat. ‘Well, then, I will allow +it myself! Doesn’t she belong to me? Isn’t she mine? Do you think I am +going to let the priests walk off with her? Let them try, if they want +to get a shot from my gun!’ + +He sprang to his feet and waved his book about with a terrible gesture. +But the doctor caught hold of his hands and clasped them within his own, +beseeching him to be calm. And for a long time he talked to him, saying +all that he had upon his mind. He blamed himself, made fragmentary +confessions of his fault, and vaguely hinted at those who had killed +Albine. + +‘Listen,’ he said in conclusion, ‘she is yours no longer; you must give +her up.’ + +But Jeanbernat shook his head, and again waved his hand in token of +refusal. However, his obstinate resolution was shaken; and at last he +said: + +‘Well, well, let them take her, and may she break their arms for them! +I only wish that she could rise up out of the ground and kill them all +with fright.... By the way. I have a little business to settle over +there. I will go to-morrow.... Good-bye, then, doctor. The hole will do +for me.’ + +And, when the doctor had left, he again sat down by the dead girl’s +side, and gravely resumed the perusal of his book. + + + + +XVI + +That morning there was great commotion in the yard at the parsonage. +The Artaud butcher had just slaughtered Matthew, the pig, in the shed. +Desirée, quite enthusiastic about it all, had held Matthew’s feet, while +he was being bled, kissing him on the back that he might feel the pain +of the knife less, and telling him that it was absolutely necessary that +he should be killed, now that he had got so fat. No one could cut off a +goose’s neck with a single stroke of the hatchet more unconcernedly than +she could, or gash open a fowl’s throat with a pair of scissors. However +much she loved her charges, she looked upon their slaughter with great +equanimity. It was quite necessary, she would say. It made room for the +young ones who were growing up. And that morning she was very gay. + +‘Mademoiselle,’ grumbled La Teuse every minute, ‘you will end by making +yourself ill. There is no sense in working yourself up into such a +state, just because a pig has been slaughtered. You are as red as if you +had been dancing a whole night.’ + +But Desirée only clapped her hands and turned away and bustled about +again. La Teuse, for her part, complained that her legs were sinking +under her. Since six o’clock in the morning her big carcass had been +perpetually rolling between the kitchen and the yard, for she had black +puddings to make. It was she who had whisked the blood in two large +earthenware pans, and she had thought that she would never get finished, +since mademoiselle was for ever calling her away for mere nothings. + +It must be admitted that, at the very moment when the butcher was +bleeding Matthew, Desirée had been thrilled with wild excitement, for +Lisa, the cow, was about to calve. And the girl’s delight at this had +quite turned her head. + +‘One goes and another comes!’ she cried, skipping and twirling round. +‘Come here, La Teuse! come here!’ + +It was eleven o’clock. Every now and then the sound of chanting was +wafted from the church. A confused murmur of doleful voices, a muttering +of prayers could be heard amidst scraps of Latin pronounced in louder +and clearer tones. + +‘Come! oh, do come!’ repeated Desirée for the twentieth time. + +‘I must go and toll the bell, now,’ muttered the old servant. ‘I shall +never get finished really. What is it that you want now, mademoiselle?’ + +But she did not wait for an answer. She threw herself upon a swarm of +fowls, who were greedily drinking the blood from the pans. And having +angrily kicked them away, and then covered up the pans, she called to +Desirée: + +‘It would be a great deal better if, instead of tormenting me, you only +came to look after these wretched birds. If you let them do as they like +there will be no black-pudding for you. Do you hear?’ + +Desirée only laughed. What of it, if the fowls did drink a few drops of +the blood? It would fatten them. Then she again tried to drag La Teuse +off to the cow, but the old servant refused to go. + +‘I must go and toll the bell. The procession will be coming out of +church directly. You know that quite well.’ + +At this moment the voices in the church rose yet more loudly, and a +sound of steps could be distinctly heard. + +‘No! no!’ insisted Desirée, dragging La Teuse towards the stable. ‘Just +come and look at her, and tell me what ought to be done.’ + +La Teuse shrugged her shoulders. All that the cow wanted was to be left +alone and not bothered. Then she set off towards the vestry, but, as she +passed the shed, she raised a fresh cry: + +‘There! there!’ she shrieked, shaking her fist. ‘Ah! the little wretch!’ + +Matthew was lying at full length on his back, with his feet in the air, +under the shed, waiting to be singed.* The gash which the knife had made +in his neck was still quite fresh, and was beaded with drops of blood. +And a little white hen was very delicately picking off these drops of +blood one by one. + + * In some parts of France pigs, when killed, are singed, not scalded, + as is, I think, the usual practice in England.--ED. + +‘Why, of course,’ quietly remarked Desirée, ‘she’s regaling herself.’ +And the girl stooped and patted the pig’s plump belly, saying: ‘Eh! my +fat fellow, you have stolen their food too often to grudge them a wee +bit of your neck now!’ + +La Teuse hastily doffed her apron and threw it round Matthew’s neck. +Then she hurried away and disappeared within the church. The great door +had just creaked on its rusty hinges, and a burst of chanting rose in +the open air amidst the quiet sunshine. Suddenly the bell began to toll +with slow and regular strokes. Desirée, who had remained kneeling +beside the pig patting his belly, raised her head to listen, while still +continuing to smile. When she saw that she was alone, having glanced +cautiously around, she glided away into the cow’s stable and closed the +door behind her. + +The little iron gate of the graveyard, which had been opened quite wide +to let the body pass, hung against the wall, half torn from its hinges. +The sunshine slept upon the herbage of the empty expanse, into which the +funeral procession passed, chanting the last verse of the _Miserere_. +Then silence fell. + +‘_Requiem æternam dona ei, Domine_,’ resumed Abbé Mouret, in solemn +tones. + +‘_Et lux perpetua luceat ei_,’ Brother Archangias bellowed. + +At the head walked Vincent, wearing a surplice and bearing the cross, +a large copper cross, half the silver plating of which had come off. He +lifted it aloft with both his hands. Then followed Abbé Mouret, looking +very pale in his black chasuble, but with his head erect, and without +a quiver on his lips as he chanted the office, gazing into the distance +with fixed eyes. The flame of the lighted candle which he was carrying +scarcely showed in the daylight. And behind him, almost touching him, +came Albine’s coffin, borne by four peasants on a sort of litter, +painted black. The coffin was clumsily covered with too short a pall, +and at the lower end of it the fresh deal of which it was made could be +seen, with the heads of the nails sparkling with a steely glitter. Upon +the pall lay flowers: handfuls of white roses, hyacinths, and tuberoses, +taken from the dead girl’s very bed. + +‘Just be careful!’ cried Brother Archangias to the peasants, as they +slightly tilted the litter in order to get it through the gateway. ‘You +will be upsetting everything on to the ground!’ + +He kept the coffin in its place with one of his fat hands. With the +other--as there was no second clerk--he was carrying the holy-water +vessel, and he likewise represented the choirman, the rural guard, who +had been unable to come. + +‘Come in, too, you others,’ he exclaimed, turning round. + +There was a second funeral, that of Rosalie’s baby, who had died the +previous day from an attack of convulsions. The mother, the father, old +mother Brichet, Catherine, and two big girls, La Rousse and Lisa, were +there. The two last were carrying the baby’s coffin, one supporting each +end. + +Suddenly all voices were hushed again, and there came another interval +whilst the bell continued tolling in slow and desolate accents. The +funeral procession crossed the entire burial-ground, going towards +the corner which was formed by the church and the wall of Desirée’s +poultry-yard. Swarms of grasshoppers leaped away at the approaching +footsteps, and lizards hurried into their holes. A heavy warmth hung +over this corner of the loamy cemetery. The crackling of the dry grass +beneath the tramp of the mourners sounded like choking sobs. + +‘There! stop where you are!’ cried the Brother, barring the way before +the two big girls who were carrying the baby’s coffin. ‘Wait for your +turn. Don’t be getting in our legs here.’ + +The two girls laid the baby on the ground. Rosalie, Fortune, and old +mother Brichet were lingering in the middle of the graveyard, while +Catherine slyly followed Brother Archangias. Albine’s grave was on +the left hand of Abbé Caffin’s tomb, whose white stone seemed in the +sunshine to be flecked with silvery spangles. The deep cavity, freshly +dug that morning, yawned amidst thick tufts of grass. Big weeds, almost +uprooted, drooped over the edges, and a fallen flower lay at the bottom, +staining the dark soil with its crimson petals. When Abbé Mouret came +forward, the soft earth crumbled and gave way beneath his feet; he was +obliged to step back to keep himself from slipping into the grave. + +‘_Ego sum_--’ he began in a full voice, which rose above the mournful +tolling of the bell. + +During the anthem, those who were present instinctively cast furtive +glances towards the bottom of the empty grave. Vincent, who had planted +the cross at the foot of the cavity opposite the priest, pushed the +loose earth with his foot, and amused himself by watching it fall. This +drew a laugh from Catherine, who was leaning forward from behind him to +get a better view. The peasants had set the litter on the grass and were +stretching their arms, while Brother Archangias prepared the sprinkler. + +‘Come here, Voriau!’ called Fortune. + +The big black dog, who had gone to sniff at the coffin, came back +sulkily. + +‘Why has the dog been brought?’ exclaimed Rosalie. + +‘Oh! he followed us,’ said Lisa, smiling quietly. + +They were all chatting together in subdued tones round the baby’s +coffin. The father and mother occasionally forgot all about it, but +on catching sight of it again, lying between them at their feet, they +relapsed into silence. + +‘And so old Bambousse wouldn’t come?’ said La Rousse. Mother Brichet +raised her eyes to heaven. + +‘He threatened to break everything to pieces yesterday when the little +one died,’ said she. ‘No, no, I must say that he is not a good man. +Didn’t he nearly strangle me, crying out that he had been robbed, and +that he would have given one of his cornfields for the little one to +have died three days before the wedding?’ + +‘One can never tell what will happen,’ remarked Fortune with a knowing +look. + +‘What’s the good of the old man putting himself out about it? We are +married, all the same, now,’ added Rosalie. + +Then they exchanged a smile across the little coffin while Lisa and +La Rousse nudged each other with their elbows. But afterwards they all +became very serious again. Fortune picked up a clod of earth to throw at +Voriau, who was now prowling about amongst the old tombstones. + +‘Ah! they’ve nearly finished over there, now!’ La Rousse whispered very +softly. + +Abbé Mouret was just concluding the _De profundis_ in front of Albine’s +grave. Then, with slow steps, he approached the coffin, drew himself up +erect, and gazed at it for a moment without a quiver in his glance. He +looked taller, his face shone with a serenity that seemed to transfigure +him. He stooped and picked up a handful of earth, and scattered it over +the coffin crosswise. Then, in a voice so steady and clear that not a +syllable was lost, he said: + +‘_Revertitur in terrain suam unde erat, et spiritus redit ad Deum qui +dedit illum_.’ + +A shudder ran through those who were present. Lisa seemed to reflect for +a moment, and then remarked with an expression of worry: ‘It is not very +cheerful, eh, when one thinks that one’s own turn will come some day or +other.’ + +But Brother Archangias had now handed the sprinkler to the priest, who +took it and shook it several times over the corpse. + +‘_Requiescat in pace_,’ he murmured. + +‘_Amen_,’ responded Vincent and the Brother together, in tones so +respectively shrill and deep that Catherine had to cram her fist into +her mouth to keep from laughing. + +‘No, indeed, it is certainly not cheerful,’ continued Lisa. ‘There +really was nobody at all at that funeral. The graveyard would be quite +empty without us.’ + +‘I’ve heard say that she killed herself,’ said old mother Brichet. + +‘Yes, I know,’ interrupted La Rousse. ‘The Brother didn’t want to +let her be buried amongst Christians, but Monsieur le Curé said +that eternity was for everybody. I was there. But all the same the +Philosopher might have come.’ + +At that very moment Rosalie reduced them all to silence by murmuring: +‘See! there he is, the Philosopher.’ + +Jeanbernat was, indeed, just entering the graveyard. He walked straight +to the group that stood around Albine’s grave; and he stepped along with +so lithe, so springy a gait, that none of them heard him coming. When +he was close to them, he remained for a moment behind Brother Archangias +and seemed to fix his eyes, for an instant, on the nape of the Brother’s +neck. Then, just as the Abbé Mouret was finishing the office, he calmly +drew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and with a single cut sliced +off the Brother’s right ear. + +There had been no time for any one to interfere. The Brother gave a +terrible yell. + +‘The left one will be for another occasion,’ said Jeanbernat quietly, as +he threw the ear upon the ground. Then he went off. + +So great and so general was the stupefaction that nobody followed him. +Brother Archangias had dropped upon the heap of fresh soil which had +been thrown out of the grave. He was staunching his bleeding wound with +his handkerchief. One of the four peasants who had carried the coffin, +wanted to lead him away, conduct him home; but he refused with a gesture +and remained where he was, fierce and sullen, wishing to see Albine +lowered into the pit. + +‘There! it’s our turn at last!’ said Rosalie with a little sigh. + +But Abbé Mouret still lingered by the grave, watching the bearers who +were slipping cords under Albine’s coffin in order that they might let +it down gently. The bell was still tolling; but La Teuse must have been +getting tired, for it tolled irregularly, as though it were becoming a +little irritated at the length of the ceremony. + +The sun was growing hotter and the Solitaire’s shadow crept slowly over +the grass and the grave mounds. When Abbé Mouret was obliged to step +back in order to give the bearers room, his eyes lighted upon the marble +tombstone of Abbé Caffin, that priest who also had loved, and who was +now sleeping there so peacefully beneath the wild-flowers. + +Then, all at once, even as the coffin descended, supported by the cords, +whose knots made it strain and creak, a tremendous uproar arose in the +poultry-yard on the other side of the wall. The goat began to bleat. The +ducks, the geese, and the turkeys raised their loudest calls and flapped +their wings. The fowls all cackled at once. The yellow cock, Alexander, +crowed forth his trumpet notes. The rabbits could even be heard leaping +in their hutches and shaking their wooden floors. And, above all this +lifeful uproar of the animal creation, a loud laugh rang out. There was +a rustling of skirts. Desirée, with her hair streaming, her arms bare +to the elbows, and her face crimson with triumph, burst into sight, her +hands resting upon the coping of the wall. She had doubtless climbed +upon the manure-heap. + +‘Serge! Serge!’ she cried. + +At that moment Albine’s coffin had reached the bottom of the grave. +The cords had just been withdrawn. One of the peasants was throwing the +first shovelful of earth into the cavity. + +‘Serge! Serge!’ Desirée cried, still more loudly, clapping her hands, +‘the cow has got a calf!’ + + + + THE END + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 14200 *** |