Then, had he well weighed the mortifications which await the apostate priest!

To be nameless in society, with no future, repulsed, despised, scoffed at by all!

Should he, like the Pere Hyacinth, go and found a free church in some corner of the republic, and rove through Europe, like him, to confer about morality, the rights of women and virtue?

Would not poverty come and knock at his door? Poverty with a beloved wife! It would appear a hideous and terrifying spectre, chilling in its livid approach and in its kisses of love.

To struggle against these obstacles he would need high energy and high courage, and he felt that courage and energy were lacking in him, the miserable coward, who had shamefully succumbed to the clumsy artifices of a lascivious woman, who had allowed the first fruits of his virginity and his youth to be lost in shameful debauch; while close by there was an adorable maiden whose heart was beating in unison with his own.

Thus did his reflection lead him till the end of the Gospel, and when he said the Deo gratias he had as yet decided nothing.



LXXVI.

AWAKENING.

"We never permit with impunity the mind to analyze the liberty to indulge in certain loves; once begin to reflect on those deep and troublesome matters which are called passion and duty, the soul which naturally delights in the investigation of every truth, is unable to stop in its exploration."

ERNEST FRYDEAU (La Comtesse de Chalis).

When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut the street-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and sat down on the side of her bed.

She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination, if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had held her in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself.

Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, to reflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even to recover herself.

A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a few seconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she had lost her honour, and that was love!

She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelled hair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than all that, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming.

He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and light of heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in her soul.

And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, still burning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Where is my virginity?"

Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing, it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not a virginity which flies away.

And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse.

The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice of illusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regarding the opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, be it understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, without which she is not a woman, but an unclean female.

When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself:

—What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me?

And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have said so already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her.

And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed illegitimately the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, does not say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when the bandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love suppliant, is unbound from the eyes of love satisfied, when the unknown which has so many charms, has become the known that we despise, when of the rosy, inflated illusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to me trustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equal facility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... what devil...?"

A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in the heart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at the time when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected by Pleasure.

And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our own fall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love.

For there comes a moment when the angel for whom one would have given one's life, the divinity for whom one would have sacrificed country, family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in the ordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spend half-a-sovereign.

Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some fresh morning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of a loving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting the shady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome, young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, or blushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towards another, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which ought to be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip.

"One of those noble loves which have no end."

Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, is insupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. The universe is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and in order to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruple in mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony, the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love.

You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passes by. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is because like me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following them as the insultores used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demon with sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tear the veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, getting ready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles.

Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has become of those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth an endless love. Where are they? Where are their loves?

As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which the evening breeze carried away last year.

"But where are the snows of yester-year?"

What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always. Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two first forfeited the oath?

There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those who had sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers.

The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on the arm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, a little faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian.

That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head of her lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dull tallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, and who said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to and separated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished by fastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish but substantial.

And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea of oblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses, can he precisely remember her name?

Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpools of life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipated into an abyss.

She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she had received a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, her heart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn which somehow or another had made its way into the field of tares.

She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility with which she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuse to try and palliate her fault in her own eyes.

But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl is pardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness and excitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault.

But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Cure?

Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husband who is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroad whom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Her father, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The white hairs of that worthy, brave old man.

She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled to confess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected her most was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremely surprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt to find an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But in proportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what a corner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom she had fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater.



LXXVII.

CONSOLATIONS.

"Every fault finds its excuse in itself. This is the sophistry in which we are richest. The struggle of good and evil is serious, and really painful, only in the case of a man who has been brought up in a position where actions, deeds and thoughts have had the power of self-examination."

EMILE LECLERCQ (Une fille du peuple).

Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the odd caprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings are exhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourished by the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existed nowhere but in the brain of novelists.

Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the first rascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness and good looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if he knows how to brazen it out.

"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope.

And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament, remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on that account.

It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. The opportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women's virtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, although it is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it by which they seize and do not let it go again.

Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying Ab una disce omnes.

You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not in that category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark.

Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom she had yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequently yield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him by the purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towards the male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on our dwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and the quintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there always comes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion of seraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man.

........who goes by night In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark.

Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions.

Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet and unctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on his countenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of her father, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she was going.

She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerably surprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise than as a sister is loved.

But that is not what we men understand by love.

The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we ought to touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen. Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires become more inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress.

If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubt that she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessary to resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recovered from her terror and confusion.

I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far more worthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than the haughty virtue of certain others.

And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried to deceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who had ruined her.

—He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not love the man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. It is natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since I cannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes, I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power to resist him?

Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed the looks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It would have been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he has seen me only.

He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man as handsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought to be loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and being loved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because I admire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, so audacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, must find itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my look met his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inward feelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments.

And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in their love.

In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the reality kills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, it nearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination of being loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble, the shame, the sacrifice.

For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her whole life.



LXXVIII.

FALSE ALARM.

"She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now, When I beheld her in her home; alas, And can the flower so quickly fade?"...

DELPHINE GAY.

Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning, when her father burst into her room like a hurricane.

She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless to assume the most innocent and the calmest air.

—What is the matter, papa?

But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye, apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were asking them if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event.

But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannot relate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter in such a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going to faint.

—Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night?

—I! she said with the most profound astonishment.

—Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hear anything in the night?

She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite of herself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she replied with the most natural air in the world:

—What do you mean that I have heard, father?

—Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, said Durand, scanning his words, something extraordinary.

This time Suzanne was terrified.

Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to the last extremity.

—Well?

—Well, father? you puzzle me.

And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her father with perfect assurance.

She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered her round, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed on Durand's.

The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, and reproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he said gently:

—Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know very well that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you have nothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry. But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts of thoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yet have a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered the garden.

—The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed and scrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father, no, I have heard nothing.

—I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves take more precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed.

—Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt...

—Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible.

Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her, and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her father knew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide her terror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying:

—Ah, papa! Ah, papa!

The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears.

—Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this, little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if you had heard anything.

—No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes.

—You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Another time we will keep our eyes open, that is all.

But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; she decided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to her father in a reproachful tone:

—And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and your asparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tell me that.

—True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talk about it any more, hang it.

But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to the end.

—I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, by coming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in your asparagus, as if it were my fault.

—It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived this morning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden very quietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped. What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in the middle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makes himself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of the house and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. There was still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself then what it meant, and I came to you to learn.

—To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do you suppose that I know more about it than you?

Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy and frivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness and frivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty.

Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by their children with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands are deceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered their eyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the cherub which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whose long roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recount before strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice and hide-bound in overweening vanity.

He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for some time gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes:

—No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is not this calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul?

And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said to her gently:

—It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes, without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which are nothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimes carelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church, at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough for him to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least as an encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake some enterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men are for the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, can make that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed the age of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals who want to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Men are very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that all the ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passes by, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, they say directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they try the knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphant air, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address her impertinently.

—Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some young fellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches well waxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they have amused us.

—At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman, passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyes meet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rather nice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that it would not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look she gave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and down under the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl.

And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the most deplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had all been very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough.

Together they passed in minute review all the young village beaux, but Durand's suspicion did not rest on any.



LXXIX

IN THE DILIGENCE

"Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts on the mitre, and Bobeche the crown, Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin parades as Solon. Scapin is heard calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are titles for honours. The more they are branded on the shoulder, the more they are bedisened on the back. Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace resplendent."

CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (Paris-Berlin).

During this time, the diligence for Nancy was carrying away Marcel and Ridoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle's exhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me to anything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;" and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy.

They were alone in the coupe, and could converse at their ease.

—Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and away there the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regret at leaving this part?

—And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there?

—Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you.

—Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious and trustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you.

—Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray.

—Let us rather talk about your promotion.

—My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious.

—What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are going perhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouse yourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longer ambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do you hear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man, like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen your nephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however, who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will give me your patronage, will you not?

—Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Cure's hands, you still have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become a Bishop?

—What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you not of the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as well as another?

—A bishopric is not for the first-comer.

—Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you really must get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession, evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there are two things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stir yourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that is an accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely an accessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than is necessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are not sufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myself up for you. Success wholly lies in that.

You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh. Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does he possess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues very doubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleased the world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dear friend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales of our destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something about it, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should not be now Cure of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many I know who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say in the pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receive the confessions of influential sheep.

—You confess, uncle, that it is abominable.

—I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it not logical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than those whose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been the case since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on the subject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by our advantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to the foolish and envious.

—Birth also counts for much in our fortune.

—Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of a journeyman baker.

—He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII.

—Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, nor his genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then something else.

—In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men, starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity: Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VI was the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar.

—And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourage you who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller.

—Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could have married according to my taste and have become the worthy father of a family, an honest artisan rather than a bad Cure.

—Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you.

—Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are not acquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see her through the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on her account, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well as I, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from those dangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no more than others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature....

-Alas, alas, human infirmity!

Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori.

—Then....

—Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there.

And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, where they changed horses.



LXXX.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek Doth blend the tints of cream and rose. And lends the pearls which deck her hat And rubies too from off her gown, To be your own fit ornament."

E. DARIO (Strophes).

Before the Hotel des Messageries, a young girl, modestly dressed, was waiting for the diligence, with an old band-box in her hand.

Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her with surprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He had seen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair and those blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost their freshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought her prettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, the mountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in the market-place of Althausen.

By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow?

Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-winded horses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with the red face, and the thin and hungry little children?

He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fair girl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow.

—Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor.

—It is I, she said.

—This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with a good-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside. And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupe.

The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said:

—What, in the coupe?

—Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupe, and in good hands too. Do you complain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who will undertake your conversion.

—Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressing herself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me?

He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to get up. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, she sat down beside Marcel.

—You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle.

—I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of the hospital.

—Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you?

—'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an evening performance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm or leg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have been very kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh, there are good people everywhere.

—And you are going to Nancy?

—To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be at Epinal.

Ridoux was listening in his corner.

—You know this young person then? he said.

—I know her through having seen her once at Althausen.

—Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away. You remember, we were both of us at our window?

Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantastic sight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatrical low-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passion of his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspect that the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered.

—I don't remember.

Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the diligence; allured by the sight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time litanies, paters and aves in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices. Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few sous among the most bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expert beggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then they threw themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears.

—I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, you set of idlers.

—Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there are some who cannot work.

—There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to be lamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while now these starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heart bleed to see such misery.

And he took a pinch of snuff.

A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behind the greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking a pie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half.

—You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel.

—Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten it yesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done a good action, she added laughing.

—I see that the Sisters were very kind to you.

—Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take the Communion, which I had not done for a long time.

—That is well, said Ridoux.

The diligence had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and with bare feet was running, cap in hand.

He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he cried:

—Charity, kind Monsieur le Cure; charity, if you please.

—Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal.

-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home.

—Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the gendarmes.

The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again.

—Poor little fellow, said the dancer.

And she threw him the other half of the pie.

Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous action, for he cried angrily:

—Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion? No doubt it was with that piece of meat.

—Why, sir?

—In what religion have you been brought up?

—In the Catholic religion.

—Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for your meals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent of the deepest indignation: has not your Cure then taught that it is forbidden to eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you from your sins?

—I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able to attend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish.

—What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling?

—I am a travelling artiste, sir.

—A travelling artiste. What is that?

—I dance character dances, and I appear in tableaux vivants and poses plastiques.

—Poses plastiques! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow that calling?

—That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied the young girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said that when we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselves with.

—Honourably! that's a fine word!

—I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour.

—And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, when you do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic, which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourage others in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have given that piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church....

—I did not think of that.

—And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little child to whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderly life by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday.... You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what Our Lord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children to offend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the Divine Master's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youth in sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by?

—I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke.

—A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the Holy Virgin.

—Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat?

—Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! It appeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will give me to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, and work on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You must not think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Your soul also requires to eat.

Marcel interrupted.

—Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of the duties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide.

—I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone to guide her.

Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second page of that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep.



LXXXI.

A LITTLE CONFESSION

"Let us not ask of the tree what fruit it bears."

CAMILLE LEMONNIER (Mes Medailles).

—Monsieur le Cure is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellent heart.

—Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the old gentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of a man!

—The Chaplain, no doubt.

—No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge, that makes one think of the gendarmes. I was quite in order, fortunately. Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere, and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened me very much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be.

—You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic.

—Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only to people who are religious and honest and right-minded—as he says. As I am an artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself about me, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl.

—What do you mean by honest girl?

She looked at him attentively:

—You know very well, she said.

—But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be honest.

—Was I not obliged to go to confession before?

—Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. That is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again.

—Fall where?

—Into your sins.

—That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of them.

—Many! so young! How old are you?

—Sixteen.

—Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you can commit at sixteen?

—Many. The Cure of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that I was a cup of iniquity.

—Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins do you commit then?

—I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass.

—What then?

—Others besides.

—What are they?

—I do not know; there are so many.

—Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you have just related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others ... you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing?

—They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin.

—But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others.

—Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins?

—All those which are not innocent, yes.

—How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so?

—Your conscience is the best judge.

—And when my conscience says nothing?

—That is not a sin.

—Well, Monsieur le Cure of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins for which my conscience does not reproach me at all.

—My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to have a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance. What are then those great faults?

—Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl?

—Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good advice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are.

—Pretty! you think me pretty?

—Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't you know it?

—Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when I am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the pretty girl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to hear it. Is that a sin too?

—A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greater ones than that, you are really an honest girl.

He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed.

—Where are you going to stay at Nancy?

—The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house where I can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company: the Hotel du Cygne de la Croix.

—I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house, the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt but that you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommended by the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is a conscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. She is not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes a great interest in you then?

—Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a more suitable position for me; but what position could he give me?

—He might find you some ... he is an influential man. I invite you to follow his advice. He is a member of the Society for the protection of poor young girls.

—But, no doubt, I shall not see him again.

—Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; but unfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here for long. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need of anyone ... you understand ... a young girl might find herself at a loss in a huge town ... you will enquire for the Abbe Marcel at this address.

-Many thanks, sir.

They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her small amount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the inn which the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquainted her with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance, where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant.



LXXXII.

THE CHURCH-WOMAN.

"Devotion is the sole resource of coquettes: when they are become old, God becomes the last resource of all women who know not aught else to do."

MME. DE REUX.

As his uncle had foreseen, the young Cure pleased the old lady greatly. She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make his way.

—You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such as we require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, who bring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back to their village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbe? It is a shame, an absolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproach Monseigneur severely for it.

—It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken a dislike to my nephew.

—I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Too frozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. He is the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That is what comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, Monsieur Marcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion and agreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory and amiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I may confess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shall have the women, the world is ours.

While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady could exercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that in order to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of this estimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried to be amiable and witty.

But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuous drawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he had only to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of the earth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to be the instrument of a rapid fortune.

The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who make of religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs of gallantry. When they are old, and can scarcely venture any longer on their own account, they generously place their experience and their small talents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others. That is called lending the hand, and more than once the old lady had countenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews of sweet sheep with their tender pastor.

The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesans when they are young and procuresses in their ripened age.

Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usually comes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches of the temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls at length upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for the most part they begin with conviction and good faith.

They attend church frequently, not only because it is good form, not only through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination.

The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir, the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the beadle and the sacristan.

It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship.

They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again. They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to reality.

A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious look, which inspires fear.

What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively behaviour of this red-faced Abbe?

How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can find no better employment for the day than to mutter Paternosters, devoid of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague sanctimonious contemplation of a mysterious unknown.

Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence, into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of being the fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become the passive instruments, the unfruitful things of the priest, that is to say the agents of reaction.

It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman is called to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is the desolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, that she is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society:

"Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady, she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morally certainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of the old race: The Stick!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet, Love.

No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says. She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured and reformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful and intelligent, she knew what talking meant, and how to read in wise men's eyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in good time, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be so opposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple: Religion and pleasure.

"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasure hurt God."



LXXXIII.

CONVENTICLE.

"Je, dist Panurge, me trouve bien du conseil des femmes, et mesmement de vieilles."

RABELAIS (Panurge).

They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair to the Palace that very day.

—There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Cure of St. Marie is much coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the Abbe Matou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he is young, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choose myself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little story formerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, after all, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur would he desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in public esteem. He is dangerous.

Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is the son of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. There is yet the Sweet Jesus. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbe Ridoux?

—Yes, it is the Abbe Simonet.

—The Abbe Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at the Seminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow.

—Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly in love with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers, and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbe Gobin. Now he has gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town? Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough to make one shudder. Dear Sweet Jesus! When I see him wandering in the Cathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand the infatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat. Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young and handsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holy flock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strive very hard against the Sweet Jesus.

—We will strive, said Ridoux.

—And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbe, hasten to Monseigneur's, he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is well to reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St. Marie.

Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Cure of St. Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one or another mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhaps indispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputation and the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longer Suzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there are reconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant, and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne from time to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and less perilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in that village where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see....



LXXXIV.

AT THE PALACE.

"This world is a great ball where fools, disguised Under the laughable names of Eminence and Highness Think to swell out their being and exalt their baseness In vain does the equipage of vanity amaze us; Mortals are equal: 'tis but their mark is different."

VOLTAIRE (Discourse sur l'Homme).

Marcel felt oppressed at heart, when he put his foot again, for the first time after five years, within the episcopal Palace.

It was there formerly—five years ago, quite an abyss—he had dreamed of a future embroidered with gold and silk, but it was there also that he had seen his first illusions and his inmost beliefs flee away.

Nothing had changed; the Palace was always the same; there were the same faces, the same porter with the wan complexion, the same attendants, at once haughty and servile. Nevertheless, nobody recognized him. This priest, browned by the sun, old before his years through disappointment, almost bent beneath the load of his secret troubles, was different from the young and brilliant curate, who, full of hope had launched himself formerly into the illimitable future.

The lacqueys of the episcopal palace saluted him respectfully for his good looks; but when he gave his name, they eyed from head to foot with disdain and insolence this obscure country Cure, of whose disgrace they were aware.

—Monseigneur is much engaged, said a kind of valet de chambre with a sneaking look; I don't think he can receive you. You will call again to-morrow. Monseigneur has given orders not to be disturbed.

—Then I will wait.

—Wait if you wish to, replied the lacquey, but you run the risk of waiting a long time.

If it had not been for the valet's insolence, Marcel would no doubt have gone away, and perhaps, would have abandoned the affair; but, humiliated at hearing himself addressed in that tone, he became obstinate.

—Can you not then inform Monseigneur that the Cure of Althausen desires to speak with him?

—Althausen! Ah, well! I believe that the Cure of Mattaincourt and Monsieur le Cure of the Cathedral have called and not been received, replied the valet; consequently, he added in petto, we shall not disturb ourselves for a junior like you.

—Can I speak with Monseigneur the Secretary?

—Monsieur l'Abbe Gaudinet does not like to be disturbed, and I believe besides that he is in conference with his Lordship.

Marcel was aware that in the episcopal Palace the village Cures are treated with less regard than the dogs in the back-yard; therefore he took his own part, and he had just sat down on a bench without saying a word, deliberating with himself whether be ought to wait or to go away, when a little priest with a busy and important air, with spectacles on his nose and a pen behind his ear, quickly crossed the anteroom.

—Is it not Monsieur l'Abbe Gaudinet? said Marcel rising.

—Ah, cried the former, Monsieur le Cure of Althausen, I think?

It was the Secretary, and he aspired, as may be remembered, to the envied post of curate at St. Nicholas. He thought to obtain the good graces of Ridoux by rendering a service to Marcel.

—Monseigneur is really too much engaged, said he, but I will obtain admittance for you anyhow.

And he made him go into a small apartment next to the Bishop's private cabinet.

—I will call you when it is time, he said to him and went out.

Marcel, left alone, heard the sound of a voice in Monseigneur's cabinet, and he recognized perfectly old Collard's.

He would have been failing in good clerical traditions, if he had not gently drawn near the door and listened with all his ears; struck with amazement, he heard the singular conversation which follows.



LXXXV.

LITTLE PASTIMES.

"One thing which it is necessary to take into account, is that they are very precocious. A French girl of fifteen is as much developed as regards the sex and love, as an English girl of eighteen. This is accounted for essentially by Catholic education and by the Confessional, which brings forward young girls to so great an extent."

MICHELET (L'Amour).

—Let us see, little one; look me right in the face. Madame de Montinisant has assured me that you were very nice, very sweet, very submissive, very modest, in fact ail the good qualities in the superlative, and that you were worthy of entering into the sisterhood of the Holy Virgin, in spite of your youth; is that quite true?

—Yes, Monseigneur.

—Ah, ah! It is true, do you say? I am going to know exactly, I am going to know if you are truthful or not. God has bestowed on Bishops the gift of divining everything. Did you know that?

—No, Monseigneur.

—Ah, ah! You are smiling; you believe perhaps that it is not true; wait, wait, you shall see indeed. Is it long since she made her first communion?

—Nearly two years, Monseigneur.

—Two years, ah, ah! Then the little girl is fourteen.

—Only thirteen, Monseigneur.

—Thirteen! thirteen! that is very nice. At thirteen one is already a grown-up girl. Are you already a grown-up girl, little rogue?

—I don't know.

—You don't know, ah, ah. We are going to see first, if you are modest. Come close to me; see, little girl, give me your chin, and this pretty little dimple.... Oh, oh! you are laughing, stay, stay ... she has some pretty little dimples on her cheeks too, the little naughty thing. We are going to make a little confession.... Ah, you are blushing. Why are you blushing? You have then some great sins on your conscience? Come, you are going to tell me all that ... quite low ... in my ear.

—But, Monseigneur....

—There is no but, Monseigneur. It is the condition sine qua non of entering the sisterhood. You understand that in order to admit a sheep into his flock, the shepherd must be completely edified regarding that fresh sheep.... The sheep then must relate all her wicked sins to her Bishop. It is God who wills it, it is not I, little girl. What enters by one ear, goes out directly by the other. I should be much puzzled, after the confession to repeat a single word of what you have told me. You know what a speaking-tube is.

—Yes, Monseigneur.

—Well, the Confessor's ear is the speaking-tube of the ear of God. Has not your Confessor taught you that?

—Oh, yes, Monseigneur.

—Well, then, we have nothing to be afraid of, and she must not hesitate to confide to us her little faults. Even were there very great sins, I shall hear them without making any remonstrance, for that will prove to me that you have confidence in your Bishop. Come, place yourself there, near me, on your knees. You have no need to recite your Confiteor; it is only an examination of conscience that we are both going to make. There! very well, put this little cushion under your knees, you will be less tired. See, where are we going to begin?

—One God only thou shalt adore...

No, no, that is unnecessary; I am fully persuaded that you love God and your parents with all your heart.

—The goods of others thou shalt not take...

Ta, ta, ta, I am quite aware that you are not a thief—a thief has not a pretty little face like that; let us go on at once to the sixth commandment:

The works of the flesh thou shalt not desire But in marriage only.

There, that is what moat concerns little girls. Do you know what are the works of the flesh?

—No, Monseigneur.

—Oh, it is something very abominable, and I do not know how to explain it to you. Nevertheless, in order to know if you have sinned against this commandment, I must make myself understood. Has not your Confessor already spoken to you about it?

—No, Monseigneur.

—Ah, do not tell a falsehood. It is a mortal sin to tell a falsehood in confession. Who is your Confessor?

—He is Monsieur Matou.

—Ah, Matou! the Abbe Matou. Yes, yes, he has spoken to you about it, I know him; he must have spoken to you about it. Come, tell me all about that.

—Well, once he asked me....

—Ah, ah! well, well! do not stop. What is it he asked you?

—He asked me ... ah! it is a long time ago, before my first communion.

—Well?

—He asked me, if I did not go and play with the little boys.

—And then?

—If I had not culpable relations with them.

—Culpable relations with little boys, well! And what did you answer him?

—I answered him that I had not.

—That you had not! Was that quite true? Do not blush, and do not tell a falsehood. I shall see if you are going to tell a falsehood.

—Yes, Monseigneur, it was quite true; I did not even know what Monsieur Matou meant.

—And you know it now?

—Yes, he explained it to me.

—Oh, oh! he explained it to you. And how did he explain that to you?

—He told me....

—Let us see what he told you. Come, come, you most not hang down your head: see, lift up this pretty face and show me this little dimple; what did the Abbe Matou say to you?... Eh, eh! who is there! who is knocking at the door? Is it you, Gaudinet? Rise up, my little daughter, and go and sit down there, in the corner. Come in, Gaudinet, come in then.

Gaudinet put his head discreetly inside.

—Monseigneur, I came to inform you that the Cure of Althausen has been there for some time.

—There? where is that?

—In the cabinet.

—What! in the cabinet? Ah, are you mad, Gaudinet, to send people in this way into my cabinet? I do not approve of that, I do not approve of that at all. What does that Cure of Althausen want with me?



LXXXVI.

SERIOUS TALK.

"Such were the words of the man of the Rock; his authority was too great, his wisdom too deep, not to obey him."

CHATEAUBRIAND (Atala).

Marcel had not heard these last words. At Gaudinet's first word, he had quickly vanished, foreseeing that a terrible tempest would burst upon his head, if the Bishop should suspect that he had been a witness of his way of hearing little girls' confessions, the usual way however of nearly all priests; I appeal to the memories of the Lord's sheep.

—Monsieur le Cure!... cried Gaudinet, opening the door. Ah, he is no longer there. He has gone away, Monseigneur. I had told him, in fact, that your Lordship was very busy, and, no doubt, he wished not to trouble you.

—I was, in fact, expecting him. He will return to-morrow. But, for God's sake, Gaudinet, never let anybody enter that room without warning me beforehand.

Marcel was already at the bottom of the stairs. A valet called him back, and Gaudinet, after bringing out the little girl, introduced him to Monseigneur's presence.

—Ah, there you are, said the latter in a harsh tone, looking him straight in the face. Why did you go away?

—I was told that Monseigneur was engaged, and I feared to disturb your Lordship.

—Who told you that?

—The Abbe Gaudinet.

—You are much changed. I should not have recognized you. I have received a letter from Monsieur le Cure of St. Nicholas, he added, searching on his desk. Here it is. He says that you have returned to better sentiments ... that you are amended, humbled before God ... that you wish henceforth to follow the good way ... Is that so?

—That is my desire, Monseigneur.

—It is not enough to desire, sir, you must intend, firmly intend.

—I intend also.

—I intend to believe it. I ask nothing better than to oblige my old friend Ridoux by doing something for you. Sit down. We are in want of priests, that is to say, intelligent, hard-working, active priests, on whom we can absolutely rely. Times are becoming difficult. Evil doctrines are spreading. Faith is passing away. Infamous writers, wretched pamphleteers are spreading everywhere, at so much a line, the seeds of doubt and perversity. And to crown the evil, imprudent and maladroit priests are indulging their vices and creating scandal. But we are not discouraged. Is the holy arch in danger because a few nails are rusty, because a few cords are rotten? Other nails and cords are supplied in their place, and the rottenness is cast away. But we must not hide from ourselves that we are passing through a melancholy period. This is what priests for the greater part do not clearly see. They slumber in their priesthood, take their emoluments, grow fat, go their small way, and believe they have discharged their duty. That is not the case. When a man has the honour to be a priest, he must be active. It is necessary, as in the time of the persecutions, to make proselytes and win souls; to confront the irreligious propaganda with our propaganda; lampoons, with lampoons; speeches, with sermons; acts, with acts. In short, we must struggle. Can we remain still and idle, when our Holy Father is imprisoned in a den of thieves?

The time has come. We are fighting for our very existence, we must close the ranks, take count of ourselves, and above all see on what and on whom we can count. Let us see what we can expect from you? What do you ask? You wish to come to the town? I warn you that it will be hard, if you intend to do what I expect of you.

—The trouble does not frighten me, Monseigneur.

—You will have a difficult parish. You will have to run foul of a thousand different interests, and not give the slightest pretext for slander. You understand me? There are five or six influential Liberals whose wives or daughters you must win over adroitly, and at any cost—at any cost, you understand. Do you feel yourself qualified for this work? Are you the man we need?

—I will try, Monseigneur.

—You will try. That is not on answer. It is not enough to try; you most succeed. We are surrounded with men who commit nothing but follies, while intending to do well. Hell, you know, is paved with good intentions.

He looked at Marcel attentively, and the latter asked himself if this were really the man he had heard, only a few moments before, talking lightly with a little girl.

—You have good manners, continued the Bishop; you are intelligent, I know. You will succeed therefore, if you intend it seriously. Our misfortune is, that we are encumbered with dull and stupid peasants, whom the Seminary has been able only partly to refine, and who render us ridiculous. You must certainly have gone to sleep in your village?

—No, Monseigneur, I have worked.

—We shall see that. And what sort of people are they? Do they perform their religious duties?

—A good and hard-working population.

—Do they perform their religious duties?

—Yes. Monseigneur, I was satisfied with them.

—What society?

—Very little. The lawyer, the doctor....

—Right-thinking?

—Tolerably so.

—And the women?

—Much the same as all country-folk, ignorant and narrow-minded.

—No, you were not the man needed there. You would lose your time and your powers. I will send one of those brutes of whom I have just been speaking. Well, go; you can tell the Abbe Ridoux that you will have the cure. Come again to-morrow. I even think it will be useless for you to return to Althausen.



LXXXVII.

THE SEMINARY.

"I turned my head and I saw a number of the dead in living bodies. These are the worst spectres, because they must be subdued: you touch them, they touch you, and, in order to drag you away to their tomb, they seize you with an arm of flesh which is no better than the marble hand of the Commendatore."

EUGENE PELLETAN (ELISEE, Voyage d'un homme a la recherche de lui-meme).

Marcel went away disconsolate. So it was done. He was changed, another put in his place at Althausen. He had hoped for opposition, he had counted on objections from the Bishop, he thought, in short, that he would remain in suspense for some weeks, perhaps for some months, during which he would have the time to look before him and reflect; but no, all at once: "Go and tell the Abbe Ridoux that you have the cure." Well, and Suzanne? Could he leave Suzanne in this way? He had, it is true, informed her of his departure the day before; but had not everything changed since the day before? Could be abandon thus his heart which he had left behind there? More than his heart, his whole soul, his life, the maiden who had yielded herself.

Strange contradictions. When he had believed his change far distant and still but slightly probable, he had thought he could leave Suzanne easily, arrange far away from her for secret interviews, and await events; now that this change was certain and had just become an accomplished fact, he looked upon it as a catastrophe. Instead of hastening to announce the good news to Ridoux, he proceeded to roam through the streets, assailed by his thoughts.

"And I shall be obliged to live in this world which I have just caught a glimpse of, to elbow these men at every hour, to mingle in their intrigues, to blend myself in their life. That unscrupulous old Comtesse, that insolent prelate, Gaudinet, Matou, Simonet and the rest, all oozing forth hypocrisy, intrigue and vice; dreaming of one thing alone, to satisfy their ambition, their passions, and their appetites. And these are the ministers of God! Veronica was quite right:

"'All the same, we are all the same, all.' And I am one of the least bad. I was blind and idiotic not to have cast my gaze earlier into this filthy sewer.—Blind, idiotic and deaf."

He passed near a lofty, gloomy building. It was the Seminary. The desire came upon him to go in. Some of his old fellow-pupils had remained there, as masters or professors. But he altered his mind. What was the good? What would he do? What would he say to them? There was henceforth an abyss between him and these men who remained encrusted in the vessel of clericalism, the most uncrossable of all abysses, that which divides the thoughts. They were perhaps happy. He recalled to mind the long hours he had passed beneath the Sacred Heart in the little chapel of an evening, amidst the wax-lights, the incense and the flowers, mingling his voice in exaltation with the voices of the young Levites, and singing senseless hymns, with his heart melting with love of God.

And he began to envy those young fanatics whose blind and unintelligent faith killed every rising thought, and who were ready to suffer martyrdom to support the ridiculous beliefs which they had been taught and which they were called upon to teach. Blind, idiotic and deaf.

"Why am I not so still!" he said; "I should believe myself the only guilty one, the only wicked and perverse one among all those apostles; I should curse my weaknesses and myself; but at least I should have faith, I should walk onward with a star upon my brow, the star of sublime follies which gives light and life, whereas I see nought around me but desolation and death. I should humble myself before the Almighty, and I should cry to him like the poet:

"'Oh Lord, oh Lord my God, thou art our Father: Pity, for thou art kind! pity for thou art great!'

"And instead of that, I am obliged to humble myself before that Bishop whom I despise, to endure the scorn of his lacqueys, and the offensive patronage of his secretary, to have the opportunity of saying:

"'A little place in your good graces, Monseigneur!' No, a thousand times no. My village, my poor belfry, my humble parsonage, my liberty, and my Suzanne!"

By his dejected look, his uncle and the Comtesse believed he had not succeeded.

—Too late! they cried. The cure is given away.

—Yes, he answered.

—To whom? To the Sweet Jesus, I wager. Ah, the Tartuffe.

—To me.

—And that is why you have a funereal expression?

—Yes, uncle, for I am burying for ever my tranquillity and my happiness.

—Is it only that? Madame la Comtesse, I present to you the oddest and the most extraordinary man you have ever met. Judge him yourself. He has just carried off at the first onset what he was eagerly desiring, and there he is as cheerful as a flogged donkey. Ah, my dear Madame, how difficult it is to benefit people in spite of themselves.

—That is my opinion also, said the Comtesse, looking tenderly with her little eyes, still brilliant in spite of their long service, at the young priest, for whom she felt that vague unfruitful passion which old courtesans have for every young and handsome man; and she made him relate minutely all the details of the interview.

—Bravo! bravo, she cried. It is more than I hoped. But do not alarm yourself at the difficulties of the task. Monseigneur wishes to prove you. I am acquainted with the parish. The Radicals have no influence there. One of them the other day took it into his head to die civilly and, in spite of the protestations of some low scoundrels, he has been buried in the early morning without drum or trumpet in the criminals' hole. Two primary schools are in our hands, and with a little skill we shall have the third.

—How?

—By taking away all the means of work from the workmen who send their children there. It is a task, Monsieur le Cure, which is incumbent upon you.

—And so, said Marcel bitterly, I must try to take away their bread from the fathers.

—I suppose, said Ridoux severely, that when the interest of religion is in question, there is no reason to hesitate. Madame la Comtesse, pardon this young priest, he comes out from his village and he is still imbued with certain prejudices.

—Which we will root out, said the old lady smiling; that shall be the task for us women.



LXXXVIII.

THE FAIR ONE.

"Pretty to paint! as graceful as an ear of corn, slender and yet robust, never was seen a morsel of flesh so delicate, or better rounded. Her hair, a wonderful fleece, smelt as sweet and fresh as the grass, and shone red like the sun."

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

It was with a great feeling of relief that, in the evening, after supper, Marcel retired to the room which, in spite of his protests, the Countess had caused to be made ready for him.

He had need to be alone. Events had hurried on in such an astounding and rapid manner, and he had had no time to think about them.

His resolution was fully taken. He would refuse the new core. The odious part which he was called upon to play there, decided him. He was about to shatter his future. It meant a disagreement with his uncle, the hatred of this influential woman, the formidable persecution of the Bishop; but what was all that? He saw Suzanne again, amiable, gracious, smiling, looking at him with her soft, dark eyes; Suzanne approving of his conduct and saying to him: "You are a man of courage. Let us go away together; cast your frock into the ditch."

And he wrote three letters: one to his uncle, the other to the Comtesse, and the third to the Bishop, entreating them to excuse him, and telling them that he did not feel qualified to perform his ministry in a large town. He implored Monseigneur to leave him at Althausen and to think no more about him.

But the night brings counsel. And when he woke up the next morning and saw his three letters on the table, he thought that he could not do a more awkward thing.

He threw them in the fire, dressed and went out. The idea came to him of going to see the parish which was destined for him. He followed the streets, drawn in a straight line, of that too regular city, and when he arrived at the corner of the Rue des Carmes, he heard his name pronounced. Be turned round and saw the landlord of the inn where he was accustomed to stay, when he came to Nancy.

—What, you are passing before my door without coming in, Monsieur le Cure; I was expecting you, however. I had prepared your room.

—You were expecting me, Monsieur Patin? And who told you that I was here?

—Who told me that? It was a young person who is very pretty, upon my word. She came to ask for you yesterday evening, and we expected you up to ten o'clock.

—Dark? said Marcel much disturbed.

—No, fair, the prettiest fair complexion which I have ever seen.

Marcel remembered immediately the little mountebank, whom he had altogether forgotten, and to whom he had given the address of Monsieur Patin's hotel, where he had expected to stay.

—It is a young girl who is recommended to me, he said; I regret that I did not see her.

—You are not coming in?

—No, for perhaps I am going to set out again for Althausen.

—For Althausen. That is impossible to-day. I have just seen the diligence go by. Come, you will sleep once more at my house, Monsieur Marcel; your room is quite ready, and my wife, who has a fancy for you, will not let you go away. Stay, here she comes; she has recognized your voice.

The little Madame Patin, plump, brown, active and pretty, hastened up, indeed, and compelled Marcel to come in, almost in spite of himself.

—You shall remain, you shall remain! she said to him, relieving him of his hat.

—No, he answered smiling, I shall not remain, and I will tell you the reason. I came with my uncle, and I have my room at Madame de Montluisant's.

Before that declaration Monsieur and Madame Patin bowed.

—Ah, that is not right, said Madame Patin; Madame de Montluisant is opposing us, she is drawing our clients to her house.... My dear, have you told Monsieur Marcel that a young person has come?...

—Your husband has told me, Madame, and that proves to you that I certainly had the intention of staying with you, since I showed her your address. It had escaped my memory, otherwise I should have called to ask you to send the young person to Madame de Montluisant's.

—She will certainly come back again, for she seemed very desirous of seeing you. Must I send her to you at that lady's?

—No, but tell her to come again this evening late. I have a thousand things to do, and I can scarcely see any moment but that when I shall be free.

That evening at eight o'clock, he was at Monsieur Patin's, where he found a good fire in a small sitting-room well closed, with the newspapers and a cup of coffee. The young girl had called again during the day, and would return. Marcel installed himself comfortably in an arm-chair and waited for her.

He had seen the Bishop again, who had flashed before his eyes a future, full of golden rays. The visit of Ridoux and the Comtesse had preceded his own, and in the sudden change of manner of the prelate towards him, he recognized the good offices of his new friend.

A good dinner had completed the happy day, and life appeared to him, after all, to have some sweetness.



LXXXIX.

LOVE AGAIN.

"Oh Folly, which we call love, what dost thou make of us? Out of free-men thou dost make us slaves; thou dost breathe into us all the vices. It is thou who dost supply the altars of disloyalty and fear! It is thou who dost extract from thought the rhetorician's art, and from enthusiasm a vile profession. How many young people have you blighted! all the fairest. Ah, siren, thy voice is sweet. Thou speakest to us the language of the gods, but thou are only an impure beast."

JEAN LAROQUE (Niobe).

A kind of emotion seized him. He was almost ashamed of it, and tried to give an account of it to himself. It seemed to him that he was affected as if at the approach of sin. He restrained his feelings and enquired of himself what this young girl could want with him.

Perhaps she was but a common courtesan who, attracted by the handsome appearance and tender look of the priest, counted on speculating profitably in a clandestine intrigue.

Nevertheless, he was not terrified at the prospect, and he recalled complacently the scene in the open air in the market-place at Althausen. With his eyes closed, he saw her again playing the castanets, rounding her hips and shooting forward her little foot, in order to make the enraptured rustics admire the sculptural beauty of her leg. He saw again that bosom, free from all covering, which had plunged him into such confusion.

Ah, if instead of his love for Suzanne, so full of fever and danger, he had picked up on his way some pretty girl like this Bohemian, who, while calming his feelings, would have left his heart in peace.

With a common peasant girl, vigorous and sensual, like this dancer at the fair, he would have gratified the only low permissible to a priest; for it was the most unpardonable folly, he recognized now, to surrender his heart.

The Cure of St. Nicholas was a thousand times right! Let the priest make use of woman, nothing is more proper, as an instrument, as a pastime, hygienic and aperient; but let him stop there.