The crowd of priests strike themselves against the obstacles of the road from the first steps, they tear their catechumen's robe with the white thorns of May, and when they have arrived at the end of their career, they have stopped many a time under some mysterious thicket, unknown by the vulgar, relishing the forbidden fruit.

Let us leave them in peace. It is not I who will disturb their sweet tete-a-tete.



XLII.

MEMORY LOOKING BACK.

"Man can do nothing against Destiny. We go, time flies, and that which must arrive, arrives."

LEON CLADEL (L'Homme de la Croix-aux-Baufs).

Marcel was one of those energetic natures who believe that struggle is one of the conditions of life. He had valiantly accepted the task which was incumbent upon him.

But there are hours of discouragement and exhaustion, in which the boldest and the strongest succumb, and he had reached one of those hours.

And then, it is so difficult to struggle without ceasing, especially when we catch no glimpse of calmer days. Weariness quickly comes and we sink down on the road.

Then a friendly hand should be stretched towards us, should lift us up and say to us "Courage." But Marcel could not lean on any friendly hand.

He had no one to whom he could confide his struggles, his vexations, and the apprehension of his coming weaknesses.

Although his life as priest had been spotless up to then, his brethren held aloof from him, for there was a bad mark against him at the Bishop's Palace. It had been attached at the commencement of his career. He was one of those catechumens on whom from the very first the most brilliant hopes are founded. Knowledge, intelligence, respectful obedience, appearance of piety, sympathetic face, everything was present in him.

The Bishop, a frivolous old man, a great lover of little girls, who combined the sinecure of his bishopric with that of almoner to a second-hand empress, whose name will remain celebrated in the annals of devout gallantry or of gallant devotion, the Bishop, a worthy pastor for such a sheep, passed the greater portion of his time in the intrigues of petticoats and sacristies, and left to the young secretary the care of matters spiritual.

It was he who, like Gil-Blas, composed the mandates and sometimes the sermons of Monseigneur.

This confidence did not fail to arouse secret storms in the episcopal guest-chamber.

A Grand-Vicar, jealous of the influence which the young Abbe was assuming over his master's mind, had resolved upon his dismissal and fall.

With a church-man's tortuous diplomacy, he pried into the young man's heart, as yet fresh and inexperienced.

He insinuated himself into the most hidden recesses of his conscience, seized, so to say, in their flight the timid fleeting transports of his thought, of his vigorous imagination, and soon discovered with secret satisfaction that he was straying from the ancient path of orthodoxy.

Marcel, indeed, belonged to that younger generation of the clergy which believes that everything which alienates the Church from new ideas, brings it nearer to its ruin. And the day when the foolish Pius IX presumed to proclaim and define, to the great joy of free-thinkers and the enemies of Catholicism, the ridiculous dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the presence of two hundred dumb complaisant prelates, on that day he experienced profound grief. According to his ideas this was the severest blow which had been inflicted on the foundations of the Church for centuries.

He had studied theology deeply, but he had not confined himself to the letter; he believed he saw something beyond.

—The letter killeth, he said, the spirit giveth life.

—The spirit giveth life when it is wholesome and pure, the Grand-Vicar answered him with a smile, but is it healthy in a young man who believes himself to be wiser than his elders?

Marcel then without mistrust and urged by questions, developed his theories. He believed in the absolute equality of men before God, in the transmutation of souls: and the resurrection of the flesh seemed to him the utmost absurdity. He quite thought that there were future rewards and penalties, but he had too much faith in the goodness of God to suppose that the expiation could be eternal. He allied himself in that to the Universalists, who were, he said, the most reasonable sect of American Protestantism.

—Reasonable! reasonable! repeated the Grand-Vicar scoffingly; in truth, my poor friend, you make me doubt your reason. Can there be anything reasonable in the turpitude of heresy?

Then he hurried to find the Bishop:

—I have emptied our young man's bag, he said to him. Do you know, Monseigneur, what there was at the bottom?

—Oh, oh. Has he been inclined to debauchery? He is so young.

—Would to heaven it were only that, Monseigneur. But it is a hundred times worse.

—What do you tell me? Must I fear then for all my little sheep? We must look after him then.

—I repeat, Monseigneur, that that would be nothing.... It is the abomination of abomination, a whole world of turpitude, heresies in embryo.

—Heresies! Oh, oh! That is serious.

—Heresies which would make the cursed shades of John Huss, Wickliffe, Luther and Calvin himself tremble, if they appeared again.

—What do you say?

—I tell you, Monseigneur, that you have warmed a viper in your bosom.

—Ah, well, I will drive out this wicked viper.

The Bishop, who kept two nieces in the episcopal seraglio, would willingly have pardoned his secretary if he had been accused of immorality, but he could not carry his condescension so far as heresy. He wanted, however, to assure himself personally, and as Marcel was incapable of lying, he quickly recognized the sad reality.

The young Abbe was severely punished. He was compelled to make an apology, to retract his horrible ideas, to stifle the germ of these infant monstrosities; then he was condemned to spend six months in one of those ecclesiastical prisons called houses of retreat, where the guilty priest is exposed to every torment and every vexation.

He was definitely marked and classed as a dangerous individual.

His enemy, the Grand-Vicar, pursued him with his indefatigable hatred, so far that from disgrace to disgrace he had reached the cure of Althausen.



XLIII.

ESPIONAGE.

"A sunbeam had traversed his heart; it had just disappeared."

ERNEST DAUDET (Les Duperies de l'Amour).

Since the fatal evening when the secret of his new-born love had been discovered by his servant, Marcel had observed the woman on his steps, watching his slightest proceedings, scrutinizing his most innocent gestures.

He encountered everywhere her keen inquisitive look.

He wished at first to meet it with the greatest circumspection and the most absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness.

But he was soon obliged to renounce this means.

The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Cure pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt, the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened with a start by terrible noises during the night.

He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and threatened to leave him.

—You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had enough of it.

—Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if I were not afraid of your cursed tongue.

Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant's manners changed directly.

She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive.

Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to conceal.

He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the Laudate pueri dominum with the voice of the De profundis.

Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church, and whom he would meet again at his house.

Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a month ago; only a stranger.

Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but wishes to see the world at her feet.

And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more irritating and more insupportable.

In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far, very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant's gaze following him, and weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted jealousy.

He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the width of the village and the depth of the woods.

She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts.



XLIV.

THE GARRET WINDOW.

"Do I direct my love? It directs me. And I could abide it if I would!... And I would, after all, that I could not."

V. SARDOU (Nos Intimes).

Other days passed, and then others.

From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts.

Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne.

Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul.

But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in that loft?

He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment.

He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers, that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot.

And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again Suzanne's emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left there.



XLV.

TREACHEROUS MANOEUVRE.

"He stepped more lightly than a bird; love traced out his progress."

CHAMPFLEURY (La Comedie Academique).

"I must know," he said to himself, "where I stand."

And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village.

He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the circuit of Althausen.

Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the Captain's house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect, resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could suspect his secret agitation.

He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the other.

To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though it would break.

In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating.

Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever increasing, consumed it.

To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat.

And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was filled with a wild hope.

A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the little house, always so smart and white.

Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore.

There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than once he had caught sight of a crabbed face.

Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern.

What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her?

Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young girl? Is he not her Cure? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is enough.

He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise.

What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh, that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of love, into that chaste virgin conch.

Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it she?

He turns round.

Veronica is behind him.



XLVI.

THE LETTER.

"Let them take but one step within your door. They will soon have taken four."

LA FONTAINE (Fables).

She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: "Ah, ah, I have caught you here."

—Come, Monsieur le Cure, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody is waiting for you.

—Who!

But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards home. The Cure followed her hanging his head.

He reached the parsonage directly after her.

—Who is waiting for me then? he said again.

—It's the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait till to-morrow. He had a letter for you ... for you only, she added, lingering over these words with a scornful smile.

Marcel blushed.

—Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of mysteries there are here. Really it's worse than the Catechism. Your letters for you only! Isn't that enough to humiliate me? You have reason then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your letters to yourself only. Holy Virgin! it's a pretty thing. What can they think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don't matter to me. Would they not say...? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in this way?

—There you are with your recrimination again!

-Oh, Monsieur le Cure, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that way with me.

—Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish.

—I see very well, that you don't ask advice from anyone.... And with the insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added: You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself?

—Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions.

—My business! Well, Monsieur le Cure, yours is mine just a bit, since I am your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I know.

—Insolent woman.

—Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Cure. I let you do as you like with me.

—Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you want to arrive at?

And the Cure approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes.

—Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired.

—I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica.

Marcel's wrath passed all bounds.

—Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, beware of doing it a third time.

—Be quiet, Monsieur le Cure, said Veronica softly, be quiet.

—Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands.

The servant came near him:

—It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with solicitude: shall I make you a little tea?

—I don't want anything.

—Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am not.

—It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica.

—Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Cure, you will understand it one day.

—Leave me, I say.

The servant withdrew.

—It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation! Ah, the apostle is right: "As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall into the abyss." And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has discovered.... Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!... dear Suzanne ... no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so loudly.

He waited with feverish impatience for the postman's return.

Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant's inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his letters to himself only.

He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too discovered excellent reasons for not going out.

She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the mysterious letter.

Marcel's countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy.



XLVII.

GOOD NEWS.

"Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia O filii et filiae... Et Maria Magdalena Et Jacobi, et Salome! Alleluia."

(Easter-Mass Hymn).

"Rejoice, my son, and sing with me Hosannah! Hosannah! The ways of the Lord are infinite.

"Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest, Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, non tum vilis quam nullus, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a guilty wretch as he is.

"Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It is written: 'If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.' Anastasius Gobin has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it. Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will relate the matter to you in private.

"Ergo. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now only a question of regaining Monseigneur's favour. The serpent is no longer there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When the beast is dead, the venom is dead.

"I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope, experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. Filii Sion exultate et laetimini in Domino Deo nostro.

"I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend, you will do honour to your old master. Tu quoque Marcellus eris!

"As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is worth more, I am going to stir up the arriere-ban of the sacristies.

"I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbe Marcel alone.

"That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure—that at length you shall leave your Thebaid.

"Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will discuss what is best to do.

"Have patience then till then. Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis, fratres, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you.

"I embrace you tenderly,

"Your spiritual Father

"MARCEL RIDOUX

"Cure of St. Nicholas."



XLVIII.

RECONCILIATION.

"The fair Egle chooses her part on a sudden In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming."

CHAMPFORT (Contes).

"Here is salvation," said Marcel to himself, "the solution of the problem, the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!" And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him:

—Good news! Veronica.

—I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit?

—Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbe Ridoux, gives notice of his.

—Monsieur le Cure of Saint Nicholas?

—Himself. Do you know him?

—Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul) regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It's he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a little diversion, for we don't often laugh.

—That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest's house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness. Our Saviour has said: "Every house divided against itself shall perish."

—He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Cure.

—We must not perish, Veronica.

—I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war.

—Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself, it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica?

—Oh, Monsieur le Cure, we can come to an understanding directly, if you wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice.

—Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after supper.

—I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service.

—And we will celebrate the good news.

—I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you do not know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another's, and when we must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to laugh, and do not give up my share.

—Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is at the bottom of your bag of iniquity.



XLIX.

CONFIDENCES.

"To thee I wish to confide this secret, Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age."

BABILLOT (La Mascarade humaine).

That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Cure of Althausen had coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups.

—You have asked somebody then? she enquired.

—Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica.

The woman smiled.

She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her master.

—We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us.

Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he thought, and he answered quietly:

—We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do anything wrong.

—Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would begin to chatter.

—It is true.

—And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so, Monsieur le Cure?

Marcel bent his head:

—You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one cannot usually with a ... common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand me. Then, after a moment's hesitation:

—Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it.

—Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Cure, I deserved everything that you have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly towards you.

—I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely.

—Monsieur le Cure is too good.

—No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we can come to an understanding.

—Yes, I am easy to accommodate.

—Let us save appearances, that is essential.

—You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could ever reproach me for setting a bad example.

—I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we must wash our dirty linen at home.

—Poor Monsieur Fortin.

—That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little brandy? There! now sit close to me.

—Monsieur le Cure, one only confesses on one's knees.

—At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, but by right of a friend.

—I am quite confused, Monsieur le Cure.

—There is no Cure here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, but not a priest. Are you willing?

—I am quite willing.

—You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me.

—What do you want me to tell you?

—They committed faults then?...

—I have told you so, sir,—sometimes—like you.

—Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day.

—Seven times!

—Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater saints?

—Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar.

—Oh, Veronica, Veronica.

—Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them.

—What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things?

—One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to his valet de chambre; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I tell you so.

—But that is blasphemy, Veronica.

—Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel.

—Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness?

—Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who surprised me.

—You!... And how then?

—Monsieur le Cure, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine.

—Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? these ecclesiastics?

—Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet ... if Mademoiselle Suzanne Durand....

—Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to me. It is wrong of you to forget that.

—Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand that since you, you have erred, the others....

—And what have they done?

—Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus!

—Let us see.

—I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it.

—Come, let us see, speak ... you have nothing to be afraid of before me ... speak, Veronica, speak.

—Where must I begin?

—Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose.

—There are several of them.

—Several beginnings?

—Yes; I have had three masters, you know.

—Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I knew slightly.

—He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no.

—The Abbe Fortin?

—Lord God, yes, the Abbe Fortin!

—What has he done then?

—My God ... you know well, that which one does when one ... is a man ... and has a warm temperament.

—To you, Veronica, to you?

—Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Cure, I am so good-natured, I don't know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out through the parsonage door.

—Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad.

—And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed is a sin half pardoned.

—Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence."

—Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so?

—A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe.

—I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least?

—He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman.

—That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would believe in us without that? I say us, for I am also somewhat a church-woman.

—Undoubtedly.

—I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St. Eprive's and my mother the Cure's housekeeper.

—That is your title.

—Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the head of the association of the Holy Virgin.

—No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!... And how did he go to work to ... seduce you? He must have used much deceit.

—All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge.



L.

MAMMOSA VIRGO!

"The monk could not refrain from admiring the freshness and plumpness of this woman. For a long time he made his eyes speak, and he managed it so well that in the end he inspired the lady with the same desire with which he was burning."

BOCCACIO (La Decameron).

Veronica took several sips of the brandy which remained at the bottom of the cup, collected her thoughts for a moment, and casting her eyes down with a modest air, she proceeded:

—The good Monsieur Fortin, as perhaps you know, used to drink a little of an evening.

—Oh, he used to drink!

—Yes, not every day, but every now and then; two or three times a week: but you know ... quite nicely, properly, without making any noise; he was gayer than usual, that was all. But when he reached that point, though he was ordinarily as timid as a lay-brother, he became as bold as a gendarme, and he was very ... how shall I say?... very enterprising. I may say that between ourselves, Monsieur le Cure, you understand that strangers never knew anything about it. If by chance anyone came and asked for him at these times, I used to say that he had gone out, or that he was ill. One day, I was finely put out. Christopher Gilquin's daughter came to call him to her mother who was at the point of death. He took it into his head to try and kiss her. The little one, who was hardly fifteen, did not know what it meant. I made her understand that it was to console her, and through pure affection for her and for her mamma. It passed muster. But when she had gone I gave it to him finely, and I made him go to bed ... and sharply too.

—And he obeyed you?

—I should think so, and without a word. He saw very well he was wrong. One evening then ... I had been in his service hardly six months—I must tell you first that he had looked at me very queerly for some time; I let him do so and said to myself: "Here is another of them who will do like the rest." And I waited for it to happen. I was better-looking then than I am now: I was ten years younger, Monsieur le Cure.

—Ten years younger! but you were thirty then. How could you be a Cure's servant at that age? Our rules are opposed to it.

—I passed as his relation. And that was tolerated. Besides, when Monseigneur made his visitation, I did not show myself ... for form's sake, for Monseigneur knew very well that I was there. I met him once on the stairs; he took hold of my chin, looked at me very hard, and said in a sly way: "Here is this little spiritual sister then; faith, she is a pretty little rogue." I was so bashful. I asked Monsieur Fortin what a spiritual sister was, and he told me that they used formerly to call women so who lived with priests. They say that all had two or three spiritual sisters. What indecency! I should not have allowed that.

—Spiritual sister is not exactly the expression, said Marcel, it is adoptive sister, because they were adopted.[1] Alas, Veronica, the clergy were slightly dissolute in former times: it is no longer so in our days, in which so many holy ecclesiastics give an example of the rarest virtues.

—Oh, three wives, Monsieur le Cure! three wives! sweet Jesus! they must have torn out each other's eyes.

—No, Veronica. They agreed very well among themselves. They had different ideas at that time to what we have now.

—One evening then Monsieur Fortin had drunk at table a little more than usual. I was going to bring the dessert and I leaned over to take up a dish which was before him. As the dish was heavy and rather far from my hand, I supported myself on the back of his chair, and involuntarily I rubbed against his body with my stomach. "Oh, oh," he said, "if that happens again I shall pinch that big breast."

—What! Monsieur Fortin used that expression?

—Yes, sir, and many others besides. I blush when I think of it.... Then I looked at him quite astounded. He began to laugh. I went to look for the cheese, and I passed again beside him on purpose, and supported myself on his chair again to place it on the table. "Ah," he cried, "she is beginning again. O, mammosa virgo!"—he repeated it so many times to me that I remember it—"so much the worse, I keep my promises." And he pinched me.

—Where?

—Where he had said. He made no error. I blushed for shame and drew back as quickly as possible: "How can he," I said to myself, "use Latin words to deceive poor women?" Then he cried: "Are you ticklish?"—Yes, sir. "Ah, you are ticklish. The big Veronica is ticklish! Who would have believed it?" And he laughed, but I saw clearly that his laugh was put on, and that something else preoccupied him. And from that moment, each time that I passed near him and stooped down to clear away, he tried to pinch me where he could: "And there," he said, "are you ticklish? are you ticklish there?" I was so stupefied that I could not get over it. "It is a little too much, Holy Mother of God," I said to myself, "a man like him! to pinch me in this way! who would believe it! One would not credit it, if one saw it! Ah, I will see how far he will go, and to-morrow I will give him an account." At last, when I saw that he would not stop it, and that he was going too far, I said to him severely: Monsieur le Cure, if you continue to tease me in this way, you shall see something.

—What shall I see? he said getting up suddenly, I want to see it directly. Ah, mammosa virgo! you threaten your master! Wait, wait, I will teach you respect.

And, pretending to punish me, he caught hold of as much as he could grasp with both hands; yes, sir, as much as he could. Ah, I was very angry, God can tell you so.

—And did he stop?

—Not at all, sir; quite the contrary. I escaped from his hands, and I turned round the table saying: "Ah, sweet Jesus, what is going to happen? Divine Saviour! How far will he dare to go?" To complete the misfortune, I let the lamp fall, and it went out. Then he put himself into a great passion, and soon caught me. "You have upset the oil," he cried. "I will teach you to spill the oil." He held me with all his might. Then I got angry in earnest, in earnest, you know.

—Well?

—Well, that was useless. I was taken like a poor fly. It was too late. It was all over.

—All over!

—All over. Monsieur Fortin let me go then. Ah! sir, if you knew how ashamed I was.

[Footnote 1: They are still called sisters agapetae or subintroduced women. Perhaps it is not unnecessary to recall the fact that Gregory VII was the first of the popes to impose celibacy on the clergy. He nullified acts performed by married priests and compelled them to choose between their wives and the priesthood. In spite of this, and in spite of excommunication with which he threatened them, many kept their wives secretly, the rest contented themselves with concubines. Besides, the majority of the bishops, who lived after the same manner, tolerated for bribes infractions of the rule by the lower and higher clergy. The Council of Paris, in 1212, forbade them to receive money, proceeding from this source. At the present time, however, the Catholic priests of the Greeks-United, those of Libar and different Oriental communions, all under papal authority, not only may, but must take wives.

St. Paul said: "Choose for priest him who shall have but one wife." Would he find many of them at the present time?]



LI.

CHAMBER MORALITY.

"Practise moderation and prudence with regard to certain virtues which may ruin the health of the body."

THE REV. FATHER LAURENT SCUPOLI (Le Combat Spirituel).

—What a strange story, said Marcel. Oh, Veronica. But did you not make more resistance?

—Resistance! I was lame from it for more than a fortnight. I walked like a duck. People said to me: "What is the matter with you, Mademoiselle Veronica? They say you have broken something!" Ah, if they had suspected what it was.

—What a scandal! Monsieur Fortin!

—He was stronger than I; but I don't give him all the blame. We must be just. It was my fault too. That is what comes of playing with fire.

—But it seems to me, Veronica, that you displayed a little willingness.

—Ah, Monsieur le Cure, you are scolding me for telling you all this so plainly. Was it not better for me to act thus, than to let Monsieur Fortin run right and left and expose himself to all sorts of affronts, as some do? That man had a temperament of fire. And that temperament must have expended itself on someone. The business about little Gilquin made me reflect. I sacrificed myself, and I acted as much in his interests as in the interests of religion.

—And does not temperament speak in you also, Veronica?

—Ah, that is only told in confession.

—Nevertheless it is fine to rule your passions, to be chaste.

—Ah, yes, as you were saying once when I came in: "Chaste without hope." All that is rubbish. God has well done all that he has done; I can't get away from that.

—How can you bring the holy name of God into these abominable things?

—Abominable! that is rubbish again. Monsieur Fortin and I often asked ourselves what evil that could do to God, when neither of us did any to other people. Monsieur Fortin used to say to me: "Are we doing evil to our neighbours, Veronica?" "Not that I know of, Monsieur le Cure." "Are we causing a scandal?" "Ah, Jesus, no, Monsieur le Cure." "Are we setting a bad example?" "No, Monsieur le Cure, no." "Are we populating the land with orphans?" "Oh, as to that, no." "Well then, in what way can we be offending God?" That was very well said all the same, the more so as his health depended on it.

—But, replied Marcel, wishing to change the conversation which was verging upon dangerous ground, have you not told me that you have been in the service of ecclesiastics for nearly five-and-twenty years. That appears to me to be very extraordinary for, after all, you are hardly forty.

—Thirty-nine, corrected Veronica, who was past forty-five.

—Reason the more.

—That is true, Monsieur le Cure, but I began early. At fifteen I went to the Abbe Braqueminet's.

—I was acquainted with a Braqueminet, who was Bishop in partibus. A very worthy prelate.

—That he is, sir; he went to America.

—Come! this is too much, Veronica; you want to make a fool of me. At fifteen, do you say, that is too much! At thirty you were with the Abbe Fortin. I have no objection to that, since you passed as his relation, although with regard to this, our rules are precise, and we cannot take a housekeeper, till she is over a certain age. Sometimes, it is true, they smuggle in a few years: but fifteen years!

—It is the exact truth, however, sir. I was fifteen years old, and no more at the Abbe Braqueminet's, and you will believe me, when I tell you that I was his niece.

-Monseigneur Braqueminet's niece! you, Veronica?

-Yes, sir, his niece; the Holy Virgin who hears me, will tell you that I was his niece, and I will explain to you how.



LII.

THE POSSET.

"This little maid, so fair, with teasing ways, Was made to be a lovely man's support. For many a foolish thing in former days He did to gain a face less fair than thine."

BERANGER (la Celibataire).

My father, as I have told you, was beadle at Saint Eprive's, and my mother was servant to Monsieur le Cure. These were two good situations, but they had a number of children, and not much time to attend to them. Therefore when I was thirteen, they entrusted me to an old aunt who was willing to take charge of me. She was servant to Monsieur Braqueminet, who was then at Mirecourt. She placed me at first with a lady who made me look after her little children. At the end of a year Monsieur l'Abbe had a change, and went away to a village near Saint-Die. He said to my aunt: "You cannot leave Veronica alone at Mirecourt; she will soon be fifteen; she is tall and nice-looking; she will run too much risk, and we must take her with us; but as it would make these foolish peasants chatter if their Cure had a strange young girl in the house, she shall pass as my niece. What do you say to this proposal?" My aunt was delighted and agreed to it directly, and all the more because I would have to assist her in the household work, and that her labour would thus be lightened. They took me away from my situation, they taught me my lesson, and I went away with them, very pleased to be Monsieur le Cure's niece. Ah! that was the best time of my life. My aunt spoilt me, Monsieur le Cure was excessively fond of me, I had all my wishes. All the ladies in the neighbourhood spoke to me civilly, the Collector's wife, the lawyer's wife, the Mayoress, the wife of the exciseman, they all, in short, made much of me. Mademoiselle Veronica here! Mademoiselle Veronica there! I had my place in the gallery. They invited me to dinner and they were rivals as to who should make me little presents, as if I were really his true niece; everybody believed it, and my aunt herself, by dint of hearing it said, ended by believing it herself, for she never called me anything else than Mademoiselle Veronica.

Unfortunately after some time my aunt died. When we had both of us wept copiously for her, Monsieur le Cure said to me: "Now your aunt is dead, Veronica, what are you going to do?" I made no answer and burst again into tears. "You must not cry like that, little one, you will spoil your pretty eyes; will you remain with me? will you continue to be my niece?" That was my dream; I asked for nothing more. I thanked Monsieur Braqueminet with all my soul, and told him that as he wanted me to be his niece, I would remain his niece all my life.—"That is agreed," he said to me, "you shall keep my little house for me, and I will take another maid-servant for the heavy work only." For he was so nice to me that he would not allow me to fatigue myself in anything. Ah, the men, Monsieur le Cure, who can trust the men! See what he has made of me after all his fine promises: a poor servant, nothing more.

—Had he then any reason to complain of you?

—To complain of me! ah, sweet Paschal Lamb! Never has he said a word of reproach. But since I am in the mood to tell you everything, I may as well do so at once. It was he who had my innocence.

—What! it was not the Abbe Fortin then?

-No, Monsieur le Cure, it was the Abbe Braqueminet.

—And how did he go to work to have your innocence?

—Ah, he was a very clever man. First he knew how to inspire affection, he was so kind to me. It was I who managed everything. I was mistress of all, although so young, and, pray believe me, everything proceeded well. But ... one fine day a real niece turned up, no one knows whence ... and, faith, I was obliged to retire. I might have made an exposure, but I preferred to sacrifice myself.

—Was she younger than you then?

—The same age, sir, but she was fresh fruit. She appeared so innocent that one would have given her the sacrament without confession. Monsieur Braqueminet, he undertook to give her the Sacrament.... Yes, he undertook it, that man!...

—But was she really his niece?

—Yes, sir, his own sister's daughter. I have had proofs of it; do you think I should have gone away, without that? This sister hated me, and I thoroughly returned it; but when I saw her daughter arrive, I said to myself: I am well revenged.

—But your innocence.... how did he have it?

—Ah, you are anxious to know that. I must tell you everything then! everything! this is how it happened. He suffered a little from his chest, and every evening my aunt used to carry him up a posset. When my aunt was dead, I was obliged to take her place, for the servant we had taken was married, and went home at the end of the day. He knew very well what he was doing, and I, poor little lamb of God, believed everything. I was like a new-born child. It is not right to be so silly as that. God has punished me for it: it is quite right. I don't complain at it. So I used to take him up his posset every evening. Then he used to kiss me and squeeze me to his heart, calling me his dear niece, and charging me to be good:

—You will always be good? he used to say to me.

—Yes, uncle.

—Always! you promise me.

—Yes, uncle.

—Ah, let me kiss you for that kind promise. I found that he kissed me for rather a long time and although it was very pleasant to me, still it used to give me reason for reflection: "How can he love me so much, I thought, when he is not my uncle?"

You can judge by that if I was not silly. But it is perfectly conceivable, for I had never been to school, so who was there then to teach me naughtiness. A young girl's brain is active, and I formed a thousand fancies of every kind. "Perhaps he has some interest concealed underneath," I said artlessly to myself, "and perhaps he does not love me as he wishes me to believe." I was hardly fifteen, and you see I was quite candid and simple. I thought I would pretend to be ill, in order to make a trial of him, and see if he would be grieved and if he would come and nurse me. So one evening, when he had finished supper, I told him that I was not well, and that I was going to bed. He was reading his newspaper and did not appear to hear me. At least he made no reply. I went away very sadly and sorrowfully, thinking that his affection for me was not very great, as he did not give the least attention to my complaints. In short, I went to bed.

"He will go to bed too very soon," I said to myself, "he will call for his posset and he will be obliged to get up to see why I do not bring it to him."

Indeed, about an hour after, I heard his bell. I wrapped myself up in the sheets and pretended to be asleep. He rang a second time. "Veronica, Veronica," he cried, "my posset; what are you doing then? Have you forgotten it? Veronica!"

I turned a deaf ear.



LIII.

THE LEG.

"One is compelled sometimes to say to oneself, 'On what does ruin or safety depend?'"

J. TOURGUENEFF (Les eaux printanieres).

Then I heard him come upstairs cautiously and stop at the door of my room. All at once he opened it. He remained standing still for a moment, then he came near my bed on tip-toe.

I half-opened my eyes quickly, and the first thing I saw was his naked legs—my word, he had a very well-made leg! I looked again and saw that he was covered with an old black cloak which served him as a dressing-gown.

I closed my eyes again quickly, and, without giving an account of my feelings, I was overcome by a strong emotion.

My uncle passed his hand over my forehead. He found it burning, for he cried out directly: "But she is really ill, she is really ill, poor child." Then leaning over me: "Little one, little one, where are you in pain?"

I pretended to wake up with a start, and I stared wildly at him, as if I was much surprised to see him there. We women have the instinct of deceit from birth; believe me, what I tell you is true, Monsieur le Cure.

—It is possible, Veronica.

—Well, then be said to me, "Where are you in pain, little one?" I put my finger on the pit of my stomach, and replied in a feeble voice "Here."

He put his hand there, and I saw that he moved it about with complacency on that part.

This touch seemed to make him beside himself, "Oh, the pretty little girl, the pretty little girl!" he said, "she is ill, poor dear child." And his hand continued to caress me.

You may think how I was trembling. Although he did it very decently, I said to myself that it was not altogether proper, but I took good care not to utter a word. A girl is inquisitive, you know, and I was not displeased to see what he would come to.

"Will you have a fomentation?" he said to me after a moment. "No, uncle," I answered, "I feel I am getting better, it is not worth while; I am even going to get up to make you your posset." "To get up, do you dream of it?... All the same, perhaps you are right, there is still some fire in my room: will you come there? you will warm yourself better than in your bed." "I will, if it does not disturb you." "Disturb me! no, no, don't be afraid of disturbing me; come, put on a dress and come."

I sat up in bed, thinking that he would go out of the room to let me dress, but he remained standing in front of me, and his looks frightened me.

I remained sitting on the bed, without stirring. "Well, well, little girl, you are not getting up?"

"I dare not get up before you, uncle." "Are you silly? What are you afraid of? Are you not my niece? Come, come, out of bed, little stupid." He said that in a gentle insinuating voice, and I dared not hesitate any more. I put one leg out of bed. He followed my movements with the greatest attention; "Well, well, and that other leg?"

I put out the other leg, blushing all over with shame, and I wanted to take my petticoat.

But he came near directly and said: "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like this.... You will always be good, will you not?"

"Yes, uncle."

"How pretty you are when you are good. You will always be so? You promise?"

"Yes, uncle."

"Oh, I want to kiss you for that kind promise."

—I held out my cheek to him without resistance, but it was my mouth which received the kiss. It was followed by a thousand others. One is not of iron, Monsieur le Cure, and that was how ... I ... lost my innocence.

—What, Veronica, you fell so easily! They say that it is only the first step which is painful, but it seems hardly to have been painful to you.

—Oh, Monsieur le Cure, we women are full of faults, and we deserve only eternal damnation.

—I do not say that, Veronica. Certainly in this circumstance all the fault lies on your seducer, but I should have preferred more struggle on your part.

—You men are very good with your struggle. To hear you, we never make enough resistance. Would one not say that the poor women are made of another paste than you, and that they ought to be harder?

—No, but it is necessary to know how to govern one's passions. That is the noble, the lofty, the meritorious thing. Resist temptation, everything lies in that.

[PLATE III: THE LEG. "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like this..."]



—Everything lies in that, I know it well; but what would you? I had lost my head entirely like Monsieur Braqueminet. And I did not know what he wanted, or what he was going to do. I only understood when it was too late.

—Ah, Veronica, you singular woman, you have made me quite beside myself with your stories.

—It was you who wished it.

—The Abbe Fortin! the Abbe Braqueminet! God of heaven! and who besides?

—The Abbe Marcel!

—Yes, it is true, I also ... I have been on the point of transgressing. Ah! temptation is sometimes very strong, Veronica, my good Veronica; the noble thing is to resist.

The greatest saints have succumbed. St. Origen was obliged to employ a grand means, you know what, my daughter?

—Monsieur Fortin has told me. But you must not act like that saint; that would be a pity, it would be better to succumb, dear Monsieur Marcel. How I like your name, Marcel, Marcel, it is so soft to the mouth.

—To resist temptation like Jesus on the mountain....

—There was but one Jesus.

—Like St. Antony in the desert....

—That is rubbish; in the desert no one could tempt him.

—Leave the room, Veronica; since you have talked to me, I understand the fault of your former masters; leave the room.

—Are you afraid of me then? Angels of heaven, a woman like me. Is it possible? Ah, I should have been very proud of it.

—Proud to make me sin?

—Sin! Sin! Monsieur le Cure: why do we call that a sin?

She came nearer to him. He wished to rise from his chair, but his hand went astray, he never knew how, on his servant's waist.

Oh vow of chastity, sentiments of modesty, manly dignity and priestly virtue, where were you, where were you?



LIV.

MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM.

"Well, you have found it, this ephemeral happiness."

BABILLOT (La Mascarade humaine).

Sadness succeeds to joy, deception to illusion, the awakening to the dream, the head-ache to the debauch.

When the crime is perpetrated, remorse, the avenging lash of virtue, comes and scourges the conscience. "Come, up, vile thing! thou hast slept over long."

And it exposes to the wretch the emptiness of pleasures, purchased at the price of honour.

The dawn found the Cure of Althausen groaning secretly to himself on his couch.

He had made himself guilty of an abominable wickedness, he had just committed an inexcusable crime, he had succumbed cowardly, ignominiously; he had betrayed his faith, abjured his priestly oaths, forgotten his duties, prostituted his dignity on the withered breast of an old corrupted maid-servant.

Suzanne, the adorable young girl, who in the first place had insensibly and involuntarily drawn him on the road of perjury, for whom he would have sacrificed honour, reputation, the universe and his God, he had abjured her also in the arms of this drab.

And that was the wound which consumed his heart the most.

For as soon as we have yielded to the infernal temptation, the lying prism vanishes, the halo disappears, and there only remains vice in all its hideousness and repulsive nudity. It is then that we hear a threatening voice mutter secretly in the depths of our being.

Happy is he who, already slipping on the fatal descent, listens to that voice: "Stop, stop; there is still time, raise thyself up."

But most frequently we remain deaf to that importunate cry. And, weary of crying in vain, conscience is silent. It no more casts its solemn serious note into the intoxicating music of facile love.

And the wretch, devoured by insatiable desire, pursues his coarse and looks not back. He goes on, he ever goes on, leaving right and left, like the trees on the way-side, his vigour and his youth which he scatters behind him. He set forth young, robust and strong, and he arrives at the halting-place, worn-out, soiled and blemished. There is the ditch, and he tumbles headlong into it. He falls into the common grave of cowardice and infamy. The lowest depths receive him and restore him not again.

Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened. Disturb not this corpse, it is only putrefaction.

The poet has said:

"Evil to him who has permitted lewdness Beneath his breast its foremost nail to delve! The pure man's heart is like a goblet deep: Whe the first water poured therin is foul, The sea itself could not wash out the spot, So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie."

Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself:

"Shall I ever be able to see the light of day? Shall I ever dare to raise my eyes after this filthy crime? Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me. Avenging thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth."

But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest rumbling of thunder. Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no minister of God had sinned. The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden.

There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile. She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless curiosity.

[PLATE IV: MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. ...he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust.... And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.]



Doubtless she was saying to herself: "Is it really possible? Am I then in bed with this handsome priest? Is my dream then realised?"

And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in the Cure of Althausen's bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones:

—You say nothing, my handsome master. You seem to be dejected. What! you are not tired out already?

And she put out her hand to give him a caress. But he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust.

—Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful. I was forgetting your Mass.

And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.



LV.

IN THE FOOT-PATH.

"'Tis the comer blest where God's creatures dwell, The wild birds' haunt and the dragon-fly's home, Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell, Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam."

CAMILLE DELTHIL (Les Rustiques).

"Abomination of abomination!" murmured Marcel, and he went out in haste; he would not remain another minute in that cursed house. It seemed to him that the walls of his room reeked of debauchery, and that everything there was impregnated with the odour of foul orgies.

He went out of the village, unconscious of his road, like a hunted criminal; he tried to escape from himself, for that harsh officer, remorse, had laid vigorous hold of his conscience. Be followed at random the foot-paths, lined by gardens by which he had passed so many times with placid brow and a clean heart; he walked on, he walked on, with bare head, and blank and haggard eyes, thinking of nothing but his crime, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, not oven the bell which summoned him to his morning Mass, as it cheerfully filled the air with its silver notes.

The morning was as bright as the face of a bride. May was shedding its perfumes and flowers on the paths, and displaying everywhere its marvellous adornments of universal life,—labour and love. The children were already tumbling about in the foot-paths, the birds were warbling in the hawthorn hedges, and in the moist grass the grasshopper was saluting the rising sun.

And he, in the midst of all this joy and all this life, was walking on with his head filled with vague ideas of suicide. A few peasants passed near him and sainted him: he saw them not; he saw not the children who stopped still and gazed in bewilderment at his strange appearance: he saw not Suzanne who was approaching at the end of the path.

She was only a few paces away when he raised his head, and all his blood rushed to his heart. Vision blessed and cursed at the same time. She, she there, at the vary moment of the consummation of his shame. She before him when he had just dug an abyss between them. What should he say? Would she not read on his troubled face the shameful secret of the drama within? Was not his crime written on his sullied brow in indelible soars? He would have wished the earth to open under his feet.

Meanwhile she advanced blushing, perhaps as greatly agitated as himself.

And from the smile on her rosy lips, from the brightness of her dark eyes, from the gram of her carriage, from the chaste swelling of her bosom, from the folds of her dress which, blown by the morning breeze, revealed the harmonious outlines of her fairy leg, from all those inexpressible maiden charms, there breathed forth that something, for which there is no name in the language of men, but which accelerates the beating of the heart, which pours into the veins an unknown fluid, and bids us murmur low to the stranger who passes by, and whom perhaps we may never see again: "My life is thine, is thine!"

Mysterious sensation, which, in the golden days of youth, we have all experienced once at least with ravishing delight.

And everything seemed to say to Marcel: "Fool! If thou hadst wished it, we were thine. The delights of paradise were thine, and thou hast preferred the impurities of hell!"

Oh, if he had been able, if he had dared, he would have cast himself at this maiden's feet, he would have kissed her knees, he would have grovelled on the ground and cried with tears: "Pardon! pardon! Fate has caused it all. Almighty God will never pardon me, but it is thou whom I implore, and what matters it, if thou, thou dost pardon me."

The feeling of the reality recalled him to himself. Who was aware of his fault, and what was there, besides, in common between this young girl and himself? One evening when alone with her, he had acted imprudently, that was all, and it was now long ago. Then, through desperation and also to show that he attached no importance to that act of imprudence which he had almost forgotten, he assumed an icy demeanour.

She advanced with a smile, but she felt it congeal on her lips before this insolent coldness, while he, gravely bowing to her as before, a stranger, passed on.



LVI.

DOUBLE REMORSE.

"Ah, how much better are the love-tales which we spelt in our eyes with our hearts."

CAMILLE LEMONNIER (Croquis d'automne).

His Mass said, Marcel did not want to return to the parsonage. He made his way slowly to the wood, absorbed by a world of thoughts. All was quite changed since the day before, and what a revolution had been wrought in his soul in one day.

The day before there was still time to stop, there was time to cast far away temptations and impure desires, to avoid the infernal snares and ambushes, to take refuge, according to the Apostle's advice, in the bosom of God; now it was too late, it was no longer in his power; he found himself hemmed in within the circle of abominations, and he did not see how he could get forth.

A double remorse tormented him, and wrung his conscience with fierce fingers.

On the one hand, there was his servant, become his accomplice and his mistress, an odious thing; his servant defiling his couch, hitherto immaculate; his couch of a virtuous priest.

Then, on the other, there was the fair pale face of Suzanne, full of reproaches, surprised and sad. Why had he not stopped? What fury had urged him forward, cold and scornful, when he burned to hear once again the sound of that voice which stirred his heart!

And the memory of that meeting, at the very moment of the consummation of his infamy, was the blow of the lash which laid bare the open wound of his remorse. He did not curse his crime more than the inopportuneness and the awkwardness of that crime.

What! be had given himself up to a despicable old woman, he had slaked the thirst of that ghoul with his generous blood, he had abandoned to that hell-hag the promises of his young body and his virgin soul, while a young girl whose like he had never seen but in fairy tales and dreams, came to him and seemed to say to him: "You may love me."

And he had repulsed her in order to give himself up to the former: that horrible creature, that hypocrite, that sorceress.

And now that his judgment was calm, he could not understand how he had allowed himself to be carried away by such clumsy manoeuvres, that he had fallen in so cowardly a way, and for such an object.

If, at least, it had been in the arms of the lovely school-girl! If his virtue had melted under the kisses of her charming lips! But no, none of all that: none of those unparalleled joys, of those ineffable delights, of those divine and sweet pleasures.

Unclean touches, a withered body, an impure mouth. Lewdness instead of love.

And his servant's caresses recurred to him and froze him like the infernal spectres of a hideous nightmare.

He saw again her face, lighted up by amorous fever, her fiery lecherous look, fastening on him with all the wild fury of her forty-five years, with the cynicism of the sham saint who has thrown away her mask, and who, after long fasting, continence and privation, finds at length the means of glutting herself, and wallows more than any other in the sewer of obscenities and Saturnalia.

He saw her again like the old courtesan of Horace,

....Mulier nigris dignissima barris

soliciting horribly her too avaricious caresses, and employing all the arsenal of her filthy seduction to excite him.

Meanwhile the hours were passing away. The spirit travels in vain into the land of phantoms; nature performs her modest functions without caring for the wanderings of the spirit.

He felt by the pangs of his stomach that he had as yet only breakfasted on the body of Christ, a meagre repast after a night consecrated to Venus. In short, he was hungry, and he decided to return to the parsonage.



LVII.

THE EXPLOSION.

"What dost thou want with me, old vixen, worthy to have black elephants for thy lovers.... With what passion dost thou reproach me for my disgust."

HORACE (Epodes).

Veronica was waiting for him with a puckered smile. At another time she would have made a great uproar, for the hour for the meal had struck long ago; but she did not wish to abuse her freshly conquered rights, and she contended herself with asking in accents of soft reproach.

—How late you are. Where have you come from? I was beginning to be anxious.

Marcel made no reply.

—You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have you come from?

—I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply.

The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the table.

—Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they scorn her.

This sentence struck the Cure to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him.

—You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly.

—There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not young enough or pretty enough for you.

—I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting.

—What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick.

—I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think.

—I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken. Ah! I am revolting! revolting! Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth. But it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, yesterday, she cried insolently.

—Yesterday! yesterday! Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you. I would that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of the tomb.

—Yes? is that your thought? Well, for my part, I will forget nothing. Oh! you are pleased to wish to forget, are you? Therefore, you give yourself up to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say: "Let us forget." Ah! I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do you hear?

—Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven.

—I will not be silent, I will not. So much the worse if they hear me. What does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am? It is not I who am guilty, it is you. It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you. It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned her back. Yes, yes, you have done that. I blush for you. And you are Monsieur le Cure! Monsieur le Cure. If that wouldn't make the hens laugh. Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you. Have I gone and sought for you, have I? You have made me tell you a lot of stories which ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside you, drink brandy,... and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me. Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has been all her life the victim of priests like you. No, I will not be silent, I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must. Ah! you have taken me like a thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, when one has no more need of it: I understand you; but I have more self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant.

You want to forget. Very good. But I do not want to forget, and I shall not forget. Oh, I well know what it is your want, Messieurs les Cures; you want young girls, quite young girls, green fruit, which you pick like that at the Confessional, or in some corner, without appearing to touch it, and all the while praying to God. I am aware of that, you know. You cannot teach any tricks to me. You did not get up early enough, my good master. Your Suzanne! there is what would please you. You would not tell her that she is revolting. Affected thing! But they will give you them, wait a little. Go and see if they are coming, Jean. The little girls come like that and throw themselves at your neck! You would allow it perhaps. That is what would be revolting. But the mammas are watching, and the papas are opening their eyes. You hear, Monsieur le Cure? The papas; that is what annoys you. Papa Durand.

—Here! cried a voice of thunder from the bottom of the stair-case, and it resounded in Marcel's ears like the trumpet of the last judgment.

Pale and terrified, he questioned Veronica with his eyes.

—It is he, she said, hurrying to the landing-place.



LVIII.

PROVOCATION.

"For her, for her I will drink the cup to the dregs."

A. DE VIGNY (Chatterton).

—A thousand pardons, said the Captain, but the door was open and I have knocked twice. Monsieur le Cure, I have the honour to salute you. I am not disturbing you?

—Not at all, Monsieur le Capitaine, quite the contrary, I am happy to see you; please come in, stammered Marcel, trying to conceal his confusion, and to look pleasantly at the old soldier. He eagerly brought forward an arm-chair for him, the one on which Suzanne had sat.

"Ah," he thought, "if he knew that his daughter was there, at this same place!"

The Captain sat down, and, tapping his cane on the floor, seemed to be seeking for a way of entering on his subject; he appeared anxious, and Marcel noticed that he no longer had his decisive scoffing manner.

—Monsieur le Cure, he said after a moment's silence, you must be a little surprised to see me ... although, after what I believe I heard, I may not be altogether a stranger here.

—My parishioners are no strangers, Captain.

—Parishioner! oh, I am hardly that. I was not making allusion to that title, but to my name, which was uttered at the very moment when I was at your door.

—Your name, Captain, said Marcel growing red; but there are several persons of your name.

—That is what I said to myself. There is more than one donkey which is called Neddy, and more than one Papa Durand in the world. Papa! that recalls to me my position as father, sir, and the purpose of my presence here.

Marcel trembled.

—For you may guess that independently of the pleasure of paying you a call, I have moreover another object in view.

—Proceed, Captain.

—Yes, sir. I wish to talk to you about my daughter.

—About your daughter! cried Marcel.

—About my daughter, if you allow me.

—Do so, I beg of you.

—Monsieur le Cure, you have been in this neighbourhood some six or eight months. People have certainly spoken to you about me; they have told you who I am; a miscreant, a man without religion, who regards neither law or Gospel: that is to say, only worth hanging. In spite of that, you came to see me. Very good. You know that I do not pick and choose my words, that I do not seek a lot of little twisting ways to express my meaning. You have had a proof of it. I am blunt, and even brutal, that is well known; but I am open and true.

—I do not doubt it, Captain.

—After our little conversation the other day, you must have decided on my sentiments with regard to those of your profession. Are those sentiments right or wrong? That is my business. I am not come to begin a controversy, I am come to ask for an explanation.

—Please go on, said Marcel alarmed.

—Not liking the priests, I should have wished to bring up my daughter in these principles. You see I am straightforward. Unfortunately, like many other things, her education has slipped out of my hands. We soldiers do not accumulate property, and those who have the best share, if they have no private fortune, remain as poor as Job. We are not able therefore to bring up our children as we intend. The State, in its solicitude, is willing to undertake this care: we are glad of it, and we are thankful to the State; but our children slip out of our hands; they become what the State wishes them to be, that is to say, its humble servants, and, if they are daughters, anything but what their father has ever dreamed.

Marcel breathed again:

—The vocation of children, he said softly, is often in contradiction to the wishes of parents, and that is precisely the sign of the real vocation ... to shatter obstacles. Where is the great artist, the great man, the hero, the saint, the martyr, who has not had to struggle with his own family?

—I am not speaking of a vocation, sir, but of prejudices, of fatal habits, of disheartening nonsense, which children, and especially young girls, imbibe in certain surroundings. The education which my daughter has received, has inoculated her with ideas which I am far from blaming in a woman—I have my religion myself too—but the abuse of which I resent. I am not then at war with my daughter because she has her own, and her own is more receptive, but what I blame with all my power, and what I am determined to oppose with all my power is the excessive attendance at church and on the priest ... on the priest, above all. You are a man, sir, and you understand me, do you not?

—I understand, Captain, that you do not wish your daughter to go to church.

—As little as possible, sir.

—Nevertheless, as a Christian and as a Catholic, she has duties to perform.

—What do you mean by duties?

—Why, the first elements which the Catechism prescribes.

—I do not remember exactly what your catechism prescribes, but if you mean by that the little box where they tell their sins, that is exactly what I absolutely forbid.

—Nevertheless a young person has need of counsel.

—Undoubtedly; but that counsel I intend to give myself.

—There is also the priest's part, Captain.

—Allow me to have another opinion. Besides, the adviser is too young; that is why, Monsieur le Cure, I ask you to abstain in the future from all advice, and undertake to abandon any intention you may have with regard to the direction of this young soul. Such is the purport of my visit.

—Monsieur le Capitaine, answered Marcel, relieved from a great weight, I am an honourable man. Another perhaps might be offended at this proceeding. I will take no offence at it. Another perhaps might answer: "It is a soul to contend for with Satan; it is the struggle between the Church and the family; an old struggle, sir, an eternal struggle. You are master to impose your will among your own, just as among us, we are masters to act according to our conscience. As a father of a family, your rights are sacred, but they stop at the entrance to the holy place. You desire the struggle. It lies between us." For myself I simply reply: "Let it be done according to your wish, and may the will of God equally be done!"

—And what does that mean?

—That your daughter is and shall be in my eyes like all the souls which Heaven has willed to entrust to my care. If she does not come to church, I will not go to seek her; but if she comes there, I cannot ask her to depart.

—You are really too good. And if she comes and kneels in the little box?

—Then the will of God will be stronger than the paternal will.

—That is no answer.

—Well! what can I do? humbly replied Marcel.

—Allow me, sir; I ask you what you would do in such a case.

—I make you the judge of it; can I treat your daughter differently to the other ladies of the parish?

—That is to say that you will receive her confession?

—That will be my duty, Captain. I am frank also, you see.

—But, Monsieur le Cure, the first of your duties is not to encourage the disobedience of children, and not to place yourself between a father and his daughter.

—I place myself on no side, Captain. I confine myself, as far as I can, to the very obscure and modest character of a poor priest. I am charged with an office; is it possible, I ask you yourself, for me to repel those who address themselves to that office?

—Very good, sir, said the Captain rising; I know henceforth what to rely on.

—Pardon me, Captain, but allow me to say that your proceedings and apprehensions appear to me a trifle superfluous; for indeed, if you have a reproach to make your daughter, it is not that of excessive devotion, for it is a long time since she has come to church.

—I have forbidden it to her, sir. But my daughter is grieved, and that pains me. I came to address myself to you, man to man, and as you see, I am disappointed.

—Believe me, Captain, let the thing alone. Do nothing in a hurry. Young people are irritated by obstacles. They need freedom and diversion. Think of this young lady's position, dropped from her school into the midst of this solitude, having neither friends or companions any longer; at that age, the family is not everything; books, walks, music are not sufficient, What harm is there in her coming sometimes on Sunday, to hear Divine Service? We do not conceal it from ourselves, sir, that many women whom we see at service, come there for relaxation.

—And it is precisely that relaxation which ruins them.

—Not in the church, sir.

—Not there, no. But behind, in the sacristy, or at the back of some well-closed room. Adieu, sir.

—I do not want to criticize your language, Captain But one word more, I ask. Is your daughter acquainted with your proceeding?

—Why that question?

—Because then my task will be all traced out.

—What task?

—To avoid every sort....

—Of intercourse. Do what honour counsels you, and trust to me for the rest. I will act with my daughter as it will be suitable for me to act. As for you, you have asserted that any other priest less honourable would have said to me: "We are going to engage in the struggle, it lies between us." I see now that in your mouth the word honourable signifies polite, for you have been polite, but the other alone would have been frank and honourable. "Between us" is better, "between us" pleases me. It is plainer and shorter. Again, I have the honour to salute you.



LIX.

ACTS AND WORDS.

"Intrigues of heavy dreams! We go to the right; darkness: we go to the left; darkness: in front; darkness ... the thread which you think you hold, escapes out of your hand, and, triumphant for a moment, you set yourself again to grope your way to the catastrophe, which is a denseness of shadows."

CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (Croquis d'automne).

When the Captain had gone away, Marcel perceived the triumphant face of his servant. Mad with shame and rage he shut himself up in his room, and asked himself what was going to become of him. "What am I to do?" he said to himself; "here is the punishment already."

Nevertheless, on serious reflection, he saw a way all traced out before him; it was the ancient, the good, the old way which he had followed until then, and into which the Captain had just brutally driven him back:

The way of his duty.

To forget Suzanne! He had that very morning, without wishing it, almost unknowingly, commenced the rapture; the father's visit had just completed the work.

To forget Suzanne! Yes, he would forget her, he must; not only his honour, his reputation, but his very existence were involved in it. Material impossibilities rose up before him in every direction where he tried to deviate from the straight path. His servant! The father! He was compelled to be an honourable man anyhow, not lost sight of, watched and spied upon by these two enemies.

To forget Suzanne! How, after what had passed the previous day, would he dream for a moment of remembering her? He was almost thankful to his servant for having stopped him in time on a descent, at the end of which was scandal and dishonour.

In any other circumstances his pride would have revolted at the menaces of the foolish father, he would have been stung in his self-esteem, and he would have disputed with him for his treasure. But where was his pride? Where was his dignity? He had left all that on the lap of a cook.

Reputation was safe; that was henceforth the only good which he must keep at any price.

"Come," said he, "keep it, have courage. Stand up, son of saints and martyrs. Yield not, hesitate not, march forward, without being anxious for what is on the right or left. Do thy duty in one direction, since in the other thou hast failed. Is a man then lost because he has for one moment deviated from his way? Is he dead for one false step? Peter denied his master three times, thou hast done so but once!"[1]

The postman's ring drew him from his reverie. He ran to receive the letter, recognized the writing, hastily put it into his pocket, took up his hat and his breviary, and went out without saying a word.

When he was in the little hollow road which is at the bottom of the hill, he turned round, and, certain that he was not being followed, only then did he open the letter which follows:

"MONSIEUR LE CURE,

"Why are you vexed with me? If you have not seen me any more at Mass, it is that I have had to contend with my father, and that I have been obliged to yield. Nevertheless, I am unhappy, and more than ever have I need of your counsel. You have said: 'We cannot serve two masters,' and 'it is very difficult to render to Caesar that which is Caesar's, and to God that which is God's.' One word, if you please, through the medium of Marianne to

"Your very devoted

"S.D."

He tore up the letter into the smallest fragments and returned home in all haste.

A few hours after, Marianne received the following notice:

"To-morrow evening at 7 o'clock, in honour of the Holy Virgin, there will be Salutation and Benediction at the Chapel of St. Anne. The faithful are besought to attend."

[Footnote 1: Thou art man and not God, says the holy book of Consolation, thou art flesh and not an angel. How canst thou always continue in very virtue?]



LX.

TALKS.

"When from the hills fell balmy night, 'Neith the dark foliage of the lofty trees, Starred by the moon-beams' placid light, Often we wandered by the water's side."

CAMILLE DELTHIL (Poesie inedite).

As he expected, she did not fail to be at the meeting-place. She was unaware of her father's proceedings; it was Marcel who informed her of them. She was quite terrified; but he reassured her, and knew how to soothe her young conscience; and meeting followed meeting. Dear and innocent meetings. The most prudish old woman would have found nothing to find fault with. The mystery, and their being forbidden, formed all their charm.

The Chapel of St. Anne, half-a-league distant from the village, was a charming object for a walk. You cross the meadow as far as the little river, bordered with willows, then the chapel is reached by a hollow lane hedged with quicksets. The sweet month of May had begun. Three evenings a week the little nave was in festal dress, and filled with light, and perfumes and flowers.

Suzanne went no more to Mass, but she had said to her father:

—Will you not let me go instead and take a walk sometimes beside Saint Anne's, to hear the music and the singing of the congregation?

—Marianne shall accompany you, replied Durand.

They were always the last to leave the chapel, and Marcel soon rejoined them. It was at some winding of the path that he used to meet them by chance, and every time he showed great surprise. They walked slowly along, talking of one thing and another. The Spring, the latest books, the good Captain's rheumatism, were themes of inexhaustible variety. The future sometimes attracted their thoughts, her own future; and the priest tried to cause a few fresh rays to shine into the young unquiet soul.

They talked also of the school and of friends who had gone out into the world. One of them, a fair child with blue eyes, was her best-beloved and the fairest of the fair, and Marcel sometimes felt jealous of these warm, young-girl friendships.

He did not disdain to talk of fashions; it is one way of pleasing, and he admired aloud the elegant cut of the waist, the twig of lilac fastened to the body of her dress, and the graceful art which had twined her long jetty plaits. She smiled and said: "What, you too; you too; you pay attention to these woman's trifles!"

But what matters the topic of their conversations, all they could say was not worth the joyous note which sang at the bottom of their hearts.

When they drew near the village he bowed to her respectfully, and each one returned by a different way.

Marianne was then profuse in her praises:

-What a fine Cure! she said, so kind and civil. If your father only knew him better!

And Suzanne, who returned very thoughtful, said once: "The Cure! can it be? It is the Cure then."



LXI.

LE PERE HYACINTHE.

"She still preserved for herself that little scene; thus, little by little, we accumulate within ourselves all the elements of the inner life."

EMILE LECLERCQ (Une fille du peuple).

She had shown Marcel the portrait of her beloved Rose. "Yes, she is very pretty," he had replied, "but I prefer dark girls ..." Suzanne blushed. He opened his breviary and drew out a card.

—Are you going to show me a dark girl? she said.

He handed it to her without answering.

It was the photograph of a man of about forty, with strongly-marked and characteristic features. The eyes, prominent and slightly veiled, were surrounded with a dark ring, a token of struggle, fatigue and deception. A profile out of a picture of Holbein in every-day dress.

—It is a priest, she cried.

—It is a priest, indeed, answered Marcel. We are recognized in any costume. We cannot conceal our identity. Do you know who that is?

—Is it not that monk who has made such a noise? That Dominican who has married, and broken with the Church?