ABBE MOURET'S TRANSGRESSION

By Emile Zola

Edited with an Introduction by Ernest Alfred Vizetelly

INTRODUCTION

'LA FAUTE DE L'ABBE MOURET' was, with respect to the date ofpublication, the fourth volume of M. Zola's 'Rougon-Macquart' series;but in the amended and final scheme of that great literary undertaking, it occupies the ninth place. It proceeds from the sixth volume of theseries, 'The Conquest of Plassans;' which is followed by the two worksthat deal with the career of Octave Mouret, Abbe Serge Mouret's elderbrother. In 'The Conquest of Plassans, ' Serge and his half-wittedsister, Desiree, are seen in childhood at their home in Plassans, whichis wrecked by the doings of a certain Abbe Faujas and his relatives. Serge Mouret grows up, is called by an instinctive vocation to thepriesthood, and becomes parish priest of Les Artaud, a well-nigh paganhamlet in one of those bare, burning stretches of country with whichProvence abounds. And here it is that 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret' opensin the old ruinous church, perched upon a hillock in full view of thesqualid village, the arid fields, and the great belts of rock which shutin the landscape all around. 

There are two elements in this remarkable story, which, from thestandpoint of literary style, has never been excelled by anything thatM. Zola has since written; and one may glance at it therefore from twopoints of view. Taking it under its sociological and religious aspect, it will be found to be an indirect indictment of the celibacy of thepriesthood; that celibacy, contrary to Nature's fundamental law, whichassuredly has largely influenced the destinies of the Roman CatholicChurch. To that celibacy, and to all the evils that have sprang fromit, may be ascribed much of the irreligion current in France to-day. The periodical reports on criminality issued by the French Ministers ofJustice since the foundation of the Republic in 1871, supply materialsfor a most formidable indictment of that vow of perpetual chastity whichRome exacts from her clergy. Nowadays it is undoubtedly too late forRome to go back upon that vow and thereby transform the whole of hersacerdotal organisation; but, perhaps, had she done so in past times, before the spirit of inquiry and free examination came into being, shemight have assured herself many more centuries of supremacy than havefallen to her lot. But she has ever sought to dissociate the law of theDivinity from the law of Nature, as though indeed the latter were butthe invention of the Fiend. 

Abbe Mouret, M. Zola's hero, finds himself placed between the law ofthe Divinity and the law of Nature: and the struggle waged within him bythose two forces is a terrible one. That which training has implantedin his mind proves the stronger, and, so far as the canons of the Churchcan warrant it, he saves his soul. But the problem is not quite franklyput by M. Zola; for if Abbe Mouret transgresses he does so unwittingly, at a time when he is unconscious of his priesthood and has no memory ofany vow. When the truth flashes upon him he is horrified with himself, and forthwith returns to the Church. A further struggle between thecontending forces then certainly ensues, and ends in the final victoryof the Church. But it must at least be said that in the lapses whichoccur in real life among the Roman priesthood, the circumstances arealtogether different from those which M. Zola has selected for hisstory. 

The truth is that in 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret, ' betwixt lifelikeglimpses of French rural life, the author transports us to a realm ofpoesy and imagination. This is, indeed, so true that he has introducedinto his work all the ideas on which he had based an early unfinishedpoem called 'Genesis. ' He carries us to an enchanted garden, the Paradou--a name which one need hardly say is Provencal forParadise*--and there Serge Mouret, on recovering from brain fever, becomes, as it were, a new Adam by the side of a new Eve, the fair andwinsome Albine. All this part of the book, then, is poetry in prose. The author has remembered the ties which link Rousseau to the realisticschool of fiction, and, as in the pages of Jean-Jacques, trees, springs, mountains, rocks, and flowers become animated beings and claim theirplace in the world's mechanism. One may indeed go back far beyondRousseau, even to Lucretius himself; for more than once we areirresistibly reminded of Lucretian scenes, above which through M. Zola'spages there seems to hover the pronouncement of Sophocles:

 No ordinance of man shall override The settled laws of Nature and of God; Not written these in pages of a book, Nor were they framed to-day, nor yesterday; We know not whence they are; but this we know, That they from all eternity have been, And shall to all eternity endure. 

 * There is a village called Paradou in Provence, between Les Baux and Arles. 

And if we pass to the young pair whose duo of love is sung amidst thevaried voices of creation, we are irresistibly reminded of the Pauland Virginia of St. Pierre, and the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus. Besidethem, in their marvellous garden, lingers a memory too of Manon andDes Grieux, with a suggestion of Lauzun and a glimpse of the art ofFragonard. All combine, all contribute--from the great classics to theeighteenth century _petits maitres_--to build up a story of love's risein the human breast in answer to Nature's promptings. 

M. Zola wrote 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret' one summer under the trees ofhis garden, mindful the while of gardens that he had known in childhood:the flowery expanse which had stretched before his grandmother's homeat Pont-au-Beraud and the wild estate of Galice, between Roquefavour andAix-en-Provence, through which he had roamed as a lad with friends thenboys like himself: Professor Baille and Cezanne, the painter. And intohis description of the wondrous Paradou he has put all his remembranceof the gardens and woods of Provence, where many a plant and flowerthrive with a luxuriance unknown to England. True, in order to refreshhis memory and avoid mistakes, he consulted various horticulturalmanuals whilst he was writing; of which circumstance captious criticshave readily laid hold, to proclaim that the description of the Paradouis a mere florist's catalogue. 

But it is nothing of the kind. The florist who might dare to offersuch a catalogue to the public would be speedily assailed by all thehorticultural journalists of England and all the customers of villadom. For M. Zola avails himself of a poet's license to crowd marvel uponmarvel, to exaggerate nature's forces, to transform the tiniest bloomsinto giant examples of efflorescence, and to mingle even the seasonsone with the other. But all this was premeditated; there was a picturebefore his mind's eye, and that picture he sought to trace with his pen, regardless of all possible objections. It is the poet's privilege todo this and even to be admired for it. It would be easy for some leanedbotanist, some expert zoologist, to demolish Milton from the standpointof their respective sciences, but it would be absurd to do so. We ask ofthe poet the flowers of his imagination, and the further he carries usfrom the sordid realities, the limited possibilities of life, the moreare we grateful to him. 

And M. Zola's Paradou is a flight of fancy, even as its mistress, thefair, loving, guileless Albine, whose smiles and whose tears alike goto our hearts, is the daughter of imagination. She is a flower--the veryflower of life's youth--in the midst of all the blossoms of hergarden. She unfolds to life and to love even as they unfold; she lovesrapturously even as they do under the sun and the azure; and she dieswith them when the sun's caress is gone and the chill of winter hasfallen. At the thought of her, one instinctively remembers Malherbe's'Ode A Du Perrier:'

 She to this earth belonged, where beauty fast To direst fate is borne: A rose, she lasted, as the roses last, Only for one brief morn. 

French painters have made subjects of many episodes in M. Zola'sworks, but none has been more popular with them than Albine's pathetic, perfumed death amidst the flowers. I know several paintings of greatmerit which that touching incident has inspired. 

Albine, if more or less unreal, a phantasm, the spirit as it were ofNature incarnate in womanhood, is none the less the most delightful ofM. Zola's heroines. She smiles at us like the vision of perfect beautyand perfect love which rises before us when our hearts are yet young andfull of illusions. She is the ideal, the very quintessence of woman. 

In Serge Mouret, her lover, we find a man who, in more than one respect, recalls M. Zola's later hero, the Abbe Froment of 'Lourdes' and 'Rome. 'He has the same loving, yearning nature; he is born--absolutely likeAbbe Froment--of an unbelieving father and a mother of mystical mind. But unlike Froment he cannot shake off the shackles of his priesthood. Reborn to life after his dangerous illness, he relapses into thereligion of death, the religion which regards life as impurity, whichdenies Nature's laws, and so often wrecks human existence, as ifindeed that had been the Divine purpose in setting man upon earth. Hisstruggles suggest various passages in 'Lourdes' and 'Rome. ' In fact, inwriting those works, M. Zola must have had his earlier creation inmind. There are passages in 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret' culled from thewritings of the Spanish Jesuit Fathers and the 'Imitation' of Thomasa Kempis that recur almost word for word in the Trilogy of the ThreeCities. Some might regard this as evidence of the limitation of M. Zola's powers, but I think differently. I consider that he has in bothinstances designedly taken the same type of priest in order to show howhe may live under varied circumstances; for in the earlier instancehe has led him to one goal, and in the later one to another. And thepassages of prayer, entreaty, and spiritual conflict simply recurbecause they are germane, even necessary, to the subject in both cases. 

Of the minor characters that figure in 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret' thechief thing to be said is that they are lifelike. If Serge is almostwholly spiritual, if Albine is the daughter of poesy, they, the others, are of the earth earthy. As a result of their appearance on the scene, there are some powerful contrasting passages in the book. Archangias, the coarse and brutal Christian Brother who serves as a foil to AbbeMouret; La Teuse, the priest's garrulous old housekeeper; Desiree, his'innocent' sister, a grown woman with the mind of a child and an almostcrazy affection for every kind of bird and beast, are all admirablyportrayed. Old Bambousse, though one sees but little of him, standsout as a genuine type of the hard-headed French peasant, who invariablyplaces pecuniary considerations before all others. And Fortune andRosalie, Vincent and Catherine, and their companions, are equally trueto nature. It need hardly be said that there is many a village in Francesimilar to Les Artaud. That hamlet's shameless, purely animal life hasin no wise been over-pictured by M. Zola. Those who might doubt him neednot go as far as Provence to find such communities. Many Norman hamletsare every whit as bad, and, in Normandy, conditions are aggravated by amarked predilection for the bottle, which, as French social-scientistshave been pointing out for some years now, is fast hastening thedegenerescence of the peasantry, both morally and physically. 

With reference to the English version of 'La Faute de l'Abbe Mouret'herewith presented, I may just say that I have subjected it toconsiderable revision and have retranslated all the more importantpassages myself. 

 MERTON, SURREY. E. A. V. 

ABBE MOURET'S TRANSGRESSION

BOOK I

I

As La Teuse entered the church she rested her broom and feather-brushagainst the altar. She was late, as she had that day began herhalf-yearly wash. Limping more than ever in her haste and hustling thebenches, she went down the church to ring the _Angelus_. The bare, wornbell-rope dangled from the ceiling near the confessional, and ended in abig knot greasy from handling. Again and again, with regular jumps, shehung herself upon it; and then let her whole bulky figure go with it, whirling in her petticoats, her cap awry, and her blood rushing to herbroad face. 

Having set her cap straight with a little pat, she came back breathlessto give a hasty sweep before the altar. Every day the dust persistentlysettled between the disjoined boards of the platform. Her broom rummagedamong the corners with an angry rumble. Then she lifted the altar coverand was sorely vexed to find that the large upper cloth, already darnedin a score of places, was again worn through in the very middle, soas to show the under cloth, which in its turn was so worn and sotransparent that one could see the consecrated stone, embedded in thepainted wood of the altar. La Teuse dusted the linen, yellow from longusage, and plied her feather-brush along the shelf against which she setthe liturgical altar-cards. Then, climbing upon a chair, she removed theyellow cotton covers from the crucifix and two of the candlesticks. Thebrass of the latter was tarnished. 

'Dear me!' she muttered, 'they really want a clean! I must give them apolish up!'

Then hopping on one leg, swaying and stumping heavily enough to drive inthe flagstones, she hastened to the sacristy for the Missal, whichshe placed unopened on the lectern on the Epistle side, with its edgesturned towards the middle of the altar. And afterwards she lighted thetwo candles. As she went off with her broom, she gave a glance roundher to make sure that the abode of the Divinity had been put in properorder. All was still, save that the bell-rope near the confessionalstill swung between roof and floor with a sinuous sweep. 

Abbe Mouret had just come down to the sacristy, a small and chillyapartment, which a passage separated from his dining-room. 

'Good morning, Monsieur le Cure, ' said La Teuse, laying her broom aside. 'Oh! you have been lazy this morning! Do you know it's a quarter pastsix?' And without allowing the smiling young priest sufficient time toreply, she added 'I've a scolding to give you. There's another hole inthe cloth again. There's no sense in it. We have only one other, andI've been ruining my eyes over it these three days in trying to mend it. You will leave our poor Lord quite bare, if you go on like this. '

Abbe Mouret was still smiling. 'Jesus does not need so much linen, mygood Teuse, ' he cheerfully replied. 'He is always warm, always royallyreceived by those who love Him well. '

Then stepping towards a small tap, he asked: 'Is my sister up yet? Ihave not seen her. '

'Oh, Mademoiselle Desiree has been down a long time, ' answered theservant, who was kneeling before an old kitchen sideboard in which thesacred vestments were kept. 'She is already with her fowls and rabbits. She was expecting some chicks to be hatched yesterday, and it didn'tcome off. So you can guess her excitement. ' Then the worthy woman brokeoff to inquire: 'The gold chasuble, eh?'

The priest, who had washed his hands and stood reverently murmuring aprayer, nodded affirmatively. The parish possessed only three chasubles:a violet one, a black one, and one in cloth-of-gold. The last had to beused on the days when white, red, or green was prescribed by the ritual, and it was therefore an all important garment. La Teuse lifted itreverently from the shelf covered with blue paper, on which she laidit after each service; and having placed it on the sideboard, shecautiously removed the fine cloths which protected its embroidery. Agolden lamb slumbered on a golden cross, surrounded by broad rays ofgold. The gold tissue, frayed at the folds, broke out in little slendertufts; the embossed ornaments were getting tarnished and worn. There wasperpetual anxiety, fluttering concern, at seeing it thus go off spangleby spangle. The priest had to wear it almost every day. And how on earthcould it be replaced--how would they be able to buy the three chasubleswhose place it took, when the last gold threads should be worn out?

Upon the chasuble La Teuse next laid out the stole, the maniple, thegirdle, alb and amice. But her tongue still wagged while she crossedthe stole with the maniple, and wreathed the girdle so as to trace thevenerated initial of Mary's holy name. 

'That girdle is not up to much now, ' she muttered; 'you will have tomake up your mind to get another, your reverence. It wouldn't be veryhard; I could plait you one myself if I only had some hemp. '

Abbe Mouret made no answer. He was dressing the chalice at a smalltable. A large old silver-gilt chalice it was with a bronze base, whichhe had just taken from the bottom of a deal cupboard, in which thesacred vessels and linen, the Holy Oils, the Missals, candlesticks, andcrosses were kept. Across the cup he laid a clean purificator, and onthis set the silver-gilt paten, with the host in it, which he coveredwith a small lawn pall. As he was hiding the chalice by gatheringtogether the folds in the veil of cloth of gold matching the chasuble, La Teuse exclaimed:

'Stop, there's no corporal in the burse. Last night I took all thedirty purificators, palls, and corporals to wash them--separately, ofcourse--not with the house-wash. By-the-bye, your reverence, I didn'ttell you: I have just started the house-wash. A fine fat one it will be!Better than the last. '

Then while the priest slipped a corporal into the burse and laid thelatter on the veil, she went on quickly:

'By-the-bye, I forgot! that gadabout Vincent hasn't come. Do you wish meto serve your mass, your reverence?'

The young priest eyed her sternly. 

'Well, it isn't a sin, ' she continued, with her genial smile. 'I didserve a mass once, in Monsieur Caffin's time. I serve it better, too, than ragamuffins who laugh like heathens at seeing a fly buzzing aboutthe church. True I may wear a cap, I may be sixty years old, and asround as a tub, but I have more respect for our Lord than those imps ofboys whom I caught only the other day playing at leap-frog behind thealtar. '

The priest was still looking at her and shaking his head. 

'What a hole this village is!' she grumbled. 'Not a hundred and fiftypeople in it! There are days, like to-day, when you wouldn't find aliving soul in Les Artaud. Even the babies in swaddling clothes aregone to the vineyards! And goodness knows what they do among suchvines--vines that grow under the pebbles and look as dry as thistles! Aperfect wilderness, three miles from any highway! Unless an angel comesdown to serve your mass, your reverence, you've only got me to help you, on my honour! or one of Mademoiselle Desiree's rabbits, no offence toyour reverence!'

Just at that moment, however, Vincent, the Brichets' younger son, gentlyopened the door of the sacristy. His shock of red hair and his little, glistening, grey eyes exasperated La Teuse. 

'Oh! the wretch!' she cried. 'I'll bet he's just been up to somemischief! Come on, you scamp, since his reverence is afraid I mightdirty our Lord!'

On seeing the lad, Abbe Mouret had taken up the amice. He kissed thecross embroidered in the centre of it, and for a second laid the clothupon his head; then lowering it over the collar-band of his cassock, hecrossed it and fastened the tapes, the right one over the left. He nextdonned the alb, the symbol of purity, beginning with the right sleeve. Vincent stooped and turned around him, adjusting the alb, in orderthat it should fall evenly all round him to a couple of inches fromthe ground. Then he presented the girdle to the priest, who fastenedit tightly round his loins, as a reminder of the bonds wherewith theSaviour was bound in His Passion. 

La Teuse remained standing there, feeling jealous and hurt andstruggling to keep silence; but so great was the itching of her tongue, that she soon broke out once more: 'Brother Archangias has been here. He won't have a single child at school to-day. He went off again like awhirlwind to pull the brats' ears in the vineyards. You had better seehim. I believe he has got something to say to you. '

Abbe Mouret silenced her with a wave of the hand. Then he repeated theusual prayers while he took the maniple--which he kissed before slippingit over his left forearm, as a symbol of the practice of good works--andwhile crossing on his breast the stole, the symbol of his dignityand power. La Teuse had to help Vincent in the work of adjusting thechasuble, which she fastened together with slender tapes, so that itmight not slip off behind. 

'Holy Virgin! I had forgotten the cruets!' she stammered, rushing to thecupboard. 'Come, look sharp, lad!'

Thereupon Vincent filled the cruets, phials of coarse glass, whileshe hastened to take a clean finger-cloth from a drawer. Abbe Mouret, holding the chalice by its stem with his left hand, the fingers of hisright resting meanwhile on the burse, then bowed profoundly, but withoutremoving his biretta, to a black wooden crucifix, which hung over theside-board. The lad bowed too, and, bearing the cruets covered with thefinger-cloth, led the way out of the sacristy, followed by the priest, who walked on with downcast eyes, absorbed in deep and prayerfulmeditation. 

II

The empty church was quite white that May morning. The bell-rope nearthe confessional hung motionless once more. The little bracket light, with its stained glass shade, burned like a crimson splotch against thewall on the right of the tabernacle. Vincent, having set the cruets onthe credence, came back and knelt just below the altar step on the left, while the priest, after rendering homage to the Holy Sacrament by agenuflexion, went up to the altar and there spread out the corporal, on the centre of which he placed the chalice. Then, having opened theMissal, he came down again. Another bend of the knee followed, and, after crossing himself and uttering aloud the formula, 'In the name ofthe Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, ' he raised his joined hands tohis breast, and entered on the great divine drama, with his countenanceblanched by faith and love. 

'_Introibo ad altare Dei_. '

'_Ad Deum qui loetificat juventutem meam_, ' gabbled Vincent, who, squatting on his heels, mumbled the responses of the antiphon and thepsalm, while watching La Teuse as she roved about the church. 

The old servant was gazing at one of the candles with a troubled look. Her anxiety seemed to increase while the priest, bowing down with handsjoined again, recited the _Confiteor_. She stood still, in her turnstruck her breast, her head bowed, but still keeping a watchful eye onthe taper. For another minute the priest's grave voice and the server'sstammers alternated:

'_Dominus vobiscum_. '

'_Et cum spiritu tuo_. '

Then the priest, spreading out his hands and afterwards again joiningthem, said with devout compunction: '_Oremus_' (Let us pray). 

La Teuse could now stand it no longer, but stepped behind the altar, reached the guttering candle, and trimmed it with the points of herscissors. Two large blobs of wax had already been wasted. When she cameback again putting the benches straight on her way, and making sure thatthere was holy-water in the fonts, the priest, whose hands were restingon the edge of the altar-cloth, was praying in subdued tones. And atlast he kissed the altar. 

Behind him, the little church still looked wan in the pale light ofearly morn. The sun, as yet, was only level with the tiled roof. The_Kyrie Eleisons_ rang quiveringly through that sort of whitewashedstable with flat ceiling and bedaubed beams. On either side three loftywindows of plain glass, most of them cracked or smashed, let in a rawlight of chalky crudeness. 

The free air poured in as it listed, emphasising the naked poverty ofthe God of that forlorn village. At the far end of the church, abovethe big door which was never opened and the threshold of which wasgreen with weeds, a boarded gallery--reached by a common miller'sladder--stretched from wall to wall. Dire were its creakings on festivaldays beneath the weight of wooden shoes. Near the ladder stood theconfessional, with warped panels, painted a lemon yellow. Facing it, beside the little door, stood the font--a former holy-water stoupresting on a stonework pedestal. To the right and to the left, halfwaydown the church, two narrow altars stood against the wall, surroundedby wooden balustrades. On the left-hand one, dedicated to the BlessedVirgin, was a large gilded plaster statue of the Mother of God, wearinga regal gold crown upon her chestnut hair; while on her left arm satthe Divine Child, nude and smiling, whose little hand raised thestar-spangled orb of the universe. The Virgin's feet were poised onclouds, and beneath them peeped the heads of winged cherubs. Then theright-hand altar, used for the masses for the dead, was surmounted by acrucifix of painted papier-mache--a pendant, as it were, to the Virgin'seffigy. The figure of Christ, as large as a child of ten years old, showed Him in all the horror of His death-throes, with head thrown back, ribs projecting, abdomen hollowed in, and limbs distorted and splashedwith blood. There was a pulpit, too--a square box reached by a five-stepblock--near a clock with running weights, in a walnut case, whose thudsshook the whole church like the beatings of some huge heart concealed, it might be, under the stone flags. All along the nave the fourteenStations of the Cross, fourteen coarsely coloured prints in narrow blackframes, bespeckled the staring whiteness of the walls with the yellow, blue, and scarlet of scenes from the Passion. 

'_Deo Gratias_, ' stuttered out Vincent at the end of the Epistle. 

The mystery of love, the immolation of the Holy Victim, was aboutto begin. The server took the Missal and bore it to the left, orGospel-side, of the altar, taking care not to touch the pages of thebook. Each time he passed before the tabernacle he made a genuflexionslantwise, which threw him all askew. Returning to the right-hand sideonce more, he stood upright with crossed arms during the reading of theGospel. The priest, after making the sign of the cross upon the Missal, next crossed himself: first upon his forehead--to declare that hewould never blush for the divine word; then on his mouth--to show hisunchanging readiness to confess his faith; and finally on his heart--tomark that it belonged to God alone. 

'_Dominus vobiscum_, ' said he, turning round and facing the cold whitechurch. 

'_Et cum spirits tuo_, ' answered Vincent, who once more was on hisknees. 

The Offertory having been recited, the priest uncovered the chalice. Fora moment he held before his breast the paten containing the host, whichhe offered up to God, for himself, for those present, and for all thefaithful, living and dead. Then, slipping it on to the edge of thecorporal without touching it with his fingers, he took up the chaliceand carefully wiped it with the purificator. Vincent had in themeanwhile fetched the cruets from the credence table, and now presentedthem in turn, first the wine and then the water. The priest then offeredup on behalf of the whole world the half-filled chalice, which he nextreplaced upon the corporal and covered with the pall. Then once againhe prayed, and returned to the side of the altar where the server let alittle water dribble over his thumbs and forefingers to purify himfrom the slightest sinful stain. When he had dried his hands onthe finger-cloth, La Teuse--who stood there waiting--emptied thecruet-salver into a zinc pail at the corner of the altar. 

'_Orate, fratres_, ' resumed the priest aloud as he faced the emptybenches, extending and reclasping his hands in a gesture of appeal toall men of good-will. And turning again towards the altar, he continuedhis prayer in a lower tone, while Vincent began to mutter a long Latinsentence in which he eventually got lost. Now it was that the yellowsunbeams began to dart through the windows; called, as it were, by thepriest, the sun itself had come to mass, throwing golden sheets of lightupon the left-hand wall, the confessional, the Virgin's altar, and thebig clock. 

A gentle creak came from the confessional; the Mother of God, in a halo, in the dazzlement of her golden crown and mantle smiled tenderly withtinted lips upon the infant Jesus; and the heated clock throbbed outthe time with quickening strokes. It seemed as if the sun peopled thebenches with the dusty motes that danced in his beams, as if thelittle church, that whitened stable, were filled with a glowing throng. Without, were heard the sounds that told of the happy waking of thecountryside, the blades of grass sighed out content, the damp leavesdried themselves in the warmth, the birds pruned their feathers and tooka first flit round. And indeed the countryside itself seemed to enterwith the sun; for beside one of the windows a large rowan tree shotup, thrusting some of its branches through the shattered panes andstretching out leafy buds as if to take a peep within; while throughthe fissures of the great door the weeds on the threshold threatened toencroach upon the nave. Amid all this quickening life, the big Christ, still in shadow, alone displayed signs of death, the sufferings ofochre-daubed and lake-bespattered flesh. A sparrow raised himself up fora moment at the edge of a hole, took a glance, then flew away; butonly to reappear almost immediately when with noiseless wing hedropped between the benches before the Virgin's altar. A second sparrowfollowed; and soon from all the boughs of the rowan tree came othersthat calmly hopped about the flags. 

'_Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth_, ' said the priest ina low tone, whilst slightly stooping. 

Vincent rang the little bell thrice; and the sparrows, scared by thesudden tinkling, flew off with such a mighty buzz of wings that LaTeuse, who had just gone back into the sacristy, came out again, grumbling; 'The little rascals! they will mess everything. I'll bet thatMademoiselle Desiree has been here again to scatter bread-crumbs forthem. '

The dread moment was at hand. The body and the blood of a God were aboutto descend upon the altar. The priest kissed the altar-cloth, claspedhis hands, and multiplied signs of the cross over host and chalice. The prayers of the canon of the mass now fell from his lips in a veryecstasy of humility and gratitude. His attitude, his gestures, theinflections of his voice, all expressed his consciousness of hislittleness, his emotion at being selected for so great a task. Vincentcame and knelt beside him, lightly lifted the chasuble with his lefthand, the bell ready in his right; and the priest, his elbows resting onthe edge of the altar, holding the host with the thumbs and forefingersof both hands, pronounced over it the words of consecration: _Hoc estenim corpus meum_. Then having bowed the knee before it, he raised itslowly as high as his hands could reach, following it upwards withhis eyes, while the kneeling server rang the bell thrice. Then heconsecrated the wine--_Hic est enim calix_--leaning once more upon hiselbows, bowing, raising the cup aloft, his right hand round the stem, his left holding its base, and his eyes following it aloft. Again theserver rang the bell three times. The great mystery of the Redemptionhad once more been repeated, once more had the adorable Blood flowedforth. 

'Just you wait a bit, ' growled La Teuse, as she tried to scare away thesparrows with outstretched fist. 

But the sparrows were now fearless. They had come back even while thebell was ringing, and, unabashed, were fluttering about the benches. Therepeated tinklings even roused them into liveliness, and they answeredback with little chirps which crossed amid the Latin words of prayer, like the rippling laughs of free urchins. The sun warmed their plumage, the sweet poverty of the church captivated them. They felt at homethere, as in some barn whose shutters had been left open, and screeched, fought, and squabbled over the crumbs they found upon the floor. Oneflew to perch himself on the smiling Virgin's golden veil; another, whose daring put the old servant in a towering rage, made a hastyreconnaissance of La Teuse's skirts. And at the altar, the priest, withevery faculty absorbed, his eyes fixed upon the sacred host, his thumbsand forefingers joined, did not even hear this invasion of the warmMay morning, this rising flood of sunlight, greenery and birds, whichoverflowed even to the foot of the Calvary where doomed nature waswrestling in the death-throes. 

'_Per omnia soecula soeculorum_, ' he said. 

'Amen, ' answered Vincent. 

The _Pater_ ended, the priest, holding the host over the chalice, broke it in the centre. Detaching a particle from one of the halves, hedropped it into the precious blood, to symbolise the intimate union intowhich he was about to enter with God. He said the _Agnus Dei_ aloud, softly recited the three prescribed prayers, and made his act ofunworthiness, and then with his elbows resting on the altar, and withthe paten beneath his chin, he partook of both portions of the hostat once. After a fervent meditation, with his hands clasped beforehis face, he took the paten and gathered from the corporal the sacredparticles of the host that had fallen, and dropped them into thechalice. One particle which had adhered to his thumb he removed with hisforefinger. And, crossing himself, chalice in hand, with the paten onceagain below his chin, he drank all the precious blood in three draughts, never taking his lips from the cup's rim, but imbibing the divineSacrifice to the last drop. 

Vincent had risen to fetch the cruets from the credence table. Butsuddenly the door of the passage leading to the parsonage flew openand swung back against the wall, to admit a handsome child-like girl oftwenty-two, who carried something hidden in her apron. 

'Thirteen of them, ' she called out. 'All the eggs were good. ' And sheopened out her apron and revealed a brood of little shivering chicks, with sprouting down and beady black eyes. 'Do just look, ' said she;'aren't they sweet little pets, the darlings! Oh, look at the littlewhite one climbing on the others' backs! and the spotted one alreadyflapping his tiny wings! The eggs were a splendid lot; not one of themunfertile. '

La Teuse, who was helping to serve the mass in spite of allprohibitions, and was at that very moment handing the cruets to Vincentfor the ablutions, thereupon turned round and loudly exclaimed: 'Do bequiet, Mademoiselle Desiree! Don't you see we haven't finished yet?'

Through the open doorway now came the strong smell of a farmyard, blowing like some generative ferment into the church amidst the warmsunlight that was creeping over the altar. Desiree stood there for amoment delighted with the little ones she carried, watching Vincentpour, and her brother drink, the purifying wine, in order that nought ofthe sacred elements should be left within his mouth. And she stood therestill when he came back to the side of the altar, holding the chalice inboth hands, so that Vincent might pour over his forefingers and thumbsthe wine and water of ablution, which he likewise drank. But when themother hen ran up clucking with alarm to seek her little ones, andthreatened to force her way into the church, Desiree went off, talking maternally to her chicks, while the priest, after pressing thepurificator to his lips, wiped first the rim and next the interior ofthe chalice. 

Then came the end, the act of thanksgiving to God. For the last time theserver removed the Missal, and brought it back to the right-hand side. The priest replaced the purificator, paten, and pall upon the chalice;once more pinched the two large folds of the veil together, and laidupon it the burse containing the corporal. His whole being was now oneact of ardent thanksgiving. He besought from Heaven the forgiveness ofhis sins, the grace of a holy life, and the reward of everlastinglife. He remained as if overwhelmed by this miracle of love, theever-recurring immolation, which sustained him day by day with the bloodand flesh of his Savior. 

Having read the final prayers, he turned and said: '_Ite, missa est_. '

'_Deo gratias_, ' answered Vincent. 

And having turned back to kiss the altar, the priest faced round anew, his left hand just below his breast, his right outstretched whilstblessing the church, which the gladsome sunbeams and noisy sparrowsfilled. 

'_Benedicat vos omnipotens Deus, Pater et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus_. '

'_Amen_, ' said the server, as he crossed himself. 

The sun had risen higher, and the sparrows were growing bolder. Whilethe priest read from the left-hand altar-card the passage of the Gospelof St. John, announcing the eternity of the Word, the sunrays set thealtar ablaze, whitened the panels of imitation marble, and dimmed theflame of the two candles, whose short wicks were now merely two dullspots. The victorious orb enveloped with his glory the crucifix, thecandlesticks, the chasuble, the veil of the chalice--all the gold workthat paled beneath his beams. And when at last the priest, after takingthe chalice in his hands and making a genuflexion, covered his head andturned from the altar to follow the server, laden with the cruets andfinger-cloth, to the sacristy, the planet remained sole master of thechurch. Its rays in turn now rested on the altar-cloth, irradiating thetabernacle-door with splendour, and celebrating the fertile powersof May. Warmth rose from the stone flags. The daubed walls, the tallVirgin, the huge Christ, too, all seemed to quiver as with shooting sap, as if death had been conquered by the earth's eternal youth. 

III

Le Teuse hastily put out the candles, but lingered to make one lastattempt to drive away the sparrows, and so when she returned to thesacristy with the Missal she no longer found Abbe Mouret there. Havingwashed his hands and put away the sacred vessels and vestments, he wasnow standing in the dining room, breakfasting off a cup of milk. 

'You really ought to prevent your sister from scattering bread in thechurch, ' said La Teuse on coming in. 'It was last winter she hit uponthat pretty prank. She said the sparrows were cold, and that God mightwell give them some food. You see, she'll end by making us sleep withall her fowls and rabbits. '

'We should be all the warmer, ' pleasantly replied the young priest. 'Youare always grumbling, La Teuse. Do let our poor Desiree pet her animals. She has no other pleasure, poor innocent!'

The servant took her stand in the centre of the room. 

'I do believe you yourself wouldn't mind a bit if the magpies actuallybuilt their nests in the church. You never can see anything, everythingseems just what it ought to be to you. Your sister is precious luckyin having had you to take charge of her when you left the seminary. Nofather, no mother. I should like to know who would let her mess about asshe does in a farmyard. '

Then softening, she added in a gentler tone: 'To be sure, it would bea pity to cross her. She hasn't a touch of malice in her. She's likea child of ten, although she's one of the finest grown girls in theneighbourhood. And I have to put her to bed, as you know, every night, and send her to sleep with stories, just like a little child. '

Abbe Mouret had remained standing, finishing the cup of milk heheld between his fingers, which were slightly reddened by the chillatmosphere of the dining-room--a large room with painted grey walls, afloor of square tiles, and having no furniture beyond a table and a fewchairs. La Teuse picked up a napkin which she had laid at a corner ofthe table in readiness for breakfast. 

'It isn't much linen you dirty, ' she muttered. 'One would think youcould never sit down, that you are always just about to start off. Ah!if you had known Monsieur Caffin, the poor dead priest whose placeyou have taken! What a man he was for comfort! Why, he couldn't havedigested his food, if he had eaten standing. A Norman he was, fromCanteleu, like myself. I don't thank him, I tell you, for having broughtme to such a wild-beast country as this. When first we came, O, Lord!how bored we were! But the poor priest had had some uncomfortable talesgoing about him at home. . . . Why, sir, didn't you sweeten your milk, then? Aren't those the two lumps of sugar?'

The priest put down his cup. 

'Yes, I must have forgotten, I believe, ' he said. 

La Teuse stared at him and shrugged her shoulders. She folded up insidethe napkin a slice of stale home-made bread which had also been leftuntouched on the table. Then just as the priest was about to go out, she ran after him and knelt down at his feet, exclaiming: 'Stop, yourshoe-laces are not even fastened. I cannot imagine how your feet canstand those peasant shoes, you're such a little, tender man and look asif you had been preciously spoilt! Ah, the bishop must have known a dealabout you, to go and give you the poorest living in the department. '

'But it was I who chose Les Artaud, ' said the priest, breaking intoanother smile. 'You are very bad-tempered this morning, La Teuse. Are wenot happy here? We have got all we want, and our life is as peaceful asif in paradise. '

She then restrained herself and laughed in her turn, saying: 'You are aholy man, Monsieur le Cure. But come and see what a splendid wash I havegot. That will be better than squabbling with one another. '

The priest was obliged to follow, for she might prevent him going outat all if he did not compliment her on her washing. As he left thedining-room he stumbled over a heap of rubbish in the passage. 

'What is this?' he asked. 

Oh, nothing, ' said La Teuse in her grimest tone. 'It's only theparsonage coming down. However, you are quite content, you've got allyou want. Good heavens! there are holes and to spare. Just look at thatceiling, now. Isn't it cracked all over? If we don't get buried aliveone of these days, we shall owe a precious big taper to our guardianangel. However, if it suits you--It's like the church. Those brokenpanes ought to have been replaced these two years. In winter our Lordgets frozen with the cold. Besides, it would keep out those rascallysparrows. I shall paste paper over the holes. You see if I don't. '

'A capital idea, ' murmured the priest, 'they might very well be pastedover. As to the walls, they are stouter than we think. In my room, thefloor has only given way slightly in front of the window. The house willsee us all buried. '

On reaching the little open shed near the kitchen, in order to pleaseLa Teuse he went into ecstasies over the washing; he even had to diphis fingers into it and feel it. This so pleased the old woman thather attentions became quite motherly. She no longer scolded, but ranto fetch a clothes-brush, saying: 'You surely are not going out withyesterday's mud on your cassock! If you had left it out on the banister, it would be clean now--it's still a good one. But do lift it up wellwhen you cross any field. The thistles tear everything. '

While speaking she kept turning him round like a child, shaking him fromhead to foot with her energetic brushing. 

'There, there, that will do, ' he said, escaping from her at last. 'Takecare of Desiree, won't you? I will tell her I am going out. '

But at this minute a fresh clear voice called to him: 'Serge! Serge!'

Desiree came flying up, her cheeks ruddy with glee, her head bare, her black locks twisted tightly upon her neck, and her hands and armssmothered up to the elbows with manure. She had been cleaning out herpoultry house. When she caught sight of her brother just about to go outwith his breviary under his arm, she laughed aloud, and kissed him onhis mouth, with her arms thrown back behind her to avoid soiling him. 

'No, no, ' she hurriedly exclaimed, 'I should dirty you. Oh! I am havingsuch fun! You must see the animals when you come back. '

Thereupon she fled away again. Abbe Mouret then said that he would beback about eleven for luncheon, and as he started, La Teuse, who hadfollowed him to the doorstep, shouted after him her last injunctions. 

'Don't forget to see Brother Archangias. And look in also at theBrichets'; the wife came again yesterday about that wedding. Justlisten, Monsieur le Cure! I met their Rosalie. She'd ask nothing betterthan to marry big Fortune. Have a talk with old Bambousse; perhaps hewill listen to you now. And don't come back at twelve o'clock, like theother day. Come, say you'll be back at eleven, won't you?'

But the priest turned round no more. So she went in again, growlingbetween her teeth:

'When does he ever listen to me? Barely twenty-six years old and doesjust as he likes. To be sure, he's an old man of sixty for holiness; butthen he has never known life; he knows nothing, it's no trouble to himto be as good as a cherub!'

IV

When Abbe Mouret had got beyond all hearing of La Teuse he stopped, thankful to be alone at last. The church was built on a hillock, whichsloped down gently to the village. With its large gaping windows andbright red tiles, it stretched out like a deserted sheep-cote. Thepriest turned round and glanced at the parsonage, a greyish buildingspringing from the very side of the church; but as if fearful thathe might again be overtaken by the interminable chatter that had beenbuzzing in his ears ever since morning, he turned up to the right again, and only felt safe when he at last stood before the great doorway, wherehe could not be seen from the parsonage. The front of the church, quitebare and worn by the sunshine and rain of years, was crowned by a narrowopen stone belfry, in which a small bell showed its black silhouette, whilst its rope disappeared through the tiles. Six broken steps, onone side half buried in the earth, led up to the lofty arched door, nowcracked, smothered with dust and rust and cobwebs, and so frailly hungupon its outwrenched hinges that it seemed as if the first slight puffwould secure free entrance to the winds of heaven. Abbe Mouret, who hadan affection for this dilapidated door, leaned against one of its leavesas he stood upon the steps. Thence he could survey the whole countryround at a glance. And shading his eyes with his hands he scanned thehorizon. 

In the month of May exuberant vegetation burst forth from that stonysoil. Gigantic lavenders, juniper bushes, patches of rank herbageswarmed over the church threshold, and scattered clumps of dark greeneryeven to the very tiles. It seemed as if the first throb of shooting sapin the tough matted underwood might well topple the church over. At thatearly hour, amid all the travail of nature's growth, there was a hum ofvivifying warmth, and the very rocks quivered as with a long and silenteffort. But the Abbe failed to comprehend the ardour of nature's painfullabour; he simply thought that the steps were tottering, and thereuponleant against the other side of the door. 

The countryside stretched away for a distance of six miles, bounded bya wall of tawny hills speckled with black pine-woods. It was a fearfullandscape of arid wastes and rocky spurs rending the soil. The fewpatches of arable ground were like scattered pools of blood, red fieldswith rows of lean almond trees, grey-topped olive trees and long linesof vines, streaking the soil with their brown stems. It was as if somehuge conflagration had swept by there, scattering the ashes of forestsover the hill-tops, consuming all the grass of the meadow lands, andleaving its glare and furnace-like heat behind in the hollows. Only hereand there was the softer note of a pale green patch of growing corn. Thelandscape generally was wild, lacking even a threadlet of water, dyingof thirst, and flying away in clouds of dust at the least breath ofwind. But at the farthest point where the crumbling hills on the horizonhad left a breach one espied some distant fresh moist greenery, astretch of the neighbouring valley fertilised by the Viorne, a riverflowing down from the gorges of the Seille. 

The priest lowered his dazzled glance upon the village, whose fewscattered houses straggled away below the church--wretched hovels theywere of rubble and boards strewn along a narrow path without sign ofstreets. There were about thirty of them altogether, some squattingamidst muck-heaps, and black with woeful want; others roomier and morecheerful-looking with their roofs of pinkish tiles. Strips of garden, victoriously planted amidst stony soil, displayed plots of vegetablesenclosed by quickset hedges. At this hour Les Artaud was empty, not awoman was at the windows, not a child was wallowing in the dust; partiesof fowls alone went to and fro, ferreting among the straw, seeking foodup to the very thresholds of the houses, whose open doors gaped in thesunlight. A big black dog seated on his haunches at the entrance to thevillage seemed to be mounting guard over it. 

Languor slowly stole over Abbe Mouret. The rising sun steeped him insuch warmth that he leant back against the church door pervaded by afeeling of happy restfulness. His thoughts were dwelling on that hamletof Les Artaud, which had sprung up there among the stones like one ofthe knotty growths of the valley. All its inhabitants were related, all bore the same name, so that from their very cradle they weredistinguished among themselves by nicknames. An Artaud, their ancestor, had come hither and settled like a pariah in this waste. His family hadgrown with all the wild vitality of the herbage that sucked life fromthe rocky boulders. It had at last become a tribe, a rural community, in which cousin-ships were lost in the mists of centuries. Theyintermarried with shameless promiscuity. Not an instance could be citedof any Artaud taking himself a wife from any neighbouring village; onlysome of the girls occasionally went elsewhere. The others were born anddied fixed to that spot, leisurely increasing and multiplying on theirdunghills with the irreflectiveness of trees, and with no definitenotion of the world that lay beyond the tawny rocks, in whose midst theyvegetated. And yet there were already rich and poor among them; fowlshaving at times disappeared, the fowl-houses were now closed at nightwith stout padlocks; moreover one Artaud had killed another Artaud oneevening behind the mill. These folk, begirt by that belt of desolatehills, were truly a people apart--a race sprung from the soil, aminiature replica of mankind, three hundred souls all told, beginningthe centuries yet once again. 

Over the priest the sombre shadows of seminary life still hovered. Foryears he had never seen the sun. He perceived it not even now, hiseyes closed and gazing inwards on his soul, and with no feeling forperishable nature, fated to damnation, save contempt. For a long timein his hours of devout thought he had dreamt of some hermit's desert, of some mountain hole, where no living thing--neither being, plant, nor water--should distract him from the contemplation of God. It was animpulse springing from the purest love, from a loathing of all physicalsensation. There, dying to self, and with his back turned to the lightof day, he would have waited till he should cease to be, till nothingshould remain of him but the sovereign whiteness of the soul. To himheaven seemed all white, with a luminous whiteness as if lilies theresnowed down upon one, as if every form of purity, innocence, andchastity there blazed. But his confessor reproved him whenever herelated his longings for solitude, his cravings for an existence ofGodlike purity; and recalled him to the struggles of the Church, thenecessary duties of the priesthood. Later on, after his ordination, theyoung priest had come to Les Artaud at his own request, there hoping torealise his dream of human annihilation. In that desolate spot, on thatbarren soil, he might shut his ears to all worldly sounds, and live thedreamy life of a saint. For some months past, in truth, his existencehad been wholly undisturbed, rarely had any thrill of the village-lifedisturbed him; and even the sun's heat scarcely brought him any glowof feeling as he walked the paths, his whole being wrapped in heaven, heedless of the unceasing travail of life amidst which he moved. 

The big black dog watching over Les Artaud had determined to come up toAbbe Mouret, and now sat upon its haunches at the priest's feet; but theunconscious man remained absorbed amidst the sweetness of the morning. On the previous evening he had begun the exercises of the Rosary, andto the intercession of the Virgin with her Divine Son he attributed thegreat joy which filled his soul. How despicable appeared all the goodthings of the earth! How thankfully he recognised his poverty! When heentered into holy orders, after losing on the same day both his fatherand his mother through a tragedy the fearful details of which were evennow unknown to him, * he had relinquished all his share of their propertyto an elder brother. His only remaining link with the world washis sister; he had undertaken the care of her, stirred by a kind ofreligious affection for her feeble intelligence. The dear innocent wasso childish, such a very little girl, that she recalled to him the poorin spirit to whom the Gospel promises the kingdom of heaven. Of late, however, she had somewhat disturbed him; she was growing too lusty, toofull of health and life. But his discomfort was yet of the slightest. His days were spent in that inner life he had created for himself, forwhich he had relinquished all else. He closed the portals of his senses, and sought to free himself from all bodily needs, so that he might bebut a soul enrapt in contemplation. To him nature offered only snaresand abominations; he gloried in maltreating her, in despising her, inreleasing himself from his human slime. And as the just man must bea fool according to the world, he considered himself an exile on thisearth; his thoughts were solely fixed upon the favours of Heaven, incapable as he was of understanding how an eternity of bliss could beweighed against a few hours of perishable enjoyment. His reasonduped him and his senses lied; and if he advanced in virtue it wasparticularly by humility and obedience. His wish was to be the last ofall, one subject to all, in order that the divine dew might fall uponhis heart as upon arid sand; he considered himself overwhelmed withreproach and with confusion, unworthy of ever being saved from sin. Heno longer belonged to himself--blind, deaf, dead to the world as he was. He was God's thing. And from the depth of the abjectness to which hesought to plunge, Hosannahs suddenly bore him aloft, above the happy andthe mighty into the splendour of never-ending bliss. 

 * This forms the subject of M. Zola's novel, _The Conquest of Plassans_. ED. 

Thus, at Les Artaud, Abbe Mouret had once more experienced, each time heread the 'Imitation, ' the raptures of the cloistered life which he hadlonged for at one time so ardently. As yet he had not had to fightany battle. From the moment that he knelt down, he became perfect, absolutely oblivious of the flesh, unresisting, undisturbed, as ifoverpowered by the Divine grace. Such ecstasy at God's approach is wellknown to some young priests: it is a blissful moment when all is hushed, and the only desire is but a boundless craving for purity. From no humancreature had he sought his consolations. He who believes a certain thingto be all in all cannot be troubled: and he did believe that God was allin all, and that humility, obedience, and chastity were everything. He could remember having heard temptation spoken of as an abominabletorture that tries the holiest. But he would only smile: God hadnever left him. He bore his faith about him thus like a breast-plateprotecting him from the slightest breath of evil. He could recall howhe had hidden himself and wept for very love; he knew not whom he loved, but he wept for love, for love of some one afar off. The recollectionnever failed to move him. Later on he had decided on becoming a priestin order to satisfy that craving for a superhuman affection which washis sole torment. He could not see where greater love could be. In thatstate of life he satisfied his being, his inherited predisposition, hisyouthful dreams, his first virile desires. If temptation must come, heawaited it with the calmness of the seminarist ignorant of the world. Hefelt that his manhood had been killed in him: it gladdened him to feelhimself a creature set apart, unsexed, turned from the usual paths oflife, and, as became a lamb of the Lord, marked with the tonsure. 

V

While the priest pondered the sun was heating the big church-door. Gilded flies buzzed round a large flower that was blooming between twoof the church-door steps. Abbe Mouret, feeling slightly dazed, wasat last about to move away, when the big black dog sprang, barkingviolently, towards the iron gate of the little graveyard on the left ofthe church. At the same time a harsh voice called out: 'Ah! you youngrascal! So you stop away from school, and I find you in the graveyard!Oh, don't say no: I have been watching you this quarter of an hour. '

As the priest stepped forward he saw Vincent, whom a Brother ofthe Christian Schools was clutching tightly by the ear. The lad wassuspended, as it were, over a ravine skirting the graveyard, at thebottom of which flowed the Mascle, a mountain torrent whose crystalwaters plunged into the Viorne, six miles away. 

'Brother Archangias!' softly called the priest, as if to appease thefearful man. 

The Brother, however, did not release the boy's ear. 

'Oh, it's you, Monsieur le Cure?' he growled. 'Just fancy, this rascalis always poking his nose into the graveyard. I don't know what he canbe up to here. I ought to let go of him and let him smash his skull downthere. It would be what he deserves. '

The lad remained dumb, with his cunning eyes tight shut as he clung tothe bushes. 

'Take care, Brother Archangias, ' continued the priest, 'he might slip. '

And he himself helped Vincent to scramble up again. 

'Come, my young friend, what were you doing there?' he asked. 'You mustnot go playing in graveyards. '

The lad had opened his eyes, and crept away, fearfully, from theBrother, to place himself under the priest's protection. 

'I'll tell you, ' he said in a low voice, as he raised his bushy head. 'There is a tomtit's nest in the brambles there, under that rock. For over ten days I've been watching it, and now the little ones arehatched, so I came this morning after serving your mass. '

'A tomtit's nest!' exclaimed Brother Archangias. 'Wait a bit! wait abit!'

Thereupon he stepped aside, picked a clod of earth off a grave and flungit into the brambles. But he missed the nest. Another clod, however, more skilfully thrown upset the frail cradle, and precipitated thefledglings into the torrent below. 

'Now, perhaps, ' he continued, clapping his hands to shake off the earththat soiled them, 'you won't come roaming here any more, like a heathen;the dead will pull your feet at night if you go walking over themagain. '

Vincent, who had laughed at seeing the nest dive into the stream, lookedround him and shrugged his shoulders like one of strong mind. 

'Oh, I'm not afraid, ' he said. 'Dead folk don't stir. '

The graveyard, in truth, was not a place to inspire fear. It was abarren piece of ground whose narrow paths were smothered by rank weeds. Here and there the soil was bossy with mounds. A single tombstone, thatof Abbe Caffin, brand-new and upright, could be perceived in the centreof the ground. Save this, all around there were only broken fragmentsof crosses, withered tufts of box, and old slabs split and moss-eaten. There were not two burials a year. Death seemed to make no dwelling inthat waste spot, whither La Teuse came every evening to fill her apronwith grass for Desiree's rabbits. A gigantic cypress tree, standingnear the gate, alone cast shadow upon the desert field. This cypress, a landmark visible for nine miles around, was known to the wholecountryside as the Solitaire. 

'It's full of lizards, ' added Vincent, looking at the cracks of thechurch-wall. 'One could have a fine lark--'

But he sprang out with a bound on seeing the Brother lift his foot. Thelatter proceeded to call the priest's attention to the dilapidated stateof the gate, which was not only eaten up with rust, but had one hingeoff, and the lock broken. 

'It ought to be repaired, ' said he. 

Abbe Mouret smiled, but made no reply. Addressing Vincent, who wasromping with the dog: 'I say, my boy, ' he asked, 'do you know where oldBambousse is at work this morning?'

The lad glanced towards the horizon. 'He must be at his Olivettes fieldnow, ' he answered, pointing towards the left. 'But Voriau will showyour reverence the way. He's sure to know where his master is. ' And heclapped his hands and called: 'Hie! Voriau! hie!'

The big black dog paused a moment, wagging his tail, and seeking to readthe urchin's eyes. Then, barking joyfully, he set off down the slope tothe village. Abbe Mouret and Brother Archangias followed him, chatting. A hundred yards further Vincent surreptitiously bolted, and again glidedup towards the church, keeping a watchful eye upon them, and readyto dart behind a bush if they should look round. With adder-likesuppleness, he once more glided into the graveyard, that paradise fullof lizards, nests, and flowers. 

Meantime, while Voriau led the way before them along the dusty road, Brother Archangias was angrily saying to the priest: 'Let be! Monsieurle Cure, they're spawn of damnation, those toads are! They ought tohave their backs broken, to make them pleasing to God. They grow up inirreligion, like their fathers. Fifteen years have I been here, andnot one Christian have I been able to turn out. The minute they quitmy hands, good-bye! They think of nothing but their land, their vines, their olive-trees. Not one ever sets foot in church. Brute beasts theyare, struggling with their stony fields! Guide them with the stick, Monsieur le Cure, yes, the stick!'

Then, after drawing breath, he added with a terrific wave of his hands:

'Those Artauds, look you, are like the brambles over-running theserocks. One stem has been enough to poison the whole district. They clingon, they multiply, they live in spite of everything. Nothing short offire from heaven, as at Gomorrha, will clear it all away. '

'We should never despair of sinners, ' said Abbe Mouret, all inwardpeacefulness, as he leisurely walked on. 

'But these are the devil's own, ' broke in the Brother still moreviolently. 'I've been a peasant, too. Up to eighteen I dug the earth;and later on, when I was at the Training College, I had to sweep, parevegetables, do all the heavy work. It's not their toilsome labour I findfault with. On the contrary, for God prefers the lowly. But the Artaudslive like beasts! They are like their dogs, they never attend mass, andmake a mock of the commandments of God and of the Church. They think ofnothing but their plots of lands, so sweet they are on them!'

Voriau, his tail wagging, kept stopping and moving on again as soon ashe saw that they still followed him. 

'There certainly are some grievous things going on, ' said Abbe Mouret. 'My predecessor, Abbe Caffin--'

'A poor specimen, ' interrupted the Brother. 'He came here to us fromNormandy owing to some disreputable affair. Once here, his sole thoughtwas good living; he let everything go to rack and ruin. '

'Oh, no, Abbe Caffin certainly did what he could; but I must ownthat his efforts were all but barren in results. My own are mostlyfruitless. '

Brother Archangias shrugged his shoulders. He walked on for a minutein silence, swaying his tall bony frame, which looked as if it hadbeen roughly fashioned with a hatchet. The sun beat down upon his neck, shadowing his hard, sword-edged peasant's face. 

'Listen to me, Monsieur le Cure, ' he said at last. 'I am too muchbeneath you to lecture you; but still, I am almost double your age, Iknow this part, and therefore I feel justified in telling you that youwill gain nothing by gentleness. The catechism, understand, is enough. God has no mercy on the wicked. He burns them. Stick to that. '

Then, as Abbe Mouret, whose head remained bowed, did not open his mouth, he went on: 'Religion is leaving the country districts because itis made over indulgent. It was respected when it spoke out like anunforgiving mistress. I really don't know what they can teach you nowin the seminaries. The new priests weep like children with theirparishioners. God no longer seems the same. I dare say, Monsieur leCure, that you don't even know your catechism by heart now?'

But the priest, wounded by the imperiousness with which the Brother soroughly sought to dominate him, looked up and dryly rejoined:

'That will do, your zeal is very praiseworthy. But haven't you somethingto tell me? You came to the parsonage this morning, did you not?'

Thereupon Brother Archangias plumply answered: 'I had to tell you justwhat I have told you. The Artauds live like pigs. Only yesterday Ilearned that Rosalie, old Bambousse's eldest daughter, is in the familyway. It happens with all of them before they get married. And theysimply laugh at reproaches, as you know. '

'Yes, ' murmured Abbe Mouret, 'it is a great scandal. I am just on my wayto see old Bambousse to speak to him about it; it is desirable that theyshould be married as soon as possible. The child's father, it seems, isFortune, the Brichets' eldest son. Unfortunately the Brichets are poor. '

'That Rosalie, now, ' continued the Brother, 'is just eighteen. Not fouryears since I still had her under me at school, and she was already agadabout. I have now got her sister Catherine, a chit of eleven, whoseems likely to become even worse than her elder. One comes across herin every corner with that little scamp, Vincent. It's no good, you maypull their ears till they bleed, the woman always crops up in them. They carry perdition about with them and are only fit to be thrown on amuck-heap. What a splendid riddance if all girls were strangled at theirbirth!'

His loathing, his hatred of woman made him swear like a carter. AbbeMouret, who had been listening to him with unmoved countenance, smiledat last at his rabid utterances. He called Voriau, who had strayed intoa field close by. 

'There, look there!' cried Brother Archangias, pointing to a group ofchildren playing at the bottom of a ravine, 'there are my young devils, who play the truant under pretence of going to help their parents amongthe vines! You may be certain that jade of a Catherine is among them. . . . There, didn't I tell you! Till to-night, Monsieur le Cure. Oh, just youwait, you rascals!'

Off he went at a run, his dirty neckband flying over his shoulder, andhis big greasy cassock tearing up the thistles. Abbe Mouret watched himswoop down into the midst of the children, who scattered like frightenedsparrows. But he succeeded in seizing Catherine and one boy by the earsand led them back towards the village, clutching them tightly with hisbig hairy fingers, and overwhelming them with abuse. 

The priest walked on again. Brother Archangias sometimes aroused strangescruples in his mind. With his vulgarity and coarseness the Brotherseemed to him the true man of God, free from earthly ties, submissive inall to Heaven's will, humble, blunt, ready to shower abuse upon sin. He, the priest, would then feel despair at his inability to rid himselfmore completely of his body; he regretted that he was not ugly, unclean, covered with vermin like some of the saints. Whenever the Brother hadwounded him by some words of excessive coarseness, or by some over-hastychurlishness, he would blame himself for his refinement, his innateshrinking, as if these were really faults. Ought he not to be dead toall the weaknesses of this world? And this time also he smiled sadly ashe thought how near he had been to losing his temper at the Brother'sroughly put lesson. It was pride, it seemed to him, seeking to work hisperdition by making him despise the lowly. However, in spite of himself, he felt relieved at being alone again, at being able to walk on gently, reading his breviary, free at last from the grating voice that haddisturbed his dream of heavenly love. 

VI

The road wound on between fallen rocks, among which the peasants hadsucceeded here and there in reclaiming six or seven yards of chalkysoil, planted with old olive trees. Under the priest's feet the dust inthe deep ruts crackled lightly like snow. At times, as he felt a warmerpuff upon his face, he would raise his eyes from his book, as if to seekwhence came this soft caress; but his gaze was vacant, straying withoutperception over the glowing horizon, over the twisted outlines of thatpassion-breathing landscape as it stretched out in the sun before him, dry, barren, despairing of the fertilisation for which it longed. Andhe would lower his hat over his forehead to protect himself againstthe warm breeze and tranquilly resume his reading, his cassock raisingbehind him a cloudlet of dust which rolled along the surface of theroad. 

'Good morning, Monsieur le Cure, ' a passing peasant said to him. 

Sounds of digging alongside the cultivated strips of ground againroused him from his abstraction. He turned his head and perceived bigknotty-limbed old men greeting him from among the vines. The Artaudswere eagerly satisfying their passion for the soil, in the sun's fullblaze. Sweating brows appeared from behind the bushes, heaving chestswere slowly raised, the whole scene was one of ardent fructification, through which he moved with the calm step born of ignorance. Nodiscomfort came to him from the great travail of love that permeatedthat splendid morning. 

'Steady! Voriau, you mustn't eat people!' some one gaily shouted in apowerful voice by way of silencing the dog's loud barks. 

Abbe Mouret looked up. 

'Oh! it's you. Fortune?' he said, approaching the edge of the field inwhich the young peasant was at work. 'I was just on my way to speak toyou. '

Fortune was of the same age as the priest: a bigly built, bold-lookingyoung fellow, with skin already hardened. He was clearing a small plotof stony heath. 

'What about, Monsieur le Cure?' he asked. 

'About Rosalie and you, ' replied the priest. 

Fortune began to laugh. Perhaps he thought it droll that a priest shouldinterest himself in such a matter. 

'Well, ' he muttered, 'I'm not to blame in it nor she either. So much theworse if old Bambousse refuses to let me have her. You saw yourself howhis dog was trying to bite me just now; he sets him on me. '

Then, as Abbe Mouret was about to continue, old Artaud, called Brichet, whom he had not previously perceived, emerged from the shadow of a bushbehind which he and his wife were eating. He was a little man, witheredby age, with a cringing face. 

'Your reverence must have been told a pack of lies, ' he exclaimed. 'The youngster is quite ready to marry Rosalie. What's happened isn'tanybody's fault. It has happened to others who got on all right just thesame. The matter doesn't rest with us. You ought to speak to Bambousse. He's the one who looks down on us because he's got money. '

'Yes, we are very poor, ' whined his wife, a tall lachrymose woman, whoalso rose to her feet. 'We've only this scrap of ground where the verydevil seems to have been hailing stones. Not a bite of bread from it, even. Without you, your reverence, life would be impossible. '

Brichet's wife was the one solitary devotee of the village. Whenever shehad been to communion, she would hang about the parsonage, well knowingthat La Teuse always kept a couple of loaves for her from her lastbaking. At times she was even able to carry off a rabbit or a fowl givenher by Desiree. 

'There's no end to the scandals, ' continued the priest. 'The marriagemust take place without delay. '

'Oh! at once! as soon as the others are agreeable, ' said the old woman, alarmed about her periodical presents. 'What do you say, Brichet? we arenot such bad Christians as to go against his reverence?'

Fortune sniggered. 

'Oh, I'm quite ready, ' he said, 'and so is Rosalie. I saw her yesterdayat the back of the mill. We haven't quarrelled. We stopped there to havea bit of a laugh. '

But Abbe Mouret interrupted him: 'Very well, I am now going to speak toBambousse. He is over there, at Les Olivettes, I believe. '

The priest was going off when the mother asked him what had become ofher younger son Vincent, who had left in the early morning to servemass. There was a lad now who badly needed his reverence's admonitions. And she walked by the priest's side for another hundred yards, bemoaningher poverty, the failure of the potato crop, the frost which had nippedthe olive trees, the hot weather which threatened to scorch up thescanty corn. Then, as she left him, she solemnly declared that her sonFortune always said his prayers, both morning and evening. 

Voriau now ran on in front, and suddenly, at a turn in the road, hebolted across the fields. The priest then struck into a small pathleading up a low hill. He was now at Les Olivettes, the most fertilespot in the neighbourhood, where the mayor of the commune, Artaud, otherwise Bambousse, owned several fields of corn, olive plantations, and vines. The dog was now romping round the skirts of a tall brunette, who burst into a loud laugh as she caught sight of the priest. 

'Is your father here, Rosalie?' the latter asked. 

'Yes, just across there, ' she said, pointing with her hand and stillsmiling. 

Leaving the part of the field she had been weeding, she walked on beforehim with the vigorous springiness of a hard-working woman, her headunshielded from the sun, her neck all sunburnt, her hair black andcoarse like a horse's mane. Her green-stained hands exhaled the odour ofthe weeds she had been pulling up. 

'Father, ' she called out, 'here's Monsieur le Cure asking for you. '

And there she remained, bold, unblushing, with a sly smile stillhovering over her features. Bambousse, a stout, sweating, round-facedman, left his work and gaily came towards the priest. 

'I'd take my oath you are going to speak to me about the repairs ofthe church, ' he exclaimed, as he clapped his earthy hands. 'Well, then, Monsieur le Cure, I can only say no, it's impossible. The commune hasn'tgot the coin. If the Lord provides plaster and tiles, we'll provide theworkmen. '

At this jest of his the unbelieving peasant burst into a loud guffaw, slapped his thighs, coughed, and almost choked himself. 

'It was not for the church I came, ' replied the Abbe Mouret. 'I wantedto speak to you about your daughter Rosalie. '

'Rosalie? What has she done to you, then?' inquired Bambousse, his eyesblinking. 

The girl was boldly staring at the young priest, scrutinising his whitehands and slender, feminine neck, as if trying to make him redden. He, however, bluntly and with unruffled countenance, as if speaking ofsomething quite indifferent, continued:

'You know what I mean, Bambousse. She must get married. '

'Oh, that's it, is it?' muttered the old man, with a bantering look. 'Many thanks for the message. The Brichets sent you, didn't they? MotherBrichet goes to mass, and so you give her a helping hand to marry herson--it's all very fine. But, I've got nothing to do with that. Itdoesn't suit me. That's all. '

Thereupon the astonished priest represented to him that the scandalmust be stopped, and that he ought to forgive Fortune, as the latter waswilling to make reparation for his transgression, and that, lastly, hisdaughter's reputation demanded a speedy marriage. 

'Ta, ta, ta, ' replied Bambousse, what a lot of words! I shall keep mydaughter, please understand it. All that's got nothing to do with me. That Fortune is a beggarly pauper, without a brass farthing. What aneasy job, if one could marry a girl like that! At that rate we shouldhave all the young things marrying off morning and night. Thank Heaven!I'm not worried about Rosalie: everybody knows what has happened; butit makes no difference. She can marry any one she chooses in theneighbourhood. '

'But the child?' interrupted the priest. 

'The child indeed! There'll be time enough to think of that when it'sborn. '

Rosalie, perceiving the turn the priest's application was taking, nowthought it proper to ram her fists into her eyes and whimper. And sheeven let herself fall upon the ground. 

'Shut up, will you, you hussy!' howled her father in a rage. And heproceeded to revile her in the coarsest terms, which made her laughsilently behind her clenched fists. 

'You won't shut up? won't you? Just wait a minute then, you jade!'continued old Bambousse. And thereupon he picked up a clod of earth andflung it at her. It burst upon her knot of hair, crumbling down her neckand smothering her in dust. Dizzy from the blow, she bounded to her feetand fled, sheltering her head between her hands. But Bambousse had timeto fling two more clods at her, and if the first only grazed her leftshoulder, the next caught her full on the base of the spine, with suchforce that she fell upon her knees. 

'Bambousse!' cried the priest, as he wrenched from the peasant's hand anumber of stones which he had just picked up. 

'Let be, Monsieur le Cure, ' said the other. 'It was only soft earth. I ought to have thrown these stones at her. It's easy to see that youdon't know girls. Hard as nails, all of them. I might duck that one inthe well, I might break all her bones with a cudgel, and she'd still bejust the same. But I've got my eye on her, and if I catch her!. . . Ah!well, they are all like that. '

He was already comforted. He took a good pull at a big flat bottle ofwine, encased in wicker-work, which lay warming on the hot ground. And breaking once more into a laugh, he said: 'If I only had a glass, Monsieur le Cure, I would offer you some with pleasure. '

'So then, ' again asked the priest, 'this marriage?'

'No, it can't be; I should get laughed at. Rosalie is a stout wench. She's worth a man to me. I shall have to hire a lad the day she goesoff. . . . We can have another talk about it after the vintage. Besides, Idon't want to be robbed. Give and take, say I. That's fair. What do youthink?'

Nevertheless for another long half-hour did the priest remain therepreaching to Bambousse, speaking to him of God, and plying him with allthe reasons suited to the circumstances. But the old man had resumedhis work; he shrugged his shoulders, jested, and grew more and moreobstinate. At last, he broke out: 'But if you asked me for a sack ofcorn, you would give me money, wouldn't you? So why do you want me tolet my daughter go for nothing?'

Much discomfited, Abbe Mouret left him. As he went down the path he sawRosalie rolling about under an olive tree with Voriau, who was lickingher face. With her arms whirling, she kept on repeating: 'You tickle me, you big stupid. Leave off!'

When she perceived the priest, she made an attempt at a blush, settledher clothes, and once more raised her fists to her eyes. He, on hispart, sought to console her by promising to attempt some fresh effortswith her father, adding that, in the meantime, she should do nothingto aggravate her sin. And then, as she impudently smiled at him, hepictured hell, where wicked women burn in torment. And afterwards heleft her, his duty done, his soul once more full of the serenity whichenabled him to pass undisturbed athwart the corruptions of the world. 

VII

The morning was becoming terribly hot. In that huge rocky amphitheatrethe sun kindled a furnace-like glare from the moment when the firstfine weather began. By the planet's height in the sky Abbe Mouret nowperceived that he had only just time to return home if he wished toget there by eleven o'clock and escape a scolding from La Teuse. Havingfinished reading his breviary and made his application to Bambousse, heswiftly retraced his steps, gazing as he went at his church, now a greyspot in the distance, and at the black rigid silhouette which thebig cypress-tree, the Solitaire, set against the blue sky. Amidst thedrowsiness fostered by the heat, he thought of how richly that eveninghe might decorate the Lady chapel for the devotions of the month ofMary. Before him the road offered a carpet of dust, soft to the treadand of dazzling whiteness. 

At the Croix-Verte, as the Abbe was about to cross the highway leadingfrom Plassans to La Palud, a gig coming down the hill compelled himto step behind a heap of stones. Then, as he crossed the open space, avoice called to him: 'Hallo, Serge, my boy!'

The gig had pulled up and from it a man leant over. The priestrecognised him--he was an uncle of his, Doctor Pascal Rougon, orMonsieur Pascal, as the poor folk of Plassans, whom he attended fornothing, briefly styled him. Although barely over fifty, he was alreadysnowy white, with a big beard and abundant hair, amidst which hishandsome regular features took an expression of shrewdness andbenevolence. *

 * See M. Zola's novels, _Dr. Pascal_ and _The Fortune of the Rougons_. --ED. 

'So you potter about in the dust at this hour of the day?' he saidgaily, as he stooped to grasp the Abbe's hands. 'You're not afraid ofsunstroke?'

'No more than you are, uncle, ' answered the priest, laughing. 

'Oh, I have the hood of my trap to shield me. Besides, sick folks won'twait. People die at all times, my boy. ' And he went on to relate thathe was now on his way to old Jeanbernat, the steward of the Paradou, whohad had an apoplectic stroke the night before. A neighbour, a peasant onhis way to Plassans market, had summoned him. 

'He must be dead by this time, ' the doctor continued. 'However, we mustmake sure. . . . Those old demons are jolly tough, you know. '

He was already raising his whip, when Abbe Mouret stopped him. 

'Stay! what o'clock do you make it, uncle?'

'A quarter to eleven. '

The Abbe hesitated; he already seemed to hear La Teuse's terrible voicebawling in his ears that his luncheon was getting cold. But he pluckedup courage and added swiftly: 'I'll go with you, uncle. The unhappy manmay wish to reconcile himself to God in his last hour. '

Doctor Pascal could not restrain a laugh. 

'What, Jeanbernat!' he said; 'ah, well! if ever you convert him! Nevermind, come all the same. The sight of you is enough to cure him. '

The priest got in. The doctor, apparently regretting his jest, displayedan affectionate warmth of manner, whilst from time to time clucking histongue by way of encouraging his horse. And out of the corner of his eyehe inquisitively observed his nephew with the keenness of a scientistbent on taking notes. In short kindly sentences he inquired about hislife, his habits, and the peaceful happiness he enjoyed at Les Artaud. And at each satisfactory reply he murmured, as if to himself in a toneof reassurance: 'Come, so much the better; that's just as it should be!'

He displayed peculiar anxiety about the young priest's state of health. And Serge, greatly surprised, assured him that he was in splendidtrim, and had neither fits of giddiness or of nausea, nor headacheswhatsoever. 

'Capital, capital, ' reiterated his uncle Pascal. 'In spring, you see, the blood is active. But you are sound enough. By-the-bye, I saw yourbrother Octave at Marseilles last month. He is off to Paris, where hewill get a fine berth in a high-class business. The young beggar, a nicelife he leads. '

'What life?' innocently inquired the priest. 

To avoid replying the doctor chirruped to his horse, and then went on:'Briefly, everybody is well--your aunt Felicite, your uncle Rougon, andthe others. Still, that does not hinder our needing your prayers. Youare the saint of the family, my lad; I rely upon you to save the wholelot. '

He laughed, but in such a friendly, good-humoured way that Serge himselfbegan to indulge in jocularity. 

'You see, ' continued Pascal, 'there are some among the lot whom it won'tbe easy to lead to Paradise. Some nice confessions you'd hear if allcame in turn. For my part, I can do without their confessions; Iwatch them from a distance; I have got their records at home among mybotanical specimens and medical notes. Some day I shall be able to drawup a wondrously interesting diagram. We shall see; we shall see!'

He was forgetting himself, carried away by his enthusiasm for science. Aglance at his nephew's cassock pulled him up short. 

'As for you, you're a parson, ' he muttered; 'you did well; a parson's avery happy man. The calling absorbs you, eh? And so you've taken to thegood path. Well! you would never have been satisfied otherwise. Yourrelatives, starting like you, have done a deal of evil, and still theyare unsatisfied. It's all logically perfect, my lad. A priest completesthe family. Besides, it was inevitable. Our blood was bound to runto that. So much the better for you; you have had the most luck. 'Correcting himself, however, with a strange smile, he added: 'No, it'syour sister Desiree who has had the best luck of all. '

He whistled, whipped up his horse, and changed the conversation. Thegig, after climbing a somewhat steep slope, was threading its waythrough desolate ravines; at last it reached a tableland, where thehollow road skirted an interminable and lofty wall. Les Artaud haddisappeared; they found themselves in the heart of a desert. 

'We are getting near, are we not?' asked the priest. 

'This is the Paradou, ' replied the doctor, pointing to the wall. 'Haven't you been this way before, then? We are not three miles from LesArtaud. A splendid property it must have been, this Paradou. The parkwall this side alone is quite a mile and a half long. But for over ahundred years it's all been running wild. '

'There are some fine trees, ' observed the Abbe, as he looked up inastonishment at the luxuriant mass of foliage which jutted over. 

'Yes, that part is very fertile. In fact, the park is a regular forestamidst the bare rocks which surround it. The Mascle, too, rises there; Ihave heard four or five springs mentioned, I fancy. '

In short sentences, interspersed with irrelevant digressions, he thenrelated the story of the Paradou, according to the current legend ofthe countryside. In the time of Louis XV. , a great lord had erecteda magnificent palace there, with vast gardens, fountains, tricklingstreams, and statues--a miniature Versailles hidden away among thestones, under the full blaze of the southern sun. But he had there spentbut one season with a lady of bewitching beauty, who doubtless diedthere, as none had ever seen her leave. Next year the mansion wasdestroyed by fire, the park doors were nailed up, the very loopholes ofthe walls were filled with mould; and thus, since that remote time, nota glance had penetrated that vast enclosure which covered the whole ofone of the plateaux of the Garrigue hills. 

'There can be no lack of nettles there, ' laughingly said Abbe Mouret. 'Don't you find that the whole wall reeks of damp, uncle?'

A pause followed, and he asked:

'And whom does the Paradou belong to now?'

'Why, nobody knows, ' the doctor answered. 'The owner did come here once, some twenty years ago. But he was so scared by the sight of thisadders' nest that he has never turned up since. The real master is thecaretaker, that old oddity, Jeanbernat, who has managed to find quartersin a lodge where the stones still hang together. There it is, see--thatgrey building yonder, with its windows all smothered in ivy. '

The gig passed by a lordly iron gate, ruddy with rust, and lined insidewith a layer of boards. The wide dry throats were black with brambles. Ahundred yards further on was the lodge inhabited by Jeanbernat. It stoodwithin the park, which it overlooked. But the old keeper had apparentlyblocked up that side of his dwelling, and had cleared a little gardenby the road. And there he lived, facing southwards, with his backturned upon the Paradou, as if unaware of the immensity of verdure thatstretched away behind him. 

The young priest jumped down, looking inquisitively around him andquestioning the doctor, who was hurriedly fastening the horse to a ringfixed in the wall. 

'And the old man lives all alone in this out-of-the-way hole?' he asked. 

'Yes, quite alone, ' replied his uncle, adding, however, the next minute:'Well, he has with him a niece whom he had to take in, a queer girl, a regular savage. But we must make haste. The whole place looksdeath-like. '

VIII

The house with its shutters closed seemed wrapped in slumber as it stoodthere in the midday sun, amidst the hum of the big flies that swarmedall up the ivy to the roof tiles. The sunlit ruin was steeped in happyquietude. When the doctor had opened the gate of the narrow garden, which was enclosed by a lofty quickset hedge, there, in the shadow castby a wall, they found Jeanbernat, tall and erect, and calmly smoking hispipe, as in the deep silence he watched his vegetables grow. 

'What, are you up then, you humbug?' exclaimed the astonished doctor. 

'So you were coming to bury me, were you?' growled the old man harshly. 'I don't want anybody. I bled myself. '

He stopped short as he caught sight of the priest, and assumed sothreatening an expression that the doctor hastened to intervene. 

'This is my nephew, ' he said; 'the new Cure of Les Artaud--a goodfellow, too. Devil take it, we haven't been bowling over the roads atthis hour of the day to eat you, Jeanbernat. '

The old man calmed down a little. 

'I don't want any shavelings here, ' he grumbled. 'They're enough to makeone croak. Mind, doctor, no priests, and no physics when I go off, or weshall quarrel. Let him come in, however, as he is your nephew. '

Abbe Mouret, struck dumb with amazement, could not speak a word. Hestood there in the middle of the path scanning that strange solitaire, with scorched, brick-tinted face, and limbs all withered and twistedlike a bundle of ropes, who seemed to bear the burden of his eightyyears with a scornful contempt for life. When the doctor attempted tofeel his pulse, his ill-humour broke out afresh. 

'Do leave me in peace! I bled myself with my knife, I tell you. It's allover, now. Who was the fool of a peasant who disturbed you? The doctorhere, and the priest as well, why not the mutes too! Well, it can't behelped, people will be fools. It won't prevent us from having a drink, eh?'

He fetched a bottle and three glasses, and stood them on an old tablewhich he brought out into the shade. Then, having filled the glassesto the brim, he insisted on clinking them. His anger had given place tojeering cheerfulness. 

'It won't poison you, Monsieur le Cure, ' he said. 'A glass of goodwine isn't a sin. Upon my word, however, this is the first time I everclinked a glass with a cassock, but no offence to you. That poor AbbeCaffin, your predecessor, refused to argue with me. He was afraid. '

Jeanbernat gave vent to a hearty laugh, and then went on: 'Just fancy, he had pledged himself that he would prove to me that God exists. So, whenever I met him, I defied him to do it; and he sloped offcrestfallen, I can tell you. '

'What, God does not exist!' cried Abbe Mouret, roused from his silence. 

'Oh! just as you please, ' mockingly replied Jeanbernat. 'We'll begintogether all over again, if it's any pleasure to you. But I warn youthat I'm a tough hand at it. There are some thousands of books in one ofthe rooms upstairs, which were rescued from the fire at the Paradou: allthe philosophers of the eighteenth century, a whole heap of old bookson religion. I've learned some fine things from them. I've been readingthem these twenty years. Marry! you'll find you've got some one who cantalk, Monsieur le Cure. '

He had risen, slowly waving his hand towards the surrounding horizon, to the earth and to the sky, and repeating solemnly: 'There's nothing, nothing, nothing. When the sun is snuffed out, all will be at an end. '

Doctor Pascal nudged Abbe Mouret with his elbow. With blinking eyes hewas curiously observing the old man and nodding approvingly in order toinduce him to talk. 'So you are a materialist, Jeanbernat?' he said. 

'Oh, I am only a poor man, ' replied the old fellow, relighting his pipe. 'When Count de Corbiere, whose foster-brother I was, died from a fallfrom his horse, his children sent me here to look after this park of theSleeping Beauty, in order to get rid of me. I was sixty years old then, and I thought I was about done. But death forgot me; and I had to makemyself a burrow. If one lives all alone, look you, one gets to seethings in rather a queer fashion. The trees are no longer trees, theearth puts on the ways of a living being, the stones seem to tell youtales. A parcel of rubbish, eh? But I know some secrets that wouldfairly stagger you. Besides, what do you think there is to do inthis devilish desert? I read the old books; it was more amusing thanshooting. The Count, who used to curse like a heathen, was always sayingto me: "Jeanbernat, my boy, I fully expect to meet you again in the hotplace, so that you will be able to serve me there as you have up here. "'

Once more he waved his hand to the horizon and added: 'You hear, nothing; there's nothing. It's all foolery. '

Dr. Pascal began to laugh. 

'A pleasant piece of foolery, at any rate, ' he said. 'Jeanbernat, youare a deceiver. I suspect you are in love, in spite of your affectationof being _blase_. You were speaking very tenderly of the trees andstones just now. '

'Oh, no, I assure you, ' murmured the old man, 'I have done with that. At one time, it's true, when I first knew you and used to go herborisingwith you, I was stupid enough to love all sorts of things I came acrossin that huge liar, the country. Fortunately, the old volumes have killedall that. I only wish my garden was smaller; I don't go out into theroad twice a year. You see that bench? That's where I spend all my time, just watching my lettuces grow. '

'And what about your rounds in the park?' broke in the doctor. 

'In the park!' repeated Jeanbernat, with a look of profound surprise. 'Why, it's more than twelve years since I set foot in it! What do yousuppose I could do inside that cemetery? It's too big. It's stupid, whatwith those endless trees and moss everywhere and broken statues, andholes in which one might break one's neck at every step. The last time Iwent in there, it was so dark under the trees, there was such a stink ofwild flowers, and such queer breezes blew along the paths, that I feltalmost afraid. So I have shut myself up to prevent the park coming inhere. A patch of sunlight, three feet of lettuce before me, and abig hedge shutting out all the view, why, that's more than enough forhappiness. Nothing, that's what I'd like, nothing at all, something sotiny that nothing from outside could come to disturb me. Seven feet ofearth, if you like, just to be able to croak on my back. '

He struck the table with his fist, and suddenly raised his voice to callout to Abbe Mouret: 'Come, just another glass, your reverence. The oldgentleman isn't at the bottom of the bottle, you know. '

The priest felt ill at ease. To lead back to God that singular old man, whose reason seemed to him to be strangely disordered, appeared a taskbeyond his powers. He now remembered certain bits of gossip he hadheard from La Teuse about the Philosopher, as the peasants of Les Artauddubbed Jeanbernat. Scraps of scandalous stories vaguely floated in hismemory. He rose, making a sign to the doctor that he wished to leavethis house, where he seemed to inhale an odour of damnation. But, inspite of his covert fears, a strange feeling of curiosity made himlinger. He simply walked to the end of the garden, throwing a searchingglance into the vestibule, as if to see beyond it, behind the walls. Allhe could perceive, however, through the gaping doorway, was the blackstaircase. So he came back again, and sought for some hole, some glimpseof that sea of foliage which he knew was near by the mighty murmur thatbroke upon the house, like the sound of waves. 

'And is the little one well?' asked the doctor, taking up his hat. 

'Pretty well, ' answered Jeanbernat. 'She's never here. She oftendisappears all day long--still, she may be in the upstair rooms. '

He raised his head and called: 'Albine! Albine!' Then with a shrug ofhis shoulders, he added: 'Yes, my word, she is a nice hussy. . . . Well, till next time, Monsieur le Cure. I'm always at your disposal. '

Abbe Mouret, however, had no time to accept the Philosopher's challenge. A door suddenly opened at the end of the vestibule; a dazzling breachwas made in the black darkness of the wall, and through the breach camea vision of a virgin forest, a great depth of woodland, beneath aflood of sunbeams. In that sudden blaze of light the priest distinctlyperceived certain far-away things: a large yellow flower in the middleof a lawn, a sheet of water falling from a lofty rock, a colossal treefilled with a swarm of birds; and all this steeped, lost, blazing insuch a tangle of greenery, such riotous luxuriance of vegetation, thatthe whole horizon seemed one great burst of shooting foliage. The doorbanged to, and everything vanished. 

'Ah! the jade!' cried Jeanbernat, 'she was in the Paradou again!'

Albine was now laughing on the threshold of the vestibule. She worean orange-coloured skirt, with a large red kerchief fastened round herwaist, thus looking like some gipsy in holiday garb. And she went onlaughing, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with mirth, delightedwith her flowers, wild flowers which she had plaited into her fair hair, fastened to her neck, her bodice, and her bare slender golden arms. Sheseemed like a huge nosegay, exhaling a powerful perfume. 

'Ay, you are a beauty!' growled the old man. 'You smell of weeds enoughto poison one--would any one think she was sixteen, that doll?'

Albine remained unabashed, however, and laughed still more heartily. Doctor Pascal, who was her great friend, let her kiss him. 

'So you are not frightened in the Paradou?' he asked. 

'Frightened? What of?' she said, her eyes wide open with astonishment. 'The walls are too high, no one can get in. There's only myself. It ismy garden, all my very own. A fine big one, too. I haven't found outwhere it ends yet. '

'And the animals?' interrupted the doctor. 

'The animals? Oh! they don't hurt; they all know me well. '

'But it is very dark under the trees?'

'Course! there's shade: if there were none, the sun would burn my faceup. It is very pleasant in the shade among the leaves. '

She flitted about, filling the little garden with the rustling sweep ofher skirts, and scattering round the pungent odour of wild flowers whichclung to her. She had smiled at Abbe Mouret without trace of shyness, without heed of the astonished look with which he observed her. Thepriest had stepped aside. That fair-haired maid, with long oval face, glowing with life, seemed to him to be the weird mysterious offspring ofthe forest of which he had caught a glimpse in a sheet of sunlight. 

'I say, I have got some blackbird nestlings; would you like them?'Albine asked the doctor. 

'No, thanks, ' he answered, laughing. 'You should give them to the Cure'ssister; she is very fond of pets. Good day, Jeanbernat. '

Albine, however, had fastened on the priest. 

'You are the vicar of Les Artaud, aren't you? You have a sister? I'll goand see her. Only you must not speak to me about God. My uncle will nothave it. '

'You bother us, be off, ' exclaimed Jeanbernat, shrugging his shoulders. Then bounding away like a goat, dropping a shower of flowers behind her, she disappeared. The slam of a door was heard, and from behind thehouse came bursts of laughter, which died away in the distance like thescampering rush of some mad animal let loose among the grass. 

'You'll see, she will end by sleeping in the Paradou, ' muttered the oldman with indifference. 

And as he saw his visitors off, he added: 'If you should find me deadone of these fine days, doctor, just do me the favour of pitching meinto the muck-pit there, behind my lettuces. Good evening, gentlemen. '

He let the wooden gate which closed the hedge fall to again, and thehouse assumed once more its aspect of happy peacefulness in the noondaysunlight, amidst the buzzing of the big flies that swarmed all up theivy even to the roof tiles. 

IX

The gig once more rolled along the road skirting the Paradou'sinterminable wall. Abbe Mouret, still silent, scanned with upturned eyesthe huge boughs which stretched over that wall, like the arms of giantshidden there. All sorts of sounds came from the park: rustling of wings, quivering of leaves, furtive bounds at which branches snapped, mightysighs that bowed the young shoots--a vast breath of life sweeping overthe crests of a nation of trees. At times, as he heard a birdlike notethat seemed like a human laugh, the priest turned his head, as if hefelt uneasy. 

'A queer girl!' said his uncle as he eased the reins a little. 'She wasnine years old when she took up her quarters with that old heathen. Somebrother of his had ruined himself, though in what I can't remember. Thelittle one was at school somewhere when her father killed himself. Shewas even quite a little lady, up to reading, embroidery, chattering, andstrumming on the piano. And such a coquette too! I saw her arrive withopen-worked stockings, embroidered skirts, frills, cuffs, a heap offinery. Ah, well! the finery didn't last long!'

He laughed. A big stone nearly upset the gig. 

'It will be lucky if I don't leave a wheel in this cursed road!' hemuttered. 'Hold on, my boy. '

The wall still stretched beside them: the priest still listened. 

'As you may well imagine, ' continued the doctor, 'the Paradou, what withits sun, its stones, and its thistles, would wreck a whole outfit everyday. Three or four mouthfuls, that's all it made of all the little one'sbeautiful dresses. She used to come back naked. Now she dresses likea savage. To-day she was rather presentable; but sometimes she hasscarcely anything on beyond her shoes and chemise. Did you hear her? TheParadou is hers. The very day after she came she took possession of it. She lives in it; jumps out of the window when Jeanbernat locks the door, bolts off in spite of all, goes nobody knows whither, buries herself insome invisible burrows known only to herself. She must have a fine timein that wilderness. '

'Hark, uncle!' interrupted Abbe Mouret. 'Isn't that some animal runningbehind the wall?'

Uncle Pascal listened. 

'No, ' he said after a minute's silence, 'it is the rattle of the trap onthe stones. No, the child doesn't play the piano now. I believe she haseven forgotten how to read. Just picture to yourself a young lady goneback to a state of primevalness, turned out to play on a desert island. My word, if ever you get to know of a girl who needs proper bringing up, I advise you not to entrust her to Jeanbernat. He has a most primitiveway of letting nature alone. When I ventured to speak to him aboutAlbine he answered me that he must not prevent trees from growingas they pleased. He says he is for the normal development oftemperaments. . . . All the same, they are very interesting, both of them. I never come this way without paying them a visit. '

The gig was now emerging from the hollowed road. At this point the wallof the Paradou turned and wound along the crest of the hills as faras one could see. As Abbe Mouret turned to take a last look at thatgrey-hued barrier, whose impenetrable austerity had at last begun toannoy him, a rustling of shaken boughs was heard and a clump of youngbirch trees seemed to bow in greeting from above the wall. 

'I knew some animal was running behind, ' said the priest. 

But, although nobody could be seen, though nothing was visible in theair above save the birches rocking more and more violently, they heard aclear, laughing voice call out: 'Good-bye, doctor! good-bye, Monsieur leCure! I am kissing the tree, and the tree is sending you my kisses. '

'Why! it is Albine, ' exclaimed Doctor Pascal. 'She must have followedthe trap at a run. Jumping over bushes is mere play to her, the littleelf!'

And he in his turn shouted out:

'Good-bye, my pet! How tall you must be to bow like that. '

The laughter grew louder, the birches bowed still lower, scatteringtheir leaves around even on the hood of the gig. 

'I am as tall as the trees; all the leaves that fall are kisses, 'replied the voice now mellowed by distance, so musical, so merged intothe rippling whispers of the park, that the young priest was thrilled. 

The road grew better. On coming down the slope Les Artaud reappeared inthe midst of the scorched plain. When the gig reached the turning tothe village, Abbe Mouret would not let his uncle drive him back to thevicarage. He jumped down, saying:

'No, thanks, I prefer to walk: it will do me good. '

'Well, just as you like, ' at last answered the doctor. And with a claspof the hand, he added: 'Well, if you only had such parishioners as thatold brute Jeanbernat, you wouldn't often be disturbed. However, youyourself wanted to come. And mind you keep well. At the slightest ache, night or day, send for me. You know I attend all the family gratis. . . . There, good-bye, my boy. '

X

Abbe Mouret felt more at ease when he found himself again alone, walkingalong the dusty road. The stony fields brought him back to his dream ofausterity, of an inner life spent in a desert. From the trees all alongthe sunken road disturbing moisture had fallen on his neck, which nowthe burning sun was drying. The sight of the lean almond trees, thescanty corn crops, the weak vines, on either side of the way, soothedhim, delivered him from the perturbation into which the lusty atmosphereof the Paradou had thrown him. Amid the blinding glare that flowed fromheaven over the bare land, Jeanbernat's blasphemies no longer cast evena shadow. A thrill of pleasure ran through the priest as he raised hishead and caught sight of the solitaire's motionless bar-like silhouetteand the pink patch of tiles on the church. 

But, as he walked on, fresh anxiety beset the Abbe. La Teuse would givehim a fine reception; for his luncheon must have been waiting nearly twohours for him. He pictured her terrible face, the flood of words withwhich she would greet him, the angry clatter of kitchen ware which hewould hear the whole afternoon. When he had got through Les Artaud, his fear became so lively that he hesitated, full of trepidation, andwondered if it would not be better to go round and reach the parsonageby way of the church. But, while he deliberated, La Teuse herselfappeared on the doorstep of the parsonage, her cap all awry, and herhands on her hips. With drooping head he had perforce to climb theslope under her storm-laden gaze, which he could feel weighing upon hisshoulders. 

'I believe I am rather late, my good Teuse, ' he stammered, as he turnedthe path's last bend. 

La Teuse waited till he stood quite close before her. She then gave hima furious glance, and, without a word, turned and stalked before himinto the dining-room, banging her big heels upon the floor-tiles and sorigid with ire that she hardly limped at all. 

'I have had so many things to do, ' began the priest, scared by this dumbreception. 'I have been running about all the morning. '

But she cut him short with another look, so fixed, so full of anger, that he felt his legs give way under him. He sat down, and began to eat. She waited on him in the sharp, mechanical manner of an automaton, allbut breaking the plates with the violence with which she set them down. The silence became so awful that, choking with emotion, he was unable toswallow his third mouthful. 

'My sister has had her luncheon?' he asked. 'Quite right of her. Luncheon should always be served whenever I am kept out. '

No answer came. La Teuse stood there waiting to remove his plate assoon as he should have emptied it. Thereupon, feeling that he couldnot possibly eat with those implacable eyes crushing him, he pushed hisplate away. This angry gesture acted on La Teuse like a whip stroke, rousing her from her obstinate stiffness. She fairly jumped. 

'Ah! that's how it is!' she exclaimed. 'There you are again, losing yourtemper! Very well, I am off; you can pay my fare, so that I may go backhome. I have had enough of Les Artaud, and your church, and everythingelse!'

She took off her apron with trembling hands. 

'You must have seen that I didn't wish to say anything to you. A nicelife, indeed! Only mountebanks do such things, Monsieur le Cure! Thisis eleven o'clock, ain't it! Aren't you ashamed of sitting at table whenit's almost two o'clock? It's not like a Christian, no, it is not like aChristian!'

And, taking her stand before him, she went on: 'Well, where do you comefrom? whom have you seen? what business can have kept you? If only youwere a child you would have the whip. It isn't the place for a priest tobe, on the roads in the blazing sun like a tramp without a roof to putover his head. A fine state you are in, with your shoes all white andyour cassock smothered in dust! Who will brush your cassock for you?Who will buy you another one? Speak out, will you; tell me what you havebeen doing! My word! if everybody didn't know you, they would end bythinking queer things about you. And shall I tell you? Why, I won't saybut what you may have been up to something wrong. When folks lunch atsuch hours they are capable of anything!'

Abbe Mouret let the storm blow over him. At the old servant's wrathfulwords he experienced a kind of relief. 

'Come, my good Teuse, ' he said, 'you will first put your apron onagain. '

'No, no, ' she cried, 'it's all over, I am going. '

But he got up and, laughing, tied her apron round her waist. Shestruggled against him and stuttered: 'I tell you no! You are a wheedler. I can see through your game, I see you want to come it over me with yourhoneyed words. Where did you go? We'll see afterwards. '

He gaily sat down to table again like a man who has gained a victory. 

'First, I must be allowed to eat. I am dying with hunger, ' said he. 

'No doubt, ' she murmured, her pity moved. 'Is there any common sensein it? Would you like me to fry you a couple of eggs? It would not takelong. Well, if you have enough. But everything is cold! And I had takensuch pains with your aubergines! Nice they are now! They look like oldshoe-leather. Luckily you haven't got a tender tooth like poor MonsieurCaffin. Yes, you have some good points, I don't deny it. '

Thus chattering, she waited on him with all a mother's care. After hehad finished she ran to the kitchen to see if the coffee was still warm. She frisked about and limped most outrageously in her delight at havingmade things up with him. As a rule Abbe Mouret fought shy of coffee, which always upset his nervous system; but on this occasion, to ratifythe conclusion of peace, he took the cup she brought him. And as helingered at table she sat down opposite him and repeated gently, like awoman tortured by curiosity:

'Where have you been, Monsieur le Cure?'

'Well, ' he answered with a smile, 'I have seen the Brichets, I havespoken to Bambousse. '

Thereupon he had to relate to her what the Brichets had said, whatBambousse had decided, and how they looked, and where they were at work. When he repeated to her the answer of Rosalie's father, 'Of course!' sheexclaimed, 'if the child should die her mishap would go for nothing. 'And clasping her hands with a look of envious admiration she added, 'Howyou must have chattered, your reverence! More than half the day spentto obtain such a fine result! You took it easy coming home? It must havebeen very hot on the road?'

The Abbe, who by this time had risen, made no answer. He had been onthe point of speaking about the Paradou, and asking for some informationconcerning it. But a fear of being flooded with eager questions, and akind of vague unavowed shame, made him keep silence respecting his visitto Jeanbernat. He cut all further questions short by asking:

'Where is my sister? I don't hear her. '

'Come along, sir, ' said La Teuse, beginning to laugh, and raising herfinger to her lips. 

They went into the next room, a country drawing-room, hung with fadedwall-paper showing large grey flowers, and furnished with four armchairsand a sofa, covered with horse-hair. On the sofa now slept Desiree, stretched out at full length, with her head resting on her clenchedhands. The pronounced curve of her bosom was raised somewhat by herupstretched arms, bare to the elbows. She was breathing somewhatheavily, her red lips parted, and thus showing her teeth. 

'Lord! isn't she sleeping sound!' whispered La Teuse. 'She didn't evenhear you pitching into me just now. Well, she must be precious tired. Just fancy, she was cleaning up her yard till nearly noon. And when shehad eaten something, she came and dropped down there like a shot. Shehas not stirred since. '

For a moment the priest gazed lovingly at her. 'We must let her have asmuch rest as she wants, ' he said. 

'Of course. Isn't it a pity she's such an innocent? Just look at thosebig arms! Whenever I dress her I always think what a fine woman shewould have made. Ay, she would have brought you some splendidnephews, sir. Don't you think she is like that stone lady in Plassanscorn-market?'

She spoke thus of a Cybele stretched upon sheaves of wheat, the workof one of Puget's pupils, which was carved on the frontal of the marketbuilding. Without replying, however, Abbe Mouret gently pushed her outof the room, and begged her to make as little noise as possible. Tillevening, therefore, perfect silence settled on the parsonage. La Teusefinished her washing in the shed. The priest, seated at the bottom ofthe little garden, his breviary fallen on his lap, remained absorbedin pious thoughts, while all around him rosy petals rained from theblossoming peach-trees. 

XI

About six o'clock there came a sudden wakening. A noise of doors openingand closing, accompanied by bursts of laughter, shook the whole house. Desiree appeared, her hair all down and her arms still half bare. 

'Serge! Serge!' she called. 

And catching sight of her brother in the garden, she ran up to him andsat down for a minute on the ground at his feet, begging him to followher:

'Do come and see the animals! You haven't seen the animals yet, haveyou? If you only knew how beautiful they are now!'

She had to beg very hard, for the yard rather scared him. But when hesaw tears in Desiree's eyes, he yielded. She threw herself on his neckin a sudden puppy-like burst of glee, laughing more than ever, withoutattempting to dry her cheeks. 

'Oh! how nice you are!' she stammered, as she dragged him off. 'Youshall see the hens, the rabbits, the pigeons, and my ducks which havegot fresh water, and my goat, whose room is as clean as mine now. I havethree geese and two turkeys, you know. Come quick. You shall see all. '

Desiree was then twenty-two years old. Reared in the country by hernurse, a peasant woman of Saint-Eutrope, she had grown up anyhow. Herbrain void of all serious thoughts, she had thriven on the fat soiland open air of the country, developing physically but never mentally, growing into a lovely animal--white, with rosy blood and firm skin. Shewas not unlike a high-bred donkey endowed with the power of laughter. Although she dabbled about from morning till night, her delicate handsand feet, the supple outlines of her hips, the bourgeois refinement ofher maiden form remained unimpaired; so that she was in truth a creatureapart--neither lady nor peasant--but a girl nourished by the soil, withthe broad shoulders and narrow brow of a youthful goddess. 

Doubtless it was by reason of her weak intellect that she was drawntowards animals. She was never happy save with them; she understoodtheir language far better than that of mankind, and looked after themwith motherly affection. Her reasoning powers were deficient, butin lieu thereof she had an instinct which put her on a footing ofintelligence with them. At their very first cry of pain she knew whatailed them; she would choose dainties upon which they would pouncegreedily. A single gesture from her quelled their squabbles. She seemedto know their good or their evil character at a glance; and relatedsuch long tales about the tiniest chick, with such an abundance andminuteness of detail, as to astound those to whom one chicken wasexactly like any other. Her farmyard had thus become a country, as itwere, over which she reigned; a country complex in its organisation, disturbed by rebellions, peopled by the most diverse creatures whoserecords were known to her alone. So accurate was her instinct that shedetected the unfertile eggs in a sitting, and foretold the number of alitter of rabbits. 

When, at sixteen, Desiree became a young woman, she retained all herwonted health; and rapidly developed, with round, free-swaying bust, broad hips like those of an antique statue, the full growth indeed ofa vigorous animal. One might have thought that she had sprung from therich soil of her poultry-yard, that she absorbed the sap with her sturdylegs, which were as firm as young trees. And nought disturbed heramidst all this plenitude. She found continuous satisfaction in beingsurrounded by birds and animals which ever increased and multiplied, their fruitfulness filling her with delight. Nothing could have beenhealthier. She innocently feasted on the odour and warmth of life, knowing no depraved curiosity, but retaining all the tranquillity of abeautiful animal, simply happy at seeing her little world thus multiply, feeling as if she thereby became a mother, the common natural mother ofone and all. 

Since she had been living at Les Artaud, she had spent her days incomplete beatitude. At last she was satisfying the dream of her life, the only desire which had worried her amidst her weak-minded puerility. She had a poultry-yard, a nook all to herself, where she could breedanimals to her heart's content. And she almost lived there, buildingrabbit-hutches with her own hands, digging out a pond for the ducks, knocking in nails, fetching straw, allowing no one to assist her. Allthat La Teuse had to do was to wash her afterwards. The poultry-yard wassituated behind the cemetery; and Desiree often had to jump the wall, and run hither and thither among the graves after some fowl whomcuriosity had led astray. Right at the end was a shed givingaccommodation to the fowls and the rabbits; to the right was a littlestable for the goat. Moreover, all the animals lived together; therabbits ran about with the fowls, the nanny-goat would take a footbathin the midst of the ducks; the geese, the turkeys, the guinea-fowls, and the pigeons all fraternised in the company of three cats. WheneverDesiree appeared at the wooden fence which prevented her charges frommaking their way into the church, a deafening uproar greeted her. 

'Eh! can't you hear them?' she said to her brother, as they reached thedining-room door. 

But, when she had admitted him and closed the gate behind them, she wasassailed so violently that she almost disappeared. The ducks and thegeese, opening and shutting their beaks, tugged at her skirts; thegreedy hens sprang up and pecked her hands; the rabbits squatted on herfeet and then bounded up to her knees; whilst the three cats leapt uponher shoulders, and the goat bleated in its stable at being unable toreach her. 

'Leave me alone, do! all you creatures!' she cried with a heartysonorous laugh, feeling tickled by all the feathers, claws, and beaksand paws rubbing against her. 

However, she did not attempt to free herself. As she often said, shewould have let herself be devoured; it seemed so sweet to feel all thislife cling to her and encompass her with the warmth of eider-down. Atlast only one cat persisted in remaining on her back. 

'It's Moumou, ' she said. 'His paws are like velvet. ' Then, calling herbrother's attention to the yard, she proudly added: 'See, how clean itis!'

The yard had indeed been swept out, washed, and raked over. But thedisturbed water and the forked-up litter exhaled so fetid and powerfulan odour that Abbe Mouret half choked. The dung was heaped against thegraveyard wall in a huge smoking mound. 

'What a pile, eh?' continued Desiree, leading her brother into thepungent vapour, 'I put it all there myself, nobody helped me. Go on, itisn't dirty. It cleans. Look at my arms. '

As she spoke she held out her arms, which she had merely dipped intoa pail of water--regal arms they were, superbly rounded, blooming likefull white roses amidst the manure. 

'Yes, yes, ' gently said the priest, 'you have worked hard. It's verynice now. '

Then he turned towards the wicket, but she stopped him. 

'Do wait a bit. You shall see them all. You have no idea--' And sosaying, she dragged him to the rabbit house under the shed. 

'There are young ones in all the hutches, ' she said, clapping her handsin glee. 

Then at great length she proceeded to explain to him all about thelitters. He had to crouch down and come close to the wire netting, whilst she gave him minute details. The mother does, with big restlessears, eyed him askance, panting and motionless with fear. Then, inone hutch, he saw a hairy cavity wherein crawled a living heap, anindistinct dusky mass heaving like a single body. Close by some youngones, with enormous heads, ventured to the edge of the hole. A littlefarther were yet stronger ones, who looked like young rats, ferretingand leaping about with their raised rumps showing their white scuts. Others, white ones with pale ruby eyes, and black ones with jet eyes, galloped round their hutches with playful grace. Now a scare would makethem bolt off swiftly, revealing at every leap their slender reddenedpaws. Next they would squat down all in a heap, so closely packed thattheir heads could no longer be seen. 

'It is you they are frightened at, ' Desiree kept on saying. 'They knowme well. '

She called them and drew some bread-crust from her pocket. The littlerabbits then became more confident, and, with puckered noses, keptsidling up, and rearing against the netting one by one. She kept themlike that for a minute to show her brother the rosy down upon theirbellies, and then gave her crust to the boldest one. Upon this the wholeof them flocked up, sliding forward and squeezing one another, but neverquarreling. At one moment three little ones were all nibbling the samepiece of crust, but others darted away, turning to the wall so as toeat in peace, while their mothers in the rear remained snuffingdistrustfully and refused the crusts. 

'Oh! the greedy little things!' exclaimed Desiree. 'They would eat likethat till to-morrow morning! At night, even, you can bear them crunchingthe leaves they have overlooked in the day-time. '

The priest had risen as if to depart, but she never wearied of smilingon her dear little ones. 

'You see the big one there, that's all white, with black ears--Well! hedotes on poppies. He is very clever at picking them out from the otherweeds. The other day he got the colic. So I took him and kept him warmin my pocket. Since then he has been quite frisky. '

She poked her fingers through the wire netting and stroked the rabbits'backs. 

'Wouldn't you say it was satin?' she continued. 'They are dressed likeprinces. And ain't they coquettish! Look, there's one who is alwayscleaning himself. He wears the fur off his paws. . . . If only you knew howfunny they are! I say nothing, but I see all their little games. Thatgrey one looking at us, for instance, used to hate a little doe, whichI had to put somewhere else. There were terrible scenes between them. It would take too long to tell you all, but the last time he gave hera drubbing, when I came up in a rage, what do you think I saw? Why thatrascal huddled up at the back there as if he was just at his last gasp. He wanted to make me believe that it was he who had to complain of her. '

Then Desiree paused to apostrophise the rabbit. 'Yes, you may listen tome; you're a rogue!' And turning towards her brother, 'He understandsall I say, ' she added softly, with a wink. 

But Abbe Mouret could stand it no longer. He was perturbed by the heatthat emanated from the litters, the life that crawled under the hairplucked from the does' bellies, exhaling powerful emanations. On theother hand, Desiree, as if slowly intoxicated, was growing brighter andpinker. 

'But there's nothing to take you away!' she cried; 'you always seemanxious to go off. You must see my little chicks! They were born lastnight. '

She took some rice and threw a handful before her. The hen gravely drewnear, clucking to the little band of chickens that followed her chirpingand scampering as if in bewilderment. When they were fairly in themiddle of the scattered rice the hen eagerly pecked at it, and threwdown the grains she cracked, while her little ones hastily began tofeed. All the charm of infancy was theirs. Half-naked as it were, withround heads, eyes sparkling like steel needles, beaks so queerly set, and down so quaintly ruffled up, they looked like penny toys. Desireelaughed with enjoyment at sight of them. 

'What little loves they are!' she stammered. 

She took up two of them, one in each hand, and smothered them with eagerkisses. And then the priest had to inspect them all over, while shecoolly said to him:

'It isn't easy to tell the cocks. But I never make a mistake. This oneis a hen, and this one is a hen too. '

Then she set them on the ground again. Other hens were now coming upto eat the rice. A large ruddy cock with flaming plumage followed them, lifting his large feet with majestic caution. 

'Alexander is getting splendid, ' said the Abbe, to please his sister. 

Alexander was the cock's name. He looked up at the young girl with hisfiery eye, his head turned round, his tail outspread, and then installedhimself close by her skirts. 

'He is very fond of me, ' she said. 'Only I can touch him. He is a goodbird. There are fourteen hens, and never do I find a bad egg in thenests. Do I, Alexander?'

She stooped; the bird did not fly from her caress. A rush of bloodseemed to set his comb aflame; flapping his wings, and stretching outhis neck, he burst into a long crow which rang out like a blast from abrazen throat. Four times did he repeat his crow while all the cocks ofLes Artaud answered in the distance. Desiree was greatly amused by herbrother's startled looks. 

'He deafens one, eh?' she said. 'He has a splendid voice. But he'snot vicious, I assure you, though the hens are--You remember thebig speckled one, that used to lay yellow eggs? Well, the day beforeyesterday she hurt her foot. When the others saw the blood they wentquite mad. They all followed her, pecking at her and drinking her blood, so that by the evening they had eaten up her foot. I found her with herhead behind a stone, like an idiot, saying nothing, and letting herselfbe devoured. '

The remembrance of the fowls' voracity made her laugh. She calmlyrelated other cruelties of theirs: young chickens devoured, of which shehad only found the necks and wings, and a litter of kittens eaten up inthe stable in a few hours. 

'You might give them a human being, ' she continued, 'they'd finish him. And aren't they tough livers! They get on with a broken limb even. Theymay have wounds, big holes in their bodies, and still they'll gobbletheir victuals. That's what I like them for; their flesh grows againin two days; they are always as warm as if they had a store of sunshineunder their feathers. When I want to give them a treat, I cut them upsome raw meat. And worms too! Wait, you'll see how they love them. '

She ran to the dungheap, and unhesitatingly picked up a worm she foundthere. The fowls darted at her hands; but to amuse herself with thesight of their greediness she held the worm high above them. At lastshe opened her fingers, and forthwith the fowls hustled one another andpounced upon the worm. One of them fled with it in her beak, pursuedby the others; it was thus taken, snatched away, and retaken many timesuntil one hen, with a mighty gulp, swallowed it altogether. At thatthey all stopped short with heads thrown back, and eyes on the alert foranother worm. Desiree called them by their names, and talked pettinglyto them; while Abbe Mouret retreated a few steps from this display ofvoracious life. 

'No, I am not at all comfortable, ' he said to his sister, when she triedto make him feel the weight of a fowl she was fattening. 'It alwaysmakes me uneasy to touch live animals. '

He tried to smile, but Desiree taxed him with cowardice. 

'Ah well, what about my ducks, and geese, and turkeys?' said she. 'Whatwould you do if you had all those to look after? Ducks are dirty, if youlike. Do you hear them shaking their bills in the water? And when theydive, you can only see their tails sticking straight up like ninepins. Geese and turkeys, too, are not easy to manage. Isn't it fun to see themwalking along with their long necks, some quite white and others quiteblack? They look like ladies and gentlemen. And I wouldn't advise youto trust your finger to them. They would swallow it at a gulp. But myfingers, they only kiss--see!'

Her words were cut short by a joyous bleat from the goat, which had atlast forced the door of the stable open. Two bounds and the animal wasclose to her, bending its forelegs, and affectionately rubbing its hornsagainst her. To the priest, with its pointed beard and obliquely seteyes, it seemed to wear a diabolical grin. But Desiree caught it roundthe neck, kissed its head, played and ran with it, and talked about howshe liked to drink its milk. She often did so, she said, when she wasthirsty in the stable. 

'See, it has plenty of milk, ' she added, pointing to the animal's udder. 

The priest lowered his eyes. He could remember having once seen inthe cloister of Saint-Saturnin at Plassans a horrible stone gargoyle, representing a goat and a monk; and ever since he had always looked ongoats as dissolute creatures of hell. His sister had only been allowedto get one after weeks of begging. For his part, whenever he came tothe yard, he shunned all contact with the animal's long silky coat, andcarefully guarded his cassock from the touch of its horns. 

'All right, I'll let you go now, ' said Desiree, becoming aware of hisgrowing discomfort. 'But you must just let me show you something elsefirst. Promise not to scold me, won't you? I have not said anything toyou about it, because you wouldn't have allowed it. . . . But if you onlyknew how pleased I am!'

As she spoke she put on an entreating expression, clasped her hands, andlaid her head upon her brother's shoulder. 

'Another piece of folly, no doubt, ' he murmured, unable to refrain fromsmiling. 

'You won't mind, will you?' she continued, her eyes glistening withdelight. 'You won't be angry?--He is so pretty!'

Thereupon she ran to open the low door under the shed, and forthwith alittle pig bounded into the middle of the yard. 

'Oh! isn't he a cherub?' she exclaimed with a look of profound raptureas she saw him leap out. 

The little pig was indeed charming, quite pink, his snout washed cleanby the greasy slops placed before him, though incessant routing in histrough had left a ring of dirt about his eyes. He trotted about, hustledthe fowls, rushing to gobble up whatever was thrown them, and upsettingthe little yard with his sudden turns and twists. His ears flapped overhis eyes, his snout went snorting over the ground, and with his slenderfeet he resembled a toy animal on wheels. From behind, his tail lookedlike a bit of string that served to hang him up by. 

'I won't have this beast here!' exclaimed the priest, terribly put out. 

'Oh, Serge, dear old Serge, ' begged Desiree again, 'don't be so unkind. See, what a harmless little thing he is! I'll wash him, I'll keep himvery clean. La Teuse went and had him given her for me. We can't sendhim back now. See, he is looking at you; he wants to smell you. Don't beafraid, he won't eat you. '

But she broke off, seized with irresistible laughter. The little pig hadblundered in a dazed fashion between the goat's legs, and tripped herup. And he was now madly careering round, squeaking, rolling, scaringall the denizens of the poultry-yard. To quiet him Desiree had to gethim an earthen pan full of dish-water. In this he wallowed up to hisears, splashing and grunting, while quick quivers of delight coursedover his rosy skin. And now his uncurled tail hung limply down. 

The stirring of this foul water put a crowning touch to Abbe Mouret'sdisgust. Ever since he had been there, he had choked more and more; hishands and chest and face were afire, and he felt quite giddy. The odourof the fowls and rabbits, the goat, and the pig, all mingled in onepestilential stench. The atmosphere, laden with the ferments of life, was too heavy for his maiden shoulders. And it seemed to him thatDesiree had grown taller, expanding at the hips, waving huge arms, sweeping the ground with her skirts, and stirring up all that powerfulodour which overpowered him. He had only just time to open the wicket. His feet clung to the stone flags still dank with manure, in such wisethat it seemed as if he were held there by some clasp of the soil. And suddenly, despite himself, there came back to him a memory ofthe Paradou, with its huge trees, its black shadows, its penetratingperfumes. 

'There, you are quite red now, ' Desiree said to him as she joined himoutside the wicket. 'Aren't you pleased to have seen everything? Do youhear the noise they are making?'

On seeing her depart, the birds and animals had thrown themselvesagainst the trellis work emitting piteous cries. The little pig, especially, gave vent to prolonged whines that suggested the sharpeningof a saw. Desiree, however, curtsied to them and kissed her finger-tipsto them, laughing at seeing them all huddled together there, like somany lovers of hers. Then, hugging her brother, as she accompanied himto the garden, she whispered into his ear with a blush: 'I should solike a cow. '

He looked at her, with a ready gesture of disapproval. 

'No, no, not now, ' she hurriedly went on. 'We'll talk about it againlater on---- But there would be room in the stable. A lovely white cowwith red spots. You'd soon see what nice milk we should have. A goatbecomes too little in the end. And when the cow has a calf!'

At the mere thought of this she skipped and clapped her hands with glee;and to the priest she seemed to have brought the poultry-yard away withher in her skirts. So he left her at the end of the garden, sitting inthe sunlight on the ground before a hive, whence the bees buzzed likegolden berries round her neck, along her bare arms and in her hair, without thought of stinging her. 

XII

Brother Archangias dined at the parsonage every Thursday. As a rule hecame early so as to talk over parish matters. It was he who, for thelast three months, had kept the Abbe informed of all the affairs of thevalley. That Thursday, while waiting till La Teuse should call them, they strolled about in front of the church. The priest, on relating hisinterview with Bambousse, was surprised to find that the Brother thoughtthe peasant's reply quite natural. 

'The man's right, ' said the Ignorantin. * 'You don't give away chattelslike that. Rosalie is no great bargain, but it's always hard to see yourown daughter throw herself away on a pauper. '

 * A popular name in France for a Christian Brother. --ED. 

'Still, ' rejoined Abbe Mouret, 'a marriage is the only way of stoppingthe scandal. '

The Brother shrugged his big shoulders and laughed aggravatingly. 'Do you think you'll cure the neighbourhood with that marriage?' heexclaimed. 'Before another two years Catherine will be following hersister's example. They all go the same way, and as they end by marrying, they snap their fingers at every one. These Artauds flourish in it all, as on a congenial dungheap. There is only one possible remedy, as Ihave told you before: wring all the girls' necks if you don't want thecountry to be poisoned. No husbands, Monsieur le Cure, but a good thickstick!'

Then calming down a bit, he added: 'Let every one do with their own asthey think best. '

He went on to speak about fixing the hours for the catechism classes;but Abbe Mouret replied in an absent-minded way, his eyes dwelling onthe village at his feet in the setting sun. The peasants were wendingtheir way homewards, silently and slowly, with the dragging steps ofwearied oxen returning to their sheds. Before the tumble-down housesstood women calling to one another, carrying on bawling conversationsfrom door to door, while bands of children filled the roadway with theriot of their big clumsy shoes, grovelling and rolling and pushingeach other about. A bestial odour ascended from that heap of totteringhouses, and the priest once more fancied himself in Desiree'spoultry-yard, where life ever increased and multiplied. Here, too, wasthe same incessant travail, which so disturbed him. Since morning hismind had been running on that episode of Rosalie and Fortune, and nowhis thoughts returned to it, to the foul features of existence, theincessant, fated task of Nature, which sowed men broadcast like grainsof wheat. The Artauds were a herd penned in between four ranges ofhills, increasing, multiplying, spreading more and more thickly over theland with each successive generation. 

'See, ' cried Brother Archangias, interrupting his discourse to pointto a tall girl who was letting her sweetheart snatch a kiss, 'there isanother hussy over there!'

He shook his long black arms at the couple and made them flee. In thedistance, over the crimson fields and the peeling rocks, the sun wasdying in one last flare. Night gradually came on. The warm fragranceof the lavender became cooler on the wings of the light evening breezewhich now arose. From time to time a deep sigh fell on the ear as ifthat fearful land, consumed by ardent passions, had at length growncalm under the soft grey rain of twilight. Abbe Mouret, hat in hand, delighted with the coolness, once more felt quietude descend upon him. 

'Monsieur le Cure! Brother Archangias!' cried La Teuse. 'Come quick! Thesoup is on the table. '

It was cabbage soup, and its odoriferous steam filled the parsonagedining-room. The Brother seated himself and fell to, slowly emptying thehuge plate that La Teuse had put down before him. He was a big eater, and clucked his tongue as each mouthful descended audibly into hisstomach. Keeping his eyes on his spoon, he did not speak a word. 

'Isn't my soup good, then, Monsieur le Cure?' the old servant asked thepriest. 'You are only fiddling with your plate. '

'I am not a bit hungry, my good Teuse, ' Serge replied, smiling. 

'Well! how can one wonder at it when you go on as you do! But you wouldhave been hungry, if you hadn't lunched at past two o'clock. '

Brother Archangias, tilting into his spoon the last few drops of soupremaining in his plate, said gravely: 'You should be regular in yourmeals, Monsieur le Cure. '

At this moment Desiree, who also had finished her soup, sedately and insilence, rose and followed La Teuse to the kitchen. The Brother, thenleft alone with Abbe Mouret, cut himself some long strips of bread, which he ate while waiting for the next dish. 

'So you made a long round to-day?' he asked the priest. But beforethe other could reply a noise of footsteps, exclamations, and ringinglaughter, arose at the end of the passage, in the direction of the yard. A short altercation apparently took place. A flute-like voice whichdisturbed the Abbe rose in vexed and hurried accents, which finally diedaway in a burst of glee. 

'What can it be?' said Serge, rising from his chair. 

But Desiree bounded in again, carrying something hidden in hergathered-up skirt. And she burst out excitedly: 'Isn't she queer? Shewouldn't come in at all. I caught hold of her dress; but she is awfullystrong; she soon got away from me. '

'Whom on earth is she talking about?' asked La Teuse, running in fromthe kitchen with a dish of potatoes, across which lay a piece of bacon. 

The girl sat down, and with the greatest caution drew from her skirt ablackbird's nest in which three wee fledglings were slumbering. Shelaid it on her plate. The moment the little birds felt the light, theystretched out their feeble necks and opened their crimson beaks to askfor food. Desiree clapped her hands, enchanted, seized with strangeemotion at the sight of these hitherto unknown creatures. 

'It's that Paradou girl!' exclaimed the Abbe suddenly, rememberingeverything. 

La Teuse had gone to the window. 'So it is, ' she said. 'I might haveknown that grasshopper's voice---- Oh! the gipsy! Look, she's stoppedthere to spy on us. '

Abbe Mouret drew near. He, too, thought that he could see Albine'sorange-coloured skirt behind a juniper bush. But Brother Archangias, ina towering passion, raised himself on tiptoe behind him, and, stretchingout his fist and wagging his churlish head, thundered forth: 'May thedevil take you, you brigand's daughter! I will drag you right round thechurch by your hair if ever I catch you coming and casting your evilspells here!'

A peal of laughter, fresh as the breath of night, rang out from thepath, followed by light hasty footsteps and the swish of a dressrustling through the grass like an adder. Abbe Mouret, standing atthe window, saw something golden glide through the pine trees like amoonbeam. The breeze, wafted in from the open country, was now ladenwith that penetrating perfume of verdure, that scent of wildflowers, which Albine had scattered from her bare arms, unfettered bosom, andstreaming tresses at the Paradou. 

'An accursed soul! a child of perdition!' growled Brother Archangias, as he reseated himself at the dinner table. He fell greedily upon hisbacon, and swallowed his potatoes whole instead of bread. La Teuse, however, could not persuade Desiree to finish her dinner. That big babywas lost in ecstasy over the nestlings, asking questions, wanting toknow what food they ate, if they laid eggs, and how the cockbirds couldbe known. 

The old servant, however, was troubled by a suspicion, and taking herstand on her sound leg, she looked the young cure in the face. 

'So you know the Paradou people?' she said. 

Thereupon he simply told the truth, relating the visit he had paid toold Jeanbernat. La Teuse exchanged scandalised glances with BrotherArchangias. At first she answered nothing, but went round and round thetable, limping frantically and stamping hard enough with her heels tosplit the flooring. 

'You might have spoken to me of those people these three months past, 'said the priest at last. 'I should have known at any rate what sort ofpeople I was going to call upon. '

La Teuse stopped short as if her legs had just broken. 

'Don't tell falsehoods, Monsieur le Cure, ' she stuttered, 'don't tellthem; you will only make your sin still worse. How dare you say Ihaven't spoken to you of the Philosopher, that heathen who is thescandal of the whole neighbourhood? The truth is, you never listen to mewhen I talk. It all goes in at one ear and out at the other. Ah, if youdid listen to me, you'd spare yourself a good deal of trouble!'

'I, too, have spoken to you about those abominations, ' affirmed theBrother. 

Abbe Mouret lightly shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I didn't rememberit, ' he said. It was only when I found myself at the Paradou that Ifancied I recollected certain tales. Besides, I should have gone to thatunhappy man all the same as I thought him in danger of death. '

Brother Archangias, his mouth full, struck the table violently with hisknife, and roared: 'Jeanbernat is a dog; he ought to die like a dog. 'Then seeing the priest about to protest he cut him short: 'No, no, forhim there is no God, no penitence, no mercy. It would be better to throwthe host to the pigs than carry it to that scoundrel. '

Then he helped himself to more potatoes, and with his elbows on thetable, his chin in his plate, began chewing furiously. La Teuse, herlips pinched, quite white with anger, contented herself with sayingdryly: 'Let it be, his reverence will have his own way. He has secretsfrom us now. '

Silence reigned. For a moment one only heard the working of BrotherArchangias's jaws, and the extraordinary rumbling of his gullet. Desiree, with her bare arms round the nest in her plate, smiled to thelittle ones, talking to them slowly and softly in a chirruping of herown which they seemed to understand. 

'People say what they have done when they have nothing to hide, 'suddenly cried La Teuse. 

And then silence reigned again. What exasperated the old servant was themystery the priest seemed to make about his visit to the Paradou. Shedeemed herself a woman who had been shamefully deceived. Her curiositysmarted. She again walked round the table, not looking at the Abbe, notaddressing anybody, but comforting herself with soliloquy. 

'That's it; that's why we have lunch so late! We go gadding about tilltwo o'clock in the afternoon. We go into such disreputable houses thatwe don't even dare to tell what we've done. And then we tell lies, wedeceive everybody. '

'But nobody, ' gently interrupted Abbe Mouret, who was forcing himself toeat a little more, so as to prevent La Teuse from getting crosser thanever, 'nobody asked me if I had been to the Paradou. I have not had totell any lies. '

La Teuse, however, went on as if she had never heard him. 

'Yes, we go ruining our cassock in the dust, we come home rigged up likea thief. And if some kind person takes an interest in us, andquestions us for our own good, we push her about and treat her likea good-for-nothing woman, whom we can't trust. We hide things likea slyboots, we'd rather die than breathe a word; we're not evenconsiderate enough to enliven our home by relating what we've seen. '

She turned to the priest, and looked him full in the face. 

'Yes, you take that to yourself. You are a close one, you're a bad man!'

Thereupon she fell to crying and the Abbe had to soothe her. 

'Monsieur Caffin used to tell me everything, ' she moaned out. 

However, she soon grew calmer. Brother Archangias was finishing a bigpiece of cheese, apparently quite unruffled by the scene. In his opinionAbbe Mouret really needed being kept straight, and La Teuse was rightin making him feel the reins. Having drunk a last glassful of the weakwine, the Brother threw himself back in his chair to digest his meal. 

'Well now, ' finally asked the old servant, 'what did you see at theParadou? Tell us, at any rate. '

Abbe Mouret smiled and related in a few words how strangely Jeanbernathad received him. La Teuse, after overwhelming him with questions, brokeout into indignant exclamations, while Brother Archangias clenched hisfists and brandished them aloft. 

'May Heaven crush him!' said he, 'and burn both him and his witch!'

In his turn the Abbe then endeavoured to elicit some fresh particularsabout the people at the Paradou, and listened intently to the Brother'smonstrous narrative. 

'Yes, that little she-devil came and sat down in the school. It's a longtime ago now, she might then have been about ten. Of course, I lether come; I thought her uncle was sending her to prepare for her firstcommunion. But for two months she utterly revolutionised the wholeclass. She made herself worshipped, the minx! She knew all sorts ofgames, and invented all sorts of finery with leaves and shreds of rags. And how quick and clever she was, too, like all those children of hell!She was the top one at catechism. But one fine morning the old man burstin just in the middle of our lessons. He was going to smash everything, and shouted that the priests had taken his child from him. We had to getthe rural policeman to turn him out. As to the little one, she bolted. I could see her through the window, in a field opposite, laughing at heruncle's frenzy. She had been coming to school for the last two monthswithout his even suspecting it. He had regularly scoured the countryafter her. '

'She's never taken her first communion, ' exclaimed La Teuse below herbreath with a slight shudder. 

'No, never, ' rejoined Brother Archangias. 'She must be sixteen now. She's growing up like a brute beast. I have seen her running on allfours in a thicket near La Palud. '

'On all fours, ' muttered the servant, turning towards the window withsuperstitious anxiety. 

Abbe Mouret attempted to express some doubt, but the Brother burst out:'Yes, on all fours! And she jumped like a wild cat. If I had only hada gun I could have put a bullet in her. We kill creatures that are farmore pleasing to God than she is. Besides, every one knows she comescaterwauling every night round Les Artaud. She howls like a beast. Ifever a man should fall into her clutches, she wouldn't leave him a scrapof skin on his bones, I know. '

The Brother's hatred of womankind was boiling over. He banged the tablewith his fist, and poured forth all his wonted abuse. 

'The devil's in them. They reek of the devil! And that's what bewitchesfools. '

The priest nodded approvingly. Brother Archangias's outrageous violenceand La Teuse's loquacious tyranny were like castigation with thongs, which it often rejoiced him to find lashing his shoulders. He took apious delight in sinking into abasement beneath their coarse speech. He seemed to see the peace of heaven behind contempt of the worldand degradation of his whole being. It was delicious to inflictmortification upon his body, to drag his susceptible nature through agutter. 

'There is nought but filth, ' he muttered as he folded up his napkin. 

La Teuse began to clear the table and wished to remove the plate onwhich Desiree had laid the blackbird's nest. You are not going to bedhere, I suppose, mademoiselle, ' she said. 'Do leave those nasty things. '

Desiree, however, defended her plate. She covered the nest with her barearms, no longer gay, but cross at being disturbed. 

'I hope those birds are not going to be kept, ' exclaimed BrotherArchangias. 'It would bring bad luck. You must wring their necks. '

And he already stretched out his big hands; but the girl rose andstepped back quivering, hugging the nest to her bosom. She staredfixedly at the Brother, her lips curling upwards, like those of a wolfabout to bite. 

'Don't touch the little things, ' she stammered. 'You are ugly. '

With such singular contempt did she emphasise that last word that AbbeMouret started as if the Brother's ugliness had just struck him for thefirst time. The latter contented himself with growling. He had alwaysfelt a covert hatred for Desiree, whose lusty physical developmentoffended him. When she had left the room, still walking backwards, andnever taking her eyes from him, he shrugged his shoulders and mutteredbetween his teeth some coarse abuse which no one heard. 

'She had better go to bed, ' said La Teuse. 'She would only bore usby-and-by in church. '

'Has any one come yet?' asked Abbe Mouret. 

'Oh, the girls have been outside a long time with armfuls of boughs. Iam just going to light the lamps. We can begin whenever you like. '

A few seconds later she could be heard swearing in the sacristy becausethe matches were damp. Brother Archangias, who remained alone with thepriest, sourly inquired: 'For the month of Mary, eh?'

'Yes, ' replied Abbe Mouret. 'The last few days the girls about here werehard at work and couldn't come as usual to decorate the Lady Chapel. Sothe ceremony was postponed till to-night. '

'A nice custom, ' muttered the Brother. 'When I see them all putting uptheir boughs I feel inclined to knock them down and make them confesstheir misdeeds before touching the altar. It's a shame to allow women torustle their dresses so near the holy relics. '

The Abbe made an apologetic gesture. He had only been at Les Artaud alittle while, he must follow the customs. 

'Whenever you like, Monsieur le Cure, we're ready!' now called out LaTeuse. 

But Brother Archangias detained him a minute. 'I am off, ' he said. 'Religion isn't a prostitute that it should be decorated with flowersand laces. '

He walked slowly to the door. Then once more he stopped, and lifting oneof his hairy fingers added: 'Beware of your devotion to the Virgin. '

XIII

On entering the church Abbe Mouret found nine or ten big girls awaitinghim with boughs of ivy, laurel, and rosemary. Few garden flowers grewon the rocks of Les Artaud, so the custom was to decorate the Lady altarwith a greenery which might last throughout the month of May. TheretoLa Teuse would add a few wallflowers whose stems were thrust into olddecanters. 

'Will you let me do it, Monsieur le Cure?' she asked. 'You are not usedto it---- Come, stand there in front of the altar. You can tell me ifthe decorations please you. '

He consented, and it was she who really directed the arrangements. Having climbed upon a pair of steps she bullied the girls as they cameup to her in turn with their leafy contributions. 

'Not so fast, now! You must give me time to fix the boughs. We can'thave all these bundles coming down on his reverence's head---- Come on, Babet, it's your turn. What's the good of staring at me like that withyour big eyes? Fine rosemary yours is, my word! as yellow as a thistle. You next, La Rousse. Ah, well, that is splendid laurel! You got that outof your field at Croix-Verte, I know. '

The big girls laid their branches on the altar, which they kissed; andthere they lingered for a while, handing up the greenery to La Teuse. The sly look of devotion they had assumed on stepping on to the altarsteps was quickly set aside, and soon they were laughing, digging eachother with their knees, swaying their hips against the altar's edge, andthrusting their bosoms against the tabernacle itself. Over them the tallVirgin in gilded plaster bent her tinted face, and smiled with her rosylips upon the naked Jesus she bore upon her left arm. 

'That's it, Lisa!' cried La Teuse; 'why don't you sit on the altar whileyou're about it? Just pull your petticoats straight, will you? Aren'tyou ashamed of behaving like that?--If any one of you lolls about I'lllay her boughs across her face. --Can't you hand me the things quietly?'

Then turning round, she asked:

'Do you like it, sir? Do you think it will do?'

She had converted the space behind the Virgin's statue into a verdantniche, whence leafy sprays projected on either side, forming a bower, and drooping over in front like palm leaves. The priest expressed hisapproval, but ventured to remark: 'I think there ought to be a clusterof more delicate foliage up above. '

'No doubt, ' grumbled La Teuse. 'But they only bring me laurel androsemary--I should like to know who has brought an olive branch. Notone, you bet! They are afraid of losing a single olive, the heathens!'

At this, however, Catherine came up laden with an enormous olive boughwhich completely hid her. 

'Oh, you've got some, you minx!' continued the old servant. 

'Of course, ' one of the other girls exclaimed, 'she stole it. I sawVincent breaking it off while she kept a look-out. '

But Catherine flew into a rage and swore it was not true. She turned, and thrusting her auburn head through the greenery, which she stilltightly held, she started lying with marvellous assurance, inventingquite a long story to prove that the olive bough was really hers. 

'Besides, ' she added, 'all the trees belong to the Blessed Virgin. '

Abbe Mouret was about to intervene, but La Teuse sharply inquired ifthey wanted to make game of her and keep her arms up there all night. At last she proceeded to fasten the olive bough firmly, while Catherine, holding on to the steps behind her, mimicked the clumsy manner in whichshe turned her huge person about with the help of her sound leg. Eventhe priest could not forbear to smile. 

'There, ' said La Teuse, as she came down and stood beside him to geta good view of her work, 'there's the top done. Now we will put someclumps between the candlesticks, unless you would prefer a garland allalong the altar shelf. '

The priest decided in favour of some big clumps. 

'Very good; come on, then, ' continued the old servant, once moreclambering up the steps. 'We can't go to bed here. Just kiss the altar, will you, Miette? Do you fancy you are in your stable? Monsieur le Cure, do just see what they are up to over there! I can hear them laughinglike lunatics. '

On raising one of the two lamps the dark end of the church was lit upand three of the girls were discovered romping about under the gallery;one of them had stumbled and pitched head foremost into the holy waterstoup, which mishap had so tickled the others that they were rolling onthe ground to laugh at their ease. They all came back, however, lookingat the priest sheepishly, with lowered eyelids, but with their handsswinging against their hips as if a scolding rather pleased them thanotherwise. 

However, the measure of La Teuse's wrath was filled when she suddenlyperceived Rosalie coming up to the altar like the others with a bundleof boughs in her arms. 

'Get down, will you?' she cried to her. 'You are a cool one, and nomistake, my lass!--Hurry up, off you go with your bundle. '

'What for, I'd like to know?' said Rosalie boldly. 'You can't say I havestolen it. '

The other girls drew closer, feigning innocence and exchanging sparklingglances. 

'Clear out, ' repeated La Teuse, 'you have no business here, do youhear?'

Then, quite losing her scanty patience, she gave vent to a very coarseepithet, which provoked a titter of delight among the peasant girls. 

'Well, what next?' said Rosalie. 'Mind your own business. Is it anyconcern of yours?'

Then she burst into a fit of sobbing and threw down her boughs, but letthe Abbe lead her aside and give her a severe lecture. He had alreadytried to silence La Teuse; for he was beginning to feel uneasy amidstthe big shameless hussies who filled the church with their armfuls offoliage. They were pushing right up to the altar step, enclosing himwith a belt of woodland, wafting in his face a rank perfume of aromaticshoots. 

'Let us make haste, be quick!' he exclaimed, clapping his hands lightly. 

'Goodness knows I would rather be in my bed, ' grumbled La Teuse. 'It'snot so easy as you think to fasten all these bits of stuff. '

Finally, however, she succeeded in setting some lofty plumes of foliagebetween the candlesticks. Next she folded the steps, which were laidbehind the high altar by Catherine. And then she only had to arrangetwo clumps of greenery at the sides of the altar table. The last boughssufficed for this, and indeed there were some left which the girlsstrewed over the sanctuary floor up to the wooden rails. The Lady altarnow looked like a grove, a shrubbery with a verdant lawn before it. 

At present La Teuse was willing to make way for Abbe Mouret, whoascended the altar steps, and, again lightly clapping his hands, exclaimed: 'Young ladies, to-morrow we will continue the devotions ofthe month of Mary. Those who may be unable to come ought at least to saytheir Rosary at home. '

He knelt, and the peasant girls, with a mighty rustle of skirts, sankdown and settled themselves on their heels. They followed his prayerwith a confused muttering, through which burst here and there a giggle. One of them, on being pinched from behind, burst into a scream, whichshe attempted to stifle with a sudden fit of coughing; and this sodiverted the others that for a moment after the Amen they remainedwrithing with merriment, their noses close to the stone flags. 

La Teuse dismissed them; while the priest, after crossing himself, remained absorbed before the altar, no longer hearing what went onbehind him. 

'Come, now, clear out, ' muttered the old woman. 'You're a pack ofgood-for-nothings, who can't even respect God. It's shameful, it'sunheard of, for girls to roll about on the floor in church like beastsin a meadow---- What are you doing there, La Rousse? If I see youpinching any one, you'll have to deal with me! Oh, yes, you may put outyour tongue at me; I'll tell his reverence about it. Out you get; outyou get, you minxes!'

She drove them slowly towards the door, while running and bobbling roundthem frantically. And she had succeeded, as she thought, in gettingevery one of them outside, when she caught sight of Catherine andVincent calmly installed in the confessional, where they were eatingsomething with an air of great enjoyment. She drove them away; and asshe popped her head outside the church, before closing the door, sheespied Rosalie throwing her arm over the shoulder of Fortune, who hadbeen waiting for her. The pair of them vanished in the darkness amid afaint sound of kisses. 

'To think that such creatures dare to come to our Lady's altar!' LaTeuse stuttered as she shot the bolts. 'The others are no better, I amsure. If they came to-night with their boughs, it was only for a bit offun and to get kissed by the lads on going off! Not one of them willput herself out of the way to-morrow; his reverence will have to sayhis _Aves_ by himself---- We shall only see the jades who have gotassignations. '

Thus soliloquising, she thrust the chairs back into their places, andlooked round to see if anything suspicious was lying about beforegoing off to bed. In the confessional she picked up a handful ofapple-parings, which she threw behind the high altar. And she also founda bit of ribbon torn from some cap, and a lock of black hair, which shemade up into a small parcel, with the view of opening an inquiry intothe matter. With these exceptions the church seemed to her tidy. Therewas oil enough for the night in the bracket-lamp of the sanctuary, and as to the flags of the choir, they could do without washing tillSaturday. 

'It's nearly ten o'clock, Monsieur le Cure, ' she said, drawing near thepriest, who was still on his knees. 'You might as well come up now. '

He made no answer, but only bowed his head. 

'All right, I know what that means, ' continued La Teuse. 'Inanother hour he will still be on the stones there, giving himself astomach-ache. I'm off, as I shall only bore him. All the same, I can'tsee much sense in it, eating one's lunch when others are at dinner, and going to bed when the fowls get up!---- I worry you, don't I, yourreverence? Good-night. You're not at all reasonable!'

She made ready to go, but suddenly came back to put out one of the twolamps, muttering the while that such late prayers spelt ruination inoil. Then, at last, she did go off, after passing her sleeve brushwiseover the cloth of the high altar, which seemed to her grey with dust. Abbe Mouret, his eyes uplifted, his arms tightly clasped against hisbreast, then remained alone. 

XIV

With only one lamp burning amid the verdure on the altar of the Virgin, huge floating shadows filled the church at either end. From the pulpit asheet of gloom projected to the rafters of the ceiling. The confessionallooked quite black under the gallery, showing strange outlinessuggestive of a ruined sentry-box. All the light, softened and tinted asit were by the green foliage, rested slumberingly upon the tall gildedVirgin, who seemed to descend with queenly mien, borne upon the cloudround which gambolled the winged cherubim. At sight of that round lampgleaming amid the boughs one might have thought the pallid moonwas rising on the verge of a wood, casting its light upon a regalapparition, a princess of heaven, crowned and clothed with gold, whowith her nude and Divine Infant had come to stroll in the mysteriouswoodland avenues. Between the leaves, along the lofty plumes ofgreenery, within the large ogival arbour, and even along the branchesstrewing the flagstones, star-like beams glided drowsily, like the milkyrain of light that filters through the bushes on moonlit nights. Vaguesounds and creakings came from the dusky ends of the church; thelarge clock on the left of the chancel throbbed slowly, with the heavybreathing of a machine asleep. And the radiant vision, the Mother withslender bands of chestnut hair, as if reassured by the nocturnal quietof the nave, came lower and lower, scarce bending the blades of grass inthe clearings beneath the gentle flight of her cloudy chariot. 

Abbe Mouret gazed at her. This was the hour when he most loved thechurch. He forgot the woeful figure on the cross, the Victim bedaubedwith carmine and ochre, who gasped out His life behind him, in thechapel of the Dead. His thoughts were no longer distracted by the garishlight from the windows, by the gayness of morning coming in with thesun, by the irruption of outdoor life--the sparrows and the boughsinvading the nave through the shattered panes. At that hour of nightNature was dead; shadows hung the whitewashed walls with crape; a chillfell upon his shoulders like a salutary penance-shirt. He could nowwholly surrender himself to the supremest love, without fear of anyflickering ray of light, any caressing breeze or scent, any buzzing ofan insect's wing disturbing him amidst the delight of loving. Neverhad his morning mass afforded him the superhuman joys of his nightlyprayers. 

With quivering lips Abbe Mouret now gazed at the tall Virgin. Hecould see her coming towards him from the depths of her green bower inever-increasing splendour. No longer did a flood of moonlight seem tofloat across the tree-tops. She seemed to him clothed with the sun; sheadvanced majestically, glorious, colossal, and so all-powerful that hewas tempted at times to cast himself face downwards to shun the flamingsplendour of that gate opening into heaven. Then, amidst the adorationof his whole being, which stayed his words upon his lips, he rememberedBrother Archangias's final rebuke, as he might have remembered wordsof blasphemy. The Brother often reproved him for his devotion to theVirgin, which he declared was veritable robbery of devotion due toGod. In the Brother's opinion it enervated the soul, put religioninto petticoats, created and fostered a state of sentimentalism quiteunworthy of the strong. He bore the Virgin a grudge for her womanhood, her beauty, her maternity; he was ever on his guard against her, possessed by a covert fear of feeling tempted by her gracious mien, ofsuccumbing to her seductive sweetness. 'She will lead you far!' he hadcried one day to the young priest, for in her he saw the commencementof human passion. From contemplating her one might glide to delight inlovely chestnut hair, in large bright eyes, and the mystery of garmentsfalling from neck to toes. His was the blunt rebellion of a saint whoroughly parted the Mother from the Son, asking as He did: 'Woman, whathave we in common, thou and I?'

But Abbe Mouret thrust away such thoughts, prostrated himself, endeavoured to forget the Brother's harsh attacks. His rapture in theimmaculate purity of Mary alone raised him from the depths of lowlinessin which he sought to bury himself. Whenever, alone before the tallgolden Virgin, he so deceived himself as to imagine that he could seeher bending down for him to kiss her braided locks, he once more becamevery young, very good, very strong, very just, full of tenderness. 

Abbe Mouret's devotion to the Virgin dated from his early youth. Alreadywhen he was quite a child, somewhat shy and fond of shrinking intocorners, he took pleasure in the thought that a lovely lady was watchingover him: that two blue eyes, so sweet, ever followed him with theirsmile. When he felt at night a breath of air glide across his hair, hewould often say that the Virgin had come to kiss him. He had grown upbeneath this womanly caress, in an atmosphere full of the rustle ofdivine robes. From the age of seven he had satisfied the cravings of hisaffection by expending all the pence he received as pocket money in thepurchase of pious picture-cards, which he jealously concealed that healone might feast on them. But never was he tempted by the pictures ofJesus and the Lamb, of Christ on the Cross, of God the Father, with amighty beard, stooping over a bank of clouds; his preference was alwaysfor the winning portraits of Mary, with her tiny smiling mouth anddelicate outstretched hands. By degrees he had made quite a collectionof them all--of Mary between a lily and a distaff, Mary carrying herchild as if she were his elder sister, Mary crowned with roses, andMary crowned with stars. For him they formed a family of lovely youngmaidens, alike in their attractiveness, in the grace, kindliness, andsweetness of their countenances, so youthful beneath their veils, thatalthough they bore the name of 'Mother of God, ' he had felt no awe ofthem as he had often felt for grown-up persons. 

They seemed to him of his own age, little girls such as he wished tomeet with, little girls of heaven such as the little boys who die whenseven years old have for eternal playmates in some nook of Paradise. Buteven at this early age he was self-contained; and full of the exquisitebashfulness of adolescence he grew up without betraying the secret ofhis religious love. Mary grew up with him, being invariably a year ortwo older than himself, as should always be the case with one's chiefestfriend. When he was eighteen, she was twenty; she no longer kissed hisforehead at night time, but stood a little further from him with foldedarms, chastely smiling, ravishingly sweet. And he--he only named her nowin a whisper, feeling as if he would faint each time the well-loved namepassed his lips in prayer. No more did he dream of childish games withinthe garden of heaven, but of continual contemplation before that whitefigure, whose perfect purity he feared to sully with his breath. Evenfrom his own mother did he conceal the fervour of his love for Mary. 

Then, a few years later, at the seminary, his beautiful affection forher, seemingly so just, so natural, was disturbed by inward qualms. Was the cult of Mary necessary for salvation? Was he not robbing Godby giving Mary a part, the greater part, of his love, his thoughts, hisheart, his entire being? Perplexing questions were these, provoking aninward struggle which increased his passion, riveted his bonds. For hedived into all the subtleties of his affection, found unknown joysin discussing the lawfulness of his feelings. The books treating ofdevotion to the Virgin brought him excuses, joyful raptures, a wealth ofarguments which he repeated with prayerful fervour. From them he learnedhow, in Mary, to be the slave of Jesus. He went to Jesus through Mary. He cited all kinds of proofs, he discriminated, he drew inferences. Mary, whom Jesus had obeyed on earth, should be obeyed by all mankind;Mary still retained her maternal power in heaven, where she was thegreat dispenser of God's treasures, the only one who could beseech Him, the only one who allotted the heavenly thrones; and thus Mary, a merecreature before God, but raised up to Him, became the human link betweenheaven and earth, the intermediary of every grace, of every mercy; andhis conclusion always was that she should be loved above all else in Godhimself. Another time he was attracted by more complicated theologicalcuriosities: the marriage of the celestial spouse, the Holy Ghostsealing the Vase of Election, making of the Virgin Mary an everlastingmiracle, offering her inviolable purity to the devotion of mankind. Shewas the Virgin overcoming all heresies, the irreconcilable foe of Satan, the new Eve of whom it had been foretold that she should crush theSerpent's head, the august Gate of Grace, by which the Saviour hadalready entered once and through which He would come again at the LastDay--a vague prophecy, allotting a yet larger future role to Mary, whichthrew Serge into a dreamy imagining of some immense expansion of divinelove. 

This entry of woman into the jealous, cruel heaven depicted by theOld Testament, this figure of whiteness set at the feet of the awesomeTrinity, appeared to him the very grace itself of religion, the oneconsolation for all the dread inspired by things of faith, the onerefuge when he found himself lost amidst the mysteries of dogma. Andwhen he had thus proved to himself, point by point, that she was the wayto Jesus--easy, short, perfect, and certain--he surrendered himself anewto her, wholly and without remorse: he strove to be her true devotee, dead to self and steeped in submission. 

It was an hour of divine voluptuousness! The books treating of devotionto the Virgin burned his hands. They spoke to him in a language of love, warm, fragrant as incense. Mary no longer seemed a young maiden veiledin white, standing with crossed arms, a foot or two away from hispillow. She came surrounded by splendour, even as John saw her, clothedwith the sun, crowned with twelve stars, and having the moon beneath herfeet. She perfumed him with her fragrance, inflamed him with longing forheaven, ravished him even with the ardent glow of the planets flaming onher brow. He threw himself before her and called himself her slave. Noword could have been sweeter than that word of slave, which he repeated, which he relished yet more and more as it trembled on his stammeringtongue, whilst casting himself at her feet--to become her thing, hermite, the dust lightly scattered by the waving of her azure robe. WithDavid he exclaimed: 'Mary is made for me, ' and with the Evangelisthe added: 'I have taken her for my all. ' He called her his 'belovedmistress, ' for words failed him, and he fell into the prattle of childor lover, his breath breaking with intensity of passion. She was theBlessed among women, the Queen of Heaven glorified by the nine Choirsof Angels, the Mother of Predilection, the Treasure of the Lord. All thevivid imagery of her cult unrolled itself before him comparing to her anearthly paradise of virgin soil, with beds of flowering virtues, greenmeadows of hope, impregnable towers of strength, and smiling dwellingsof confidence. Again she was a fountain sealed by the Holy Ghost, ashrine and dwelling-place of the Holy Trinity, the Throne of God, theCity of God, the Altar of God, the Temple of God, and the World of God. And he walked in that garden, in its shade, its sunlight, beneath itsenchanting greenery; he sighed after the water of that Fountain; hedwelt within Mary's beauteous precincts--resting, hiding, heedlesslystraying there, drinking in the milk of infinite love that fell drop bydrop from her virginal bosom. 

Every morning, on rising at the seminary, he greeted Mary with a hundredbows, his face turned towards the strip of sky visible from his window. And at night in like fashion he bade her farewell with his eyes fixedupon the stars. Often, when he thus gazed out on fine bright nights, when Venus gleamed golden and dreamy through the warm atmosphere, heforgot himself, and then, like a soft song, would fall from his lips the_Ave maris Stella_, that tender hymn which set before his eyes a distantazure land, and a tranquil sea, scarce wrinkled by a caressing quiver, and illuminated by a smiling star, a very sun in size. He recited, too, the _Salve Regina_, the _Regina Coeli_, the _O gloriosa Domina_, all theprayers and all the canticles. He would read the Office of the Virgin, the holy books written in her honour, the little Psalter of St. Bonaventura, with such devout tenderness, that he could not turn theleaves for tears. He fasted and mortified himself, that he might offerup to her his bruised and wounded flesh. Ever since the age of ten hehad worn her livery--the holy scapular, the twofold image of Mary sewnon squares of cloth, whose warmth upon his chest and back thrilled himwith delight. Later on, he also took to wearing the little chain intoken of his loving slavery. But his greatest act of love was ever theAngelic Salutation, the _Ave Maria_, his heart's perfect prayer. 'Hail, Mary----' and he saw her advancing towards him, full of grace, blessedamongst women; and he cast his heart at her feet for her to tread on itin sweetness. He multiplied and repeated that salutation in a hundreddifferent ways, ever seeking some more efficacious one. He would saytwelve _Aves_ to commemorate the crown of twelve stars that encircledMary's brow; he would say fourteen in remembrance of her fourteen joys;at another time he would recite seven decades of them in honour of theyears she lived on earth. For hours the beads of his Rosary wouldglide between his fingers. Then, again, on certain days of mysticalassignation he would launch into the endless muttering of the Rosary. 

When, alone in his cell, with time to give to his love, he knelt uponthe floor, the whole of Mary's garden with its lofty flowers of chastityblossomed around him. Between his fingers glided the Rosary's wreath of_Aves_, intersected by _Paters_, like a garland of white roses mingledwith the lilies of the Annunciation, the blood-hued flowers of Calvary, and the stars of the Coronation. He would slowly tread those fragrantpaths, pausing at each of the fifteen dizains of _Aves_, and dwelling onits corresponding mystery; he was beside himself with joy, or grief, ortriumph, according as the mystery belonged to one or other of the threeseries--the joyful, the sorrowful, or the glorious. What an incomparablelegend it was, the history of Mary, a complete human life, with all itssmiles and tears and triumph, which he lived over again from end to endin a single moment! And first he entered into joy with the five gladMysteries, steeped in the serene calm of dawn. First the Archangel'ssalutation, the fertilising ray gliding down from heaven, fraught withthe spotless union's adorable ecstasy; then the visit to Elizabeth on abright hope-laden morn, when the fruit of Mary's womb for the first timestirred and thrilled her with the shock at which mothers blench; thenthe birth in a stable at Bethlehem, and the long string of shepherdscoming to pay homage to her Divine Maternity; then the new-born babecarried into the Temple on the arms of his mother who smiled, stillweary, but already happy at offering her child to God's justice, toSimeon's embrace, to the desires of the world; and lastly, Jesus at alater age revealing Himself before the doctors, in whose midst He isfound by His anxious mother, now proud and comforted. 

But, after that tender radiant dawn, it seemed to Serge as if the skywere suddenly overcast. His feet now trod on brambles, the beads of theRosary pricked his fingers; he cowered beneath the horror of the fiveSorrowful Mysteries: Mary, agonising in her Son in the garden of Olives, suffering with Him from the scourging, feeling on her own brow thewounds made by the crown of thorns, bearing the fearful weight of HisCross, and dying at his feet on Calvary. Those inevitable sufferings, that harrowing martyrdom of the queen he worshipped, and for whomhe would have shed his blood like Jesus, roused in him a feeling ofshuddering repulsion which ten years' practice of the same prayers andthe same devotions had failed to weaken. But as the beads flowed on, light suddenly burst upon the darkness of the Crucifixion, and theresplendent glory of the five last Mysteries shone forth in all thebrightness of a cloudless sun. Mary was transfigured, and sang thehallelujah of the Resurrection, the victory over Death and the eternityof life. With outstretched hands, and dazed with admiration, she beheldthe triumph of her Son ascending into heaven on golden clouds, fringedwith purple. She gathered the Apostles round her, and, as on the dayof her conception, participated in the glow of the Spirit of Love, descending now in tongues of fire. She, too, was carried up to heavenby a flight of angels, borne aloft on their white wings like a spotlessark, and tenderly set down amid the splendour of the heavenly thrones;and there, in her supreme glory, amidst a splendour so dazzling thatthe light of the sun was quenched, God crowned her with the stars of thefirmament. Impassioned love has but one word. In reciting a hundred andfifty _Aves_ Serge had not once repeated himself. The monotonous murmur, the ever recurring words, akin to the 'I love you' of lovers, assumedeach time a deeper and deeper meaning; and he lingered over it all, expressed everything with the aid of the one solitary Latin sentence, and learned to know Mary through and through, until, as the last bead ofhis Rosary slipped from his hand, his heart grew faint with the thoughtof parting from her. 

Many a night had the young man spent in this way. Daybreak had foundhim still murmuring his prayers. It was the moon, he would say to cheathimself, that was making the stars wane. His superiors had to reprovehim for those vigils, which left him languid and pale as if he had beenlosing blood. On the wall of his cell had long hung a coloured engravingof the Sacred Heart of Mary, an engraving which showed the Virginsmiling placidly, throwing open her bodice, and revealing a crimsonfissure, wherein glowed her heart, pierced with a sword, and crownedwith white roses. That sword tormented him beyond measure, brought himan intolerable horror of suffering in woman, the very thought of whichscattered his pious submissiveness to the winds. He erased the weapon, and left only the crowned and flaming heart which seemed to be half tornfrom that exquisite flesh, as if tendered as an offering to himself. Andit was then he felt beloved: Mary was giving him her heart, her livingheart, even as it throbbed in her bosom, dripping with her rosy blood. 

In all this there was no longer the imagery of devout passion, but amaterial entity, a prodigy of affection which impelled him, when he waspraying before the engraving, to open out his hands in order that hemight reverently receive the heart that leaped from that immaculatebosom. He could see it, hear it beat; he was loved, that heart wasbeating for himself! His whole being quickened with rapture; he wouldfain have kissed that heart, have melted in it, have lain beside itwithin the depths of that open breast. Mary's love for him was an activeone; she desired him to be near her, to be wholly hers in the eternityto come; her love was efficacious, too, she was ever solicitous for him, watching over him everywhere, guarding him from the slightest breach ofhis fidelity. She loved him tenderly, more than the whole of womankindtogether, with a love as azure, as deep, as boundless as the sky itself. Where could he ever find so delightful a mistress? What earthly caresscould be compared to the air in which he moved, the breath of Mary? Whatmundane union or enjoyment could be weighed against that everlastingflower of desire which grew unceasingly, and yet was never over-blown?At this thought the _Magnificat_ would exhale from his mouth, like acloud of incense. He sang the joyful song of Mary, her thrill of joy atthe approach of her Divine Spouse. He glorified the Lord who overthrewthe mighty from their thrones, and who sent Mary to him, poor destitutechild that he was, dying of love on the cold tiled floor of his cell. 

And when he had given all up to Mary--his body, his soul, his earthlygoods, and spiritual chattels--when he stood before her stripped, bare, with all his prayers exhausted, there welled from his burning lipsthe Virgin's litanies, with their reiterated, persistent, impassionedappeals for heavenly succour. He fancied himself climbing a flight ofpious yearnings, which he ascended step by step at each bound of hisheart. First he called her 'Holy. ' Next he called her 'Mother, ' mostpure, most chaste, amiable, and admirable. And with fresh ardour he sixtimes proclaimed her maidenhood; his lips cooled and freshened each timethat he pronounced that name of 'Virgin, ' which he coupled with power, goodness, and fidelity. And as his heart drew him higher up the ladderof light, a strange voice from his veins spoke within him, bursting intodazzling flowers of speech. He yearned to melt away in fragrance, to bespread around in light, to expire in a sigh of music. As he named her'Mirror of Justice, ' 'Seat of Wisdom, ' and 'Source of Joy, ' he couldbehold himself pale with ecstasy in that mirror, kneeling on the warmthof the divine seat, quaffing intoxication in mighty draughts from theholy Source. 

Again he would transform her, throwing off all restraint in his franticlove, so as to attain to a yet closer union with her. She became a'Vessel of Honour, ' chosen of God, a 'Bosom of Election, ' wherein hedesired to pour his being, and slumber for ever. * She was the 'MysticalRose'--a great flower which bloomed in Paradise, with petals formed ofthe angels clustering round their queen, a flower so fresh, so fragrant, that he could inhale its perfume from the depths of his unworthinesswith a joyful dilation of his sides which stretched them to bursting. She became changed into a 'House of Gold, ' a 'Tower of David, ' and a'Tower of Ivory, ' of inestimable richness, of a whiteness that swansmight envy, and of lofty, massive, rounded form, which he wouldfain have encircled with his outstretched arms as with a girdle ofsubmissiveness. She stood on the distant skyline as the 'Gate ofHeaven, ' a glimpse of which he caught behind her shoulders when a puffof wind threw back the folds of her veil. She rose in splendour frombehind the mountain in the waning hour of night, like the 'Morning Star'to help all travellers astray, like the very dawn of Love. And when hehad ascended to this height--scant of breath, yet still unsatiated--hecould only further glorify her with the title of 'Queen, ' with which henine times hailed her, as with nine parting salutations from the censerof his soul. His canticle died joyfully away in those last ejaculationsof triumph: 'Queen of virgins, Queen of all saints. Queen conceivedwithout sin!' She, ever before him, shone in splendour; and he, onthe topmost step, only reached by Mary's intimates, remained there yetanother moment, swooning amidst the subtle atmosphere around him; stilltoo far away to kiss the edge of her azure robe, already feeling thathe was about to fall, but ever possessed by a desire to ascend again andagain, and seek that superhuman felicity. 

 * Curiously enough I find no trace of 'Bosom of Election' in the Litany of the Blessed Virgin as printed in English Catholic works. --ED. 

How many times had not the Litany of the Virgin, recited in common inthe seminary chapel, left the young man with broken limbs and void head, as if from some great fall! And since his departure from the seminary, Abbe Mouret had grown to love the Virgin still more. He gave to her thatimpassioned cult which to Brother Archangias savoured of heresy. In hisopinion it was she who would save the Church by some matchless prodigywhose near appearance would entrance the world. She was the only miracleof our impious age--the blue-robed lady that showed herself to littleshepherdesses, the whiteness that gleamed at night between two clouds, her veil trailing over the low thatched roofs of peasant homes. WhenBrother Archangias coarsely asked him if he had ever espied her, hesimply smiled and tightened his lips as if to keep his secret. Truth tosay, he saw her every night. She no longer seemed a playful sister or alovely pious maiden; she wore a bridal robe, with white flowers inher hair; and from beneath her drooping eyelids fell moist glances ofhopeful promise that set his cheeks aglow. He could feel that she wascoming, that she was promising to delay no longer; that she said to him, 'Here I am, receive me!' Thrice a day when the _Angelus_ rang out--atbreak of dawn, in the fulness of midday, and at the gentle fall oftwilight--he bared his head and said an _Ave_ with a glance around himas if to ascertain whether the bell were not at last announcing Mary'scoming. He was five-and-twenty. He awaited her. 

During the month of May the young priest's expectation was fraught withjoyful hope. To La Teuse's grumblings he no longer paid the slightestattention. If he remained so late praying in the church, it was becausehe entertained the mad idea that the great golden Virgin would at lastcome down from her pedestal. And yet he stood in awe of that Virgin, solike a princess in her mien. He did not love all the Virgins alike, andthis one inspired him with supreme respect. She was, indeed, theMother of God, she showed the fertile development of form, the majesticcountenance, the strong arms of the Divine Spouse bearing Jesus. Hepictured her thus, standing in the midst of the heavenly court, thetrain of her royal mantle trailing among the stars; so far above him, and of such exceeding might, that he would be shattered into dust shouldshe deign to cast her eyes upon him. She was the Virgin of his days ofweakness, the austere Virgin who restored his inward peace by an awesomeglimpse of Paradise. 

That night Abbe Mouret remained for over an hour on his knees in theempty church. With folded hands and eyes fixed on the golden Virginrising planet-like amid the verdure, he sought the drowsiness ofecstasy, the appeasement of the strange discomfort he had felt that day. But he failed to find the semi-somnolence of prayer with the delightfulease he knew so well. However glorious and pure Mary might revealherself, her motherhood, the maturity of her charms, and the bare infantshe bore upon her arm, disquieted him. It seemed as if in heaven itselfthere were a repetition of the exuberant life, through which he had beenmoving since the morning. Like the vines of the stony slopes, like thetrees of the Paradou, like the human troop of Artauds, Mary suggestedthe blossoming, the begetting of life. Prayer came but slowly to hislips; fancies made his mind wander. He perceived things he had neverseen before--the gentle wave of her chestnut hair, the rounded swell ofher rosy throat. She had to assume a sterner air and overwhelm him withthe splendour of her sovereign power to bring him back to the unfinishedsentences of his broken prayer. At last the sight of her golden crown, her golden mantle, all the golden sheen which made of her a mightyprincess, reduced him once more to slavish submission, and his prayeragain flowed evenly, and his mind became wrapped in worship. 

In this ecstatic trance, half asleep, half awake, he remained tilleleven o'clock, heedless of his aching knees, fancying himself suspendedin mid air, rocked to and fro like a child, and yielding to restfulslumber, though conscious of some unknown weight that oppressed hisheart. Meanwhile the church around him filled with shadows, the lampgrew dim, and the lofty sprays of leafage darkened the tall Virgin'svarnished face. 

When the clock, about to strike, gave out a rending whine, a shudderpassed through Abbe Mouret. He had not hitherto felt the chill of thechurch upon his shoulders, but now he was shivering from head to foot. As he crossed himself a memory swiftly flashed through the stupor of hiswakening--the chattering of his teeth recalled to him the nights he hadspent on the floor of his cell before the Sacred Heart of Mary, when hiswhole frame would quiver with fever. He rose up painfully, displeasedwith himself. As a rule, he would leave the altar untroubled in hisflesh and with Mary's sweet breath still fresh upon his brow. Thatnight, however, as he took the lamp to go up to his room he felt as ifhis throbbing temples were bursting. His prayer had not profited him;after a transient alleviation he still experienced the burning glowwhich had been rising in his heart and brain since morning. When hereached the sacristy door, he turned and mechanically raised the lampto take a last look at the tall Virgin. But she was now shrouded in thedeep shadows falling from the rafters, buried in the foliage around herwhence only the golden cross upon her crown emerged. 

XV

Abbe Mouret's bedroom, which occupied a corner of the vicarage, was aspacious one, having two large square windows; one of which opened aboveDesiree's farmyard, whilst the other overlooked the village, the valleybeyond, the belt of hills, the whole landscape. The yellow-curtainedbed, the walnut chest of drawers, and the three straw-bottomed chairsseemed lost below that lofty ceiling with whitewashed joists. A fainttartness, the somewhat musty odour of old country houses, ascended fromthe tiled and ruddled floor that glistened like a mirror. On the chestof drawers a tall statuette of the Immaculate Conception rose greylybetween some porcelain vases which La Teuse had filled with white lilac. 

Abbe Mouret set his lamp on the edge of the chest of drawers before theVirgin. He felt so unwell that he determined to light the vine-stem firewhich was laid in readiness. He stood there, tongs in hand, watchingthe kindling wood, his face illuminated by the flame. The house beneathslumbered in unbroken stillness. The silence filled his ears with a hum, which grew into a sound of whispering voices. Slowly and irresistiblythese voices mastered him and increased the feeling of anxiety whichhad almost choked him several times that day. What could be the cause ofsuch mental anguish? What could be the strange trouble which had slowlygrown within him and had now become so unbearable? He had not falleninto sin. It seemed as if but yesterday he had left the seminary withall his ardent faith, and so fortified against the world that he movedamong men beholding God alone. And, suddenly, he fancied himself in hiscell at five o'clock in the morning, the hour for rising. The deaconon duty passed his door, striking it with his stick, and repeating theregulation summons--

'_Benedicamus Domino_!'

'_Deo gratias_!' he answered half asleep, with his eyes still swollenwith slumber. 

And he jumped out upon his strip of carpet, washed himself, made hisbed, swept his room, and refilled his little pitcher. He enjoyed thispetty domestic work while the morning air sent a thrilling shiverthroughout his frame. He could hear the sparrows in the plane-treesof the court-yard, rising at the same time as himself with a deafeningnoise of wings and notes--their way of saying their prayers, thought he. Then he went down to the meditation room, and stayed there on his kneesfor half an hour after prayers, to con that reflection of St. Ignatius:'What profit be it to a man to gain the whole world if he lose hissoul?' A subject, this, fertile in good resolutions, which impelled himto renounce all earthly goods, and dwell on that fond dream of a desertlife, beneath the solitary wealth and luxury of a vast blue sky. Whenten minutes had passed, his bruised knees became so painful that hiswhole being slowly swooned into ecstasy, in which he pictured himself asa mighty conqueror, the master of an immense empire, flinging down hiscrown, breaking his sceptre, trampling under foot unheard-of wealth, chests of gold, floods of jewels, and rich stuffs embroidered withprecious stones, before going to bury himself in some Thebais, clothedin rough drugget that rasped his back. Mass, however, snatched him fromthese heated fancies, upon which he looked back as upon some beautifulreality which might have been his lot in ancient times; and then, hiscommunion made, he chanted the psalm for the day unconscious of anyother voice than his own, which rang out with crystal purity, flyingupward till it reached the very ear of the Lord. 

When he returned to his room he ascended the stairs step by step, asadvised by St. Bonaventura and St. Thomas Aquinas. His gait was slow, his mien grave; he kept his head bowed as he walked along, findingineffable delight in complying with the most trifling regulations. Nextcame breakfast. It was pleasant in the refectory to see the hunks ofbread and the glasses of white wine, set out in rows. He had a goodappetite, and was of a joyous mood. He would say, for instance, thatthe wine was truly Christian--a daring allusion to the water which thebursar was taxed with putting in the bottles. Still his gravity at oncereturned to him on going in to lectures. He took notes on his knees, while the professor, resting his hands on the edge of his desk, talkedaway in familiar Latin, interspersed with an occasional word in French, when he was at fault for a better. A discussion would then follow inwhich the students argued in a strange jargon, with never a smile upontheir faces. Then, at ten o'clock, there came twenty minutes' readingof Holy Writ. He fetched the Sacred Book, a volume richly bound andgilt-edged. Having kissed it with especial reverence, he read it outbare-headed, bowing every time he came upon the name of Jesus, Mary, orJoseph. And with the arrival of the second meditation he was ready toendure for love of God another and even longer spell of kneelingthan the first. He avoided resting on his heels for a second even. He delighted in that examination of conscience which lasted forthree-quarters of an hour. He racked his memory for sins, and at timeseven fancied himself damned for forgetting to kiss the pictures on hisscapular the night before, or for having gone to sleep upon his leftside--abominable faults which he would have willingly redeemed bywearing out his knees till night; and yet happy faults, in that theykept him busy, for without them he would have no occupation for hisunspotted heart, steeped in a life of purity. 

He would return to the refectory, as if relieved of some great crime. The seminarists on duty, wearing blue linen aprons, and having theircassock sleeves tucked up, brought in the vermicelli soup, the boiledbeef cut into little squares, and the helps of roast mutton and Frenchbeans. Then followed a terrific rattling of jaws, a gluttonous silence, a desperate plying of forks, only broken by envious greedy glances atthe horseshoe table, where the heads of the seminary ate more delicatemeats and drank ruddier wines. And all the while above the hubbub somestrong-lunged peasant's son, with a thick voice and utter disregard forpunctuation, would hem and haw over the perusal of some letters frommissionaries, some episcopal pastoral, or some article from a religiouspaper. To this he listened as he ate. Those polemical fragments, thosenarratives of distant travels, surprised, nay, even frightened him, withtheir revelations of bustling, boundless fields of action, of whichhe had never dreamt, beyond the seminary walls. Eating was still inprogress when the wooden clapper announced the recreation hour. Therecreation-ground was a sandy yard, in which stood eight plane-trees, which in summer cast cool shadows around. On the south side rose a wall, seventeen feet high, and bristling with broken glass, above which allthat one saw of Plassans was the steeple of St. Mark, rising like astony needle against the blue sky. To and fro he slowly paced the courtwith a row of fellow-students; and each time he faced the wall he eyedthat spire which to him represented the whole town, the wholeearth spread beneath the scudding clouds. Noisy groups waxed hot indisputation round the plane-trees; friends would pair off in thecorners under the spying glance of some director concealed behind hiswindow-blind. Tennis and skittle matches would be quickly organised tothe great discomfort of quiet loto players who lounged on the groundbefore their cardboard squares, which some bowl or ball would suddenlysmother with sand. But when the bell sounded the noise ceased, a flightof sparrows rose from the plane-trees, and the breathless studentsbetook themselves to their lesson in plain-chant with folded arms andhanging heads. And thus Serge's day closed in peacefulness; he returnedto his work; then, at four o'clock, he partook of his afternoon snack, and renewed his everlasting walk in sight of St. Mark's spire. Supperwas marked by the same rattling of jaws and the same droning perusal asthe midday meal. And when it was over Serge repaired to the chapel toattend prayers, and finally betook himself to bed at a quarter pasteight, after first sprinkling his pallet with holy water to ward off allevil dreams. 

How many delightful days like these had he not spent in that ancientconvent of old Plassans, where abode the aroma of centuries of piety!For five years had the days followed one another, flowing on with theunvarying murmur of limpid water. In this present hour he recalled athousand little incidents which moved him. He remembered going with hismother to purchase his first outfit, his two cassocks, his two waistsashes, his half-dozen bands, his eight pairs of socks, his surplice, and his three-cornered hat. And how his heart had beaten that mildOctober evening when the seminary door had first closed behind him!He had gone thither at twenty, after his school years, seized with ayearning to believe and love. The very next day he had forgotten all, as if he had fallen into a long sleep in that big silent house. He oncemore saw the narrow cell in which he had lived through his two years asstudent of philosophy--a little hutch with only a bed, a table, and achair, divided from the other cells by badly fitted partitions, in avast hall containing about fifty similar little dens. And he againsaw the cell he had dwelt in three years longer while in the theologyclass--a larger one, with an armchair, a dressing-table, and abookcase--a happy room full of the dreams which his faith had evoked. Down those endless passages, up those stairs of stone, in all sorts ofnooks, sudden inspirations, unexpected aid had come to him. From thelofty ceilings fell the voices of guardian angels. There was not aflagstone in the halls, not an ashlar of the walls, not a bough of theplane-trees, but it spoke to him of the delights of his contemplativelife, his lispings of tenderness, his gradual initiation, the favoursvouchsafed him in return for self-bestowal, all that happiness of divinefirst love. 

On such and such a day, on awaking, he had beheld a bright flood oflight which had steeped him in joy. On such and such an evening as heclosed the door of his cell he had felt warm hands clasping his neckso lovingly that he had lost consciousness, and had afterwards foundhimself on the floor weeping and choked by sobs. Again, at othertimes, especially in the little archway leading to the chapel, he hadsurrendered himself to supple arms which raised him from the ground. Allheaven had then been concerned in him, had moved round him, and impartedto his slightest actions a peculiar sense, an astonishing perfume, whichseemed to cling faintly to his clothes, to his very skin. And again, he remembered the Thursday walks. They started at two o'clock for someverdant nook about three miles from Plassans. Often they sought a meadowon the banks of the Viorne, where the gnarled willows steeped theirleaves in the stream. But he saw nothing--neither the big yellow flowersin the meadow, nor the swallows sipping as they flew by, with wingslightly touching the surface of the little river. Till six o'clock, seated in groups beneath the willows, his comrades and himself recitedthe Office of the Virgin in common, or read in pairs the 'Little Hours, 'the book of prayers recommended to young seminarists, but not enjoinedon them. 

Abbe Mouret smiled as he stirred the burning embers of his vine-stockfire. In all that past he only found great purity and perfect obedience. He had been a lily whose sweet scent had charmed his masters. He couldnot recall a single bad action. He had never taken advantage of theabsolute freedom of those walks, when the two prefects in charge wouldgo off to have a chat with a parish priest in the neighbourhood, or tohave a smoke behind a hedge, or to drink beer with a friend. Never hadhe hidden a novel under his mattress, nor a bottle of _anisette_ ina cupboard. For a long time, even, he had had no suspicion of thesinfulness around him--of the wings of chicken and the cakes smuggledinto the seminary in Lent, of the guilty letters brought in by servers, of the abominable conversations carried on in whispers in certaincorners of the courtyard. He had wept hot tears when he first perceivedthat few among his fellows loved God for His own sake. There werepeasants' sons there who had taken orders simply through their terrorof conscription, sluggards who dreamed of a career of idleness, andambitious youths already agitated by a vision of the staff and themitre. And when he found the world's wickedness reappearing at thealtar's very foot, he had withdrawn still further into himself, givinghimself still more to God, to console Him for being forsaken. 

He did recollect, however, that he had crossed his legs one day inclass, and that, when the professor reproved him for it, his face hadbecome fiery red, as if he had committed some abominable action. Hewas one of the best students, never arguing, but learning his texts byheart. He established the existence and eternity of God by proofs drawnfrom Holy Writ, the opinions of the fathers of the Church, the universalconsensus of all mankind. This kind of reasoning filled him with anunshakeable certainty. During his first year of philosophy, he hadworked at his logic so earnestly that his professor had checked him, remarking that the most learned were not the holiest. In his secondyear, therefore, he had carried out his study of metaphysics as aregulation task, constituting but a small fraction of his daily duties. He felt a growing contempt for science; he wished to remain ignorant, inorder to preserve the humility of his faith. Later on, he only followedthe course of Rohrbacher's 'Ecclesiastical History' from submission;he ventured as far as Gousset's arguments, and Bouvier's 'TheologicalCourse, ' without daring to take up Bellarmin, Liguori, Suarez, or St. Thomas Aquinas. Holy Writ alone impassioned him. Therein he found alldesirable knowledge, a tale of infinite love which should be sufficientinstruction for all men of good-will. He simply adopted the dicta of histeachers, casting on them the care of inquiry, needing nought of suchrubbish to know how to love, and accusing books of stealing away thetime which should be devoted to prayer. He even succeeded in forgettinghis years of college life. He no longer knew anything, but wassimplicity itself, a child brought back to the lispings of hiscatechism. 

Such was the manner in which he had ascended step by step to thepriesthood. And here his recollections thronged more quickly on him, softer, still warm with heavenly joy. Each year he had drawn nearerto God. His vacations had been spent in holy fashion at an uncle's, inconfessions every day and communions twice a week. He would lay fastsupon himself, hide rock-salt inside his trunk, and kneel on it withbared knees for hours together. At recreation time he remained inchapel, or went up to the room of one of the directors, who told himpious and extraordinary stories. Then, as the fast of the Holy Trinitydrew nigh, he was rewarded beyond all measure, overwhelmed bythe stirring emotion which pervades all seminaries on the eve ofordinations. This was the great festival of all, when the sky opened toallow the elect to rise another step nearer unto God. For a fortnightin advance he imposed a bread and water diet on himself. He closedhis window blinds so that he might not see the daylight at all, andhe prostrated himself in the gloom to implore Jesus to accept hissacrifice. During the last four days he suffered torturing pangs, terrible scruples, which would force him from his bed in the middleof the night to knock at the door of some strange priest giving theRetreat--some barefooted Carmelite, or often a converted Protestantrespecting whom some wonderful story was current. To him he wouldmake at great length a general confession of his whole life in a voicechoking with sobs. Absolution alone quieted him, refreshed him, as if hehad enjoyed a bath of grace. 

On the morning of the great day he felt wholly white; and so vividly washe conscious of his whiteness that he seemed to himself to shed lightaround him. The seminary bell rang out in clear notes, while all thescents of June--the perfume of blossoming stocks, of mignonette and ofheliotropes--came over the lofty courtyard wall. In the chapel relativeswere waiting in their best attire, so deeply moved that the women sobbedbehind their veils. Next came the procession--the deacons about toreceive their priesthood in golden chasubles, the sub-deacons indalmatics, those in minor orders and the tonsured with their surplicesfloating on their shoulders and their black birettas in their hands. Theorgan rolled diffusing the flutelike notes of a canticle of joy. At thealtar, the bishop officiated, staff in hand, assisted by two canons. Allthe Chapter were there, the priests of all the parishes thronged thickamid a dazzling wealth of apparel, a flaring of gold beneath a broadray of sunlight falling from a window in the nave. The epistle over, theordination began. 

At this very hour Abbe Mouret could remember the chill of the scissorswhen he was marked with the tonsure at the beginning of his first yearof theology. It had made him shudder slightly. But the tonsure had thenbeen very small, hardly larger than a penny. Later, with each freshorder conferred on him, it had grown and grown until it crowned him witha white spot as large as a big Host. The organ's hum grew softer, andthe censers swung with a silvery tinkling of their slender chains, releasing a cloudlet of white smoke, which unrolled in lacelike folds. He could see himself, a tonsured youth in a surplice, led to the altarby the master of ceremonies; there he knelt and bowed his head down low, while the bishop with golden scissors snipped off three locks--one overhis forehead, and the other two near his ears. Yet another twelvemonth, and he could again see himself in the chapel amid the incense, receivingthe four minor orders. Led by an archdeacon, he went to the maindoorway, closed the door with a bang, and opened it again, to show thatto him was entrusted the care of churches; next he rang a small bellwith his right hand, in token that it was his duty to call the faithfulto the divine offices; then he returned to the altar, where freshprivileges were conferred upon him by the bishop--those of singing thelessons, of blessing the bread, of catechising children, of exorcisingevil spirits, of serving the deacons, of lighting and extinguishing thecandles of the altars. 

Next came back the memory of the ensuing ordination, more solemn andmore dread, amid the same organ strains which sounded now like God's ownthunder: this time he wore a sub-deacon's dalmatic upon his shoulders, he bound himself for ever by the vow of chastity, he trembled in everypore, despite his faith, at the terrible _Accedite_ from the bishop, which put to flight two of his companions, blanching by his side. Hisnew duties were to serve the priest at the altar, to prepare the cruets, sing the epistle, wipe the chalice, and carry the cross in processions. And, at last, he passed once more, and for the last time, into thechapel, in the radiance of a June sun: but this time he walked at thevery head of the procession, with alb girdled about his waist, withstole crossed over his breast, and chasuble falling from his neck. Allbut fainting from emotion, he could perceive the pallid face of thebishop giving him the priesthood, the fulness of the ministry, bythe threefold laying of his hands. And after taking the oath ofecclesiastical obedience, he felt himself uplifted from the stone flags, when the prelate in a full voice repeated the Latin words: '_AccipeSpiritum Sanctum. . . . Quorum remiseris peccata, remittuntur eis, etquorum retinueris, retenta sunt_. '--'Receive the Holy Ghost. . . . Whosesins thou dost forgive they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dostretain, they are retained. '

XVI

This evocation of the deep joys of his youth had given Abbe Mouret atouch of feverishness. He no longer felt the cold. He put down the tongsand walked towards the bedstead as if about to go to bed, but turnedback and pressed his forehead to a window-pane, looking out into thenight with sightless eyes. Could he be ill? Why did he feel suchlanguor in all his limbs, why did his blood burn in every vein? On twooccasions, while at the seminary, he had experienced similar attacks--asort of physical discomfort which made him most unhappy; one day, indeed, he had gone to bed in raving delirium. Then he bethought himselfof a young girl possessed by evil spirits, whom Brother Archangiasasserted he had cured with a simple sign of the cross, one day when shefell down before him. This reminded him of the spiritual exorcisms whichone of his teachers had formerly recommended to him: prayer, a generalconfession, frequent communion, the choosing of a wise confessorwho should have great authority on his mind. And then, without anytransition, with a suddenness which astonished himself, he saw inthe depths of his memory the round face of one of his old friends, apeasant, who had been a choir boy at eight years old, and whose expensesat the seminary were defrayed by a lady who watched over him. He wasalways laughing, he rejoiced beforehand at the anticipated emoluments ofhis career; twelve hundred francs of stipend, a vicarage at the end of agarden, presents, invitations to dinners, little profits from weddings, and baptismal and burial fees. That young fellow must indeed be happy inhis parish. 

The feeling of melancholy regret evoked by this recollection surprisedAbbe Mouret extremely. Was he not happy, too? Until that day he hadregretted nothing, wished for nothing, envied nothing. Even as hesearched himself at that very moment he failed to find any cause forbitterness. He believed himself the same as in the early days of hisdeaconship, when the obligatory perusal of his breviary at certainstated hours had filled his days with continuous prayer. No doubts hadtormented him; he had prostrated himself before the mysteries he couldnot understand; he had sacrificed his reason, which he despised, withthe greatest ease. When he left the seminary, he had rejoiced at findinghimself a stranger among his fellowmen, no longer walking like them, carrying his head differently, possessed of the gestures, words, andopinions of a being apart. He had felt emasculated, nearer to theangels, cleansed of sexuality. It had almost made him proud to belongno longer to his species, to have been brought up for God and carefullypurged of all human grossness by a jealously watchful training. Again, it had seemed to him as if for years he had been dwelling in holyoil, prepared with all due rites, which had steeped his flesh inbeatification. His limbs, his brain, had lost material substance togain in soulfulness, impregnated with a subtle vapour which, at times, intoxicated him and dizzied him as if the earth had suddenly failedbeneath his feet. He displayed the fears, the unwittingness, the opencandour of a cloistered maiden. He sometimes remarked with a smile thathe was prolonging his childhood, under the impression that he was stillquite little, retaining the same sensations, the same ideas, the sameopinions as in the past. At six years old, for instance, he had known asmuch of God as he knew at twenty-five; in prayer the inflexions ofhis voice were still the same, and he yet took a childish pleasure infolding his hands quite correctly. The world too seemed to him the sameas he had seen in former days when his mother led him by the hand. He had been born a priest, and a priest he had grown up. Whenever hedisplayed before La Teuse some particularly gross ignorance of life, shewould stare him in the face, astounded, and remark with a strange smilethat 'he was Mademoiselle Desiree's brother all over. '

In all his existence he could only recall one shock of shame. Ithad happened during his last six months at the seminary, between hisdeaconship and priesthood. He had been ordered to read the work of AbbeCraisson, the superior of the great seminary at Valence: '_De rebusVeneris ad usum confessariorum_. ' And he had risen from this bookterrified and choking with sobs. That learned casuistry, dealing sofully with the abominations of mankind, descending to the most monstrousexamples of vice, violated, as it were, all his virginity of bodyand mind. He felt himself for ever befouled. Yet every time he heardconfessions he inevitably recurred to that catechism of shame. Andthough the obscurities of dogma, the duties of his ministry, and thedeath of all free will within him left him calm and happy at beingnought but the child of God, he retained, in spite of himself, a carnaltaint of the horrors he must needs stir up; he was conscious of anineffaceable stain, deep down somewhere in his being, which might someday grow larger and cover him with mud. 

The moon was rising behind the Garrigue hills. Abbe Mouret, still moreand more feverish, opened the window and leaned out upon his elbows, that he might feel upon his face the coolness of the night. He could nolonger remember at what time exactly this illness had come upon him. He recollected, however, that in the morning, while saying mass, he hadbeen quite calm and restful. It must have been later, perhaps duringhis long walk in the sun, or while he shivered under the trees of theParadou, or while stifling in Desiree's poultry-yard. And then he livedthrough the day again. 

Before him stretched the vast plain, more direful still beneath thepallid light of the oblique moonbeams. The olive and almond trees showedlike grey spots amid the chaos of rocks spreading to the sombre row ofhills on the horizon. There were big splotches of gloom, bumpy ridges, blood-hued earthy pools in which red stars seemed to contemplate oneanother, patches of chalky light, suggestive of women's garments castoff and disclosing shadowy forms which slumbered in the hollow foldsof ground. At night that glowing landscape weltered there strangely, passionately, slumbering with uncovered bosom, and outspread twistedlimbs, whilst heaving mighty sighs, and exhaling the strong aroma ofa sweating sleeper. It was as if some mighty Cybele had fallen therebeneath the moon, intoxicated with the embraces of the sun. Far away, Abbe Mouret's eyes followed the path to Les Olivettes, a narrow paleribbon stretching along like a wavy stay-lace. He could hear BrotherArchangias whipping the truant schoolgirls, and spitting in the facesof their elder sisters. He could see Rosalie slyly laughing in her handswhile old Bambousse hurled clods of earth after her and smote her onher hips. Then, too, he thought, he had still been well, his neck barelyheated by the lovely morning sunshine. He had felt but a quiveringbehind him, that confused hum of life, which he had faintly heard sincemorning when the sun, in the midst of his mass, had entered the churchby the shattered windows. Never, then, had the country disturbed him, as it did at this hour of night, with its giant bosom, its yieldingshadows, its gleams of ambery skin, its lavish goddess-like nudity, scarce hidden by the silvery gauze of moonlight. 

The young priest lowered his eyes, and gazed upon the village of LesArtaud. It had sunk into the heavy slumber of weariness, the soundnessof peasants' sleep. Not a light: the battered hovels showed likedusky mounds intersected by the white stripes of cross lanes which themoonbeams swept. Even the dogs were surely snoring on the thresholds ofthe closed doors. Had the Artauds poisoned the air of the parsonage withsome abominable plague? Behind him gathered and swept the gust whoseapproach filled him with so much anguish. Now he could detect a soundlike the tramping of a flock, a whiff of dusty air, which reached himladen with the emanations of beasts. Again came back his thoughts of ahandful of men beginning the centuries over again, springing up betweenthose naked rocks like thistles sown by the winds. In his childhoodnothing had amazed and frightened him more than those myriads of insectswhich gushed forth when he raised certain damp stones. The Artaudsdisturbed him even in their slumber; he could recognise their breathin the air he inhaled. He would have liked to have had the rocks alonebelow his window. The hamlet was not dead enough; the thatched roofsbulged like bosoms; through the gaping cracks in the doors came lowfaint sounds which spoke of all the swarming life within. Nausea cameupon him. Yet he had often faced it all without feeling any other needthan that of refreshing himself in prayer. 

His brow perspiring, he proceeded to open the other window, as if toseek cooler air. Below him, to his left, lay the graveyard with theSolitaire erect like a bar, unstirred by the faintest breeze. From theempty field arose an odour like that of a newly mown meadow. Thegrey wall of the church, that wall full of lizards and planted withwall-flowers, gleamed coldly in the moonlight, and the panes of one ofthe windows glistened like plates of steel. The sleeping church couldnow have no other life within it than the extra-human life of theDivinity embodied in the Host enclosed in the tabernacle. He thought ofthe bracket lamp's yellow glow peeping out of the gloom, and was temptedto go down once more to try to ease his ailing head amid those deepshadows. But a strange feeling of terror held him back; he suddenlyfancied, while his eyes were fixed upon the moonlit panes, that he sawthe church illumined by a furnace-like glare, the blaze of a festivalof hell, in which whirled the Month of May, the plants, the animals, and the girls of Les Artaud, who wildly encircled trees with theirbare arms. Then, as he leaned over, he saw beneath him Desiree'spoultry-yard, black and steaming. He could not clearly distinguish therabbit-hutches, the fowls' roosting-places, or the ducks' house. Theplace was all one big mass heaped up in stench, still exhaling in itssleep a pestiferous odour. From under the stable-door came the acridsmell of the nanny-goat; while the little pig, stretched upon his back, snorted near an empty porringer. And suddenly with his brazen throatAlexander, the big yellow cock, raised a crow, which awoke in thedistance impassioned calls from all the cocks of the village. 

Then all at once Abbe Mouret remembered: The fever had struck him inDesiree's farmyard, while he was looking at the hens still warm fromlaying, the rabbit-does plucking the down from under them. And now thefeeling that some one was breathing on his neck became so distinct thathe turned at last to see who was behind him. And then he recalled Albinebounding out of the Paradou, and the door slamming upon the vision of anenchanted garden; he recalled the girl racing alongside the interminablewall, following the gig at a run, and throwing birch leaves to thebreeze as kisses; he recalled her, again, in the twilight, laughing atthe oaths of Brother Archangias, her skirts skimming over the path likea cloudlet of dust bowled along by the evening breeze. She was sixteen;how strange she looked, with her rather elongated face! she savouredof the open air, of the grass, of mother earth. And so accurate was hisrecollection of her that he could once more see a scratch upon one ofher supple wrists, a rosy scar on her white skin. Why did she laugh likethat when she looked at him with her blue eyes? He was engulfed in herlaugh as in a sonorous wave which resounded and pressed close to him onevery side; he inhaled it, he felt it vibrate within him. Yes, all hisevil came from that laugh of hers which he had quaffed. 

Standing in the middle of the room, with both windows open, he remainedshivering, seized with a fright which made him hide his face in hishands. So this was the ending of the whole day; this evocation of a fairgirl, with a somewhat long face and eyes of blue. And the whole daycame in through the open windows. In the distance--the glow of those redlands, the ardent passion of the big rocks, of the olive-trees springingup amid the stones, of the vines twisting their arms by the roadside. Nearer--the steam of human sweat borne in upon the air from Les Artaud, the musty odour of the cemetery, the fragrance of incense from thechurch, tainted by the scent of greasy-haired wenches. And therewas also the steaming muck-heap, the fumes of the poultry-yard, theoppressing ferment of animal germs. And all these vapours poured in atonce, in one asphyxiating gust, so offensive, so violent, as to chokehim. He tried to close his senses, to subdue and annihilate them. ButAlbine reappeared before him like a tall flower that had sprung andgrown beautiful in that soil. She was the natural blossom of thatcorruption, delicate in the sunshine, her white shoulders expanding inyouthfulness, her whole being so fraught with the gladness of life, thatshe leaped from her stem and darted upon his mouth, scenting him withher long ripple of laughter. 

A cry burst from the priest. He had felt a burning touch upon his lips. A stream as of fire coursed through his veins. And then, in searchof refuge, he threw himself on his knees before the statuette of theImmaculate Conception, exclaiming, with folded hands:

'Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me!'

XVII

The Immaculate Conception, set on the walnut chest of drawers, wassmiling softly, with her slender lips, marked by a dash of carmine. Herform was small and wholly white. Her long white veil, falling from headto foot, had but an imperceptible thread of gold around its edge. Hergown, draped in long straight folds over a sexless figure, was fastenedaround her flexible neck. Not a single lock of her chestnut hair peepedforth. Her countenance was rosy, with clear eyes upturned to heaven: herhands were clasped--rosy, childlike hands, whose finger-tips appearedbeneath the folds of her veil, above the azure scarf which seemed togirdle her waist with two streaming ends of the firmament. Of all herwomanly charms not one was bared, except her feet, adorable feet whichtrod the mystical eglantine. And from those nude feet sprang goldenroses, like the natural efflorescence of her twofold purity of flesh. 

'Virgin most faithful, pray for me, ' the priest despairingly pleaded. 

This Virgin had never distressed him. She was not a mother yet; shedid not offer Jesus to him, her figure did not yet present the roundedoutlines of maternity. She was not the Queen of Heaven descending, crowned with gold and clothed in gold like a princess of the earth, borne in triumph by a flight of cherubim. She had never assumed anawesome mien; had never spoken to him with the austere severity of anall-powerful mistress, the very sight of whom must bow all foreheadsto the dust. He could dare to look on her and love her, without fear ofbeing moved by the gentle wave of her chestnut hair; her bare feet aloneexcited his affection, those feet of love which blossomed like a gardenof chastity in too miraculous a manner for him to seek to cover themwith kisses. She scented his room with lily-like fragrance. She wasindeed the silver lily planted in a golden vase, she was precious, eternal, impeccable purity. Within the white veil, so closely drawnround her, there could be nothing human--only a virgin flame, burningwith ever even glow. At night when he went to bed, in the morningwhen he woke, he could see her there, still and ever wearing that sameecstatic smile. 

'Mother most pure, Mother most chaste, Mother ever-virgin, pray for me!'he stammered in his fear, pressing close to the Virgin's feet, as if hecould hear Albine's sonorous footfalls behind him. 'You are my refuge, the source of my joy, the seat of my wisdom, the tower of ivory inwhich I have shut up my purity. I place myself in your spotless hands, Ibeseech you to take me, to cover me with a corner of your veil, tohide me beneath your innocence, behind the hallowed rampart of yourgarment--so that no fleshly breath may reach me. I need you, I diewithout you, I shall feel for ever parted from you, if you do not bearme away in your helpful arms, far hence into the glowing whitenesswherein you dwell. O Mary, conceived without sin, annihilate me in thedepths of the immaculate snow that falls from your every limb. You arethe miracle of eternal chastity. Your race has sprung from a very beamof grace, like some wondrous tree unsown by any germ. Your son, Jesus, was born of the breath of God; you yourself were born without defilementof your mother's womb, and I would believe that this virginity goes backthus from age to age in endless unwittingness of flesh. Oh! to live, togrow up outside the pale of the senses! Oh! to perpetuate life solely bythe contact of a celestial kiss!'

This despairing appeal, this cry of purified longing, calmed the youngpriest's fears. The Virgin--wholly white, with eyes turned heavenward, appeared to smile more tenderly with her thin red lips. And in asoftened voice he went on:

'I should like to be a child once more. I should like to be always achild, walking in the shadow of your gown. When I was quite little, Iclasped my hands when I uttered the name of Mary. My cradle waswhite, my body was white, my every thought was white. I could see youdistinctly, I could hear you calling me, I went towards you in the lightof a smile over scattered rose-petals. And nought else did I feel orthink, I lived but just enough to be a flower at your feet. No oneshould grow up. You would have around you none but fair young heads, acrowd of children who would love you with pure hands, unsullied lips, tender limbs, stainless as if fresh from a bath of milk. To kiss achild's cheek is to kiss its soul. A child alone can say your namewithout befouling it. In later years our lips grow tainted and reek ofour passions. Even I, who love you so much, and have given myself toyou, I dare not at all times call on you, for I would not let youcome in contact with the impurities of my manhood. I have prayed andchastised my flesh, I have slept in your keeping, and lived in chastity;and yet I weep to see that I am not yet dead enough to this world tobe your betrothed. O Mary! adorable Virgin, why can I not be only fiveyears old--why could I not remain the child who pressed his lips to yourpictures? I would take you to my heart, I would lay you by my side, Iwould clasp and kiss you like a friend--like a girl of my own age. Yourclose hanging garments, your childish veil, your blue scarf--all thatyouthfulness which makes you like an elder sister would be mine. I wouldnot try to kiss your locks, for hair is a naked thing which shouldnot be seen; but I would kiss your bare feet, one after the other, fornights and nights together, until my lips should have shred the petalsof those golden roses, those mystical roses of our veins. '

He stopped, waiting for the Virgin to look down upon him and touchhis forehead with the edges of her veil. But she remained enwrappedin muslin to her neck and finger-nails and ankles, so slim, soetherealised, that she already seemed to be above earth, to be whollyheaven's own. 

'Well, then, ' he went on more wildly still, 'grant that I become a childagain, O kindly Virgin! Virgin most powerful. Grant that I may be onlyfive years old. Rid me of my senses, rid me of my manhood. Let a miraclesweep away all the man that has grown up within me. You reign in heaven, nothing is easier to you than to change me, to rid me of all my strengthso that evermore I may be unable to raise my little finger without yourleave. I wish never more to feel either nerve, or muscle, or the beatingof my heart. I long to be simply a thing--a white stone at your feet, on which you will leave but a perfume; a stone that will not move fromwhere you cast it, but will remain earless and eyeless, content to liebeneath your heel, unable to think of foulness! Oh! then what blissfor me! I shall reach without an effort and at a bound my dream ofperfection. I shall at last proclaim myself your true priest. I shallbecome what all my studies, my prayers, my five years of initiationhave been unable to make me. Yes, I reject life; I say that the death ofmankind is better than abomination. Everything is stained; everywhere islove tainted. Earth is steeped in impurity, whose slightest drops yieldgrowths of shame. But that I may be perfect, O Queen of angels, hearkento my prayer, and grant it! Make me one of those angels that have onlytwo great wings behind their cheeks; I shall then no longer have a body, no longer have any limbs; I will fly to you if you call me. I shall bebut a mouth to sing your praises, a pair of spotless wings to cradleyou in your journeys through the heavens. O death! death! Virgin, mostvenerable, grant me the death of all! I will love you for the death ofmy body, the death of all that lives and multiplies. I will consummatewith you the sole marriage that my heart desires. I will ascend, everhigher and higher, till I have reached the brasier in which you shinein splendour. There one beholds a mighty planet, an immense white rose, whose every petal glows like a moon, a silver throne whence you beamwith such a blaze of innocence that heaven itself is all illumined bythe gleam of your veil alone. All that is white, the early dawns, thesnow on inaccessible peaks, the lilies barely opening, the water ofhidden, unknown springs, the milky sap of the plants untouched bythe sun, the smiles of maidens, the souls of children dead in theircradles--all rains upon your white feet. And I will rise to your mouthlike a subtle flame; I will enter into you by your parted lips, andthe bridal will be fulfilled, while the archangels are thrilled by ourjoyfulness. Oh, to be maiden, to love in maidenhood, to preserveamid the sweetest kisses one's maiden whiteness! To possess all love, stretched on the wings of swans, in a sky of purity, in the arms ofa mistress of light, whose caresses are but raptures of the soul! Oh, there lies the perfection, the super-human dream, the yearning whichshatters my very bones, the joy which bears me up to heaven! O Mary, Vessel of Election, rid me of all that is human in me, so that you mayfearlessly surrender to me the treasure of your maidenhood!'

And then Abbe Mouret, felled by fever, his teeth chattering, swoonedaway on the floor. 

BOOK II

I

Through calico curtains, carefully drawn across the two large windows, a pale white light like that of breaking day filtered into the room. Itwas a lofty and spacious room, fitted up with old Louis XV. Furniture, the woodwork painted white, the upholstery showing a pattern of redflowers on a leafy ground. On the piers above the doors on either sideof the alcove were faded paintings still displaying the rosy fleshof flying Cupids, whose games it was now impossible to follow. Thewainscoting with oval panels, the folding doors, the rounded ceiling(once sky-blue and framed with scrolls, medallions, and bows offlesh-coloured ribbons), had all faded to the softest grey. Opposite thewindows the large alcove opened beneath banks of clouds which plasterCupids drew aside, leaning over, and peeping saucily towards the bed. And like the windows, the alcove was curtained with coarsely hemmedcalico, whose simplicity seemed strange in this room where lingered aperfume of whilom luxury and voluptuousness. 

Seated near a pier table, on which a little kettle bubbled over aspirit-lamp, Albine intently watched the alcove curtains. She wasgowned in white, her hair gathered up in an old lace kerchief, her handsdrooping wearily, as she kept watch with the serious mien of youthfulwomanhood. A faint breathing, like that of a slumbering child, could beheard in the deep silence. But she grew restless after a few minutes, and could not restrain herself from stepping lightly towards the alcoveand raising one of the curtains. On the edge of the big bed lay Serge, apparently asleep, with his head resting on his bent arm. During hisillness his hair had lengthened, and his beard had grown. He looked verywhite, with sunken eyes and pallid lips. 

Moved by the sight Albine was about to let the curtain fall again. ButSerge faintly murmured, 'I am not asleep. '

He lay perfectly still with his head on his arm, without stirring evena finger, as if overwhelmed by delightful weariness. His eyes had slowlyopened, and his breath blew lightly on one of his hands, raising thegolden down on his fair skin. 

'I heard you, ' he murmured again. 'You were walking very gently. '*

 * From this point in the original Serge and Albine thee and thou one another; but although this _tutoiement_ has some bearing on the development of the story, it was impossible to preserve it in an English translation. --ED. 

His voice enchanted her. She went up to his bed and crouched beside itto bring her face on a level with his own. 'How are you?' she asked, andthen continued: 'Oh! you are well now. Do you know, I used to cry thewhole way home when I came back from over yonder with bad news of you. They told me you were delirious, and that if your dreadful fever didspare your life, it would destroy your reason. Oh, didn't I kiss youruncle Pascal when he brought you here to recruit your health!'

Then she tucked in his bed-clothes like a young mother. 

'Those burnt-up rocks over yonder, you see, were no good to you. Youneed trees, and coolness, and quiet. The doctor hasn't even told a soulthat he was hiding you away here. That's a secret between himself andthose who love you. He thought you were lost. Nobody will ever disturbyou, you may be sure of that! Uncle Jeanbernat is smoking his pipe byhis lettuce bed. The others will get news of you on the sly. Even thedoctor isn't coming back any more. I am to be your doctor now. You don'twant any more physic, it seems. What you now want is to be loved; do yousee?'

He did not seem to hear her, his brain as yet was void. His eyes, although his head remained motionless, wandered inquiringly round theroom, and it struck her that he was wondering where he might be. 

'This is my room, ' she said. 'I have given it to you. Isn't it a prettyone? I took the finest pieces of furniture out of the lumber attic, andthen I made those calico curtains to prevent the daylight from dazzlingme. And you're not putting me out a bit. I shall sleep on the secondfloor. There are three or four empty rooms there. '

Still he looked anxious. 

'You're alone?' he asked. 

'Yes; why do you ask that?'

He made no answer, but muttered wearily: 'I have been dreaming, I amalways dreaming. I hear bells ringing, and they tire me. '

And after a pause he went on: 'Go and shut the door, bolt it; I want youto be alone, quite alone. '

When she came back, bringing a chair with her, and sat down by hispillow, he looked as gleeful as a child, and kept on saying: 'Nobody cancome in now. I shall not hear those bells any more. When you are talkingto me, it rests me. '

'Would you like something to drink?' she asked. 

He made a sign that he was not thirsty. He looked at Albine's hands asif so astonished, so delighted to see them, that with a smile she laidone on the edge of his pillow. Then he let his head glide down, andrested his cheek against that small, cool hand, saying, with a lightlaugh: 'Ah! it's as soft as silk. It is just as if it were sending acool breeze through my hair. Don't take it away, please. '

Then came another long spell of silence. They gazed on one another withloving kindliness--Albine calmly scanning herself in the convalescent'seyes, Serge apparently listening to some faint whisper from the small, cool hand. 

'Your hand is so nice, ' he said once more. 'You can't fancy what good itdoes me. It seems to steal inside me, and take away all the pain in mylimbs. It's as if I were being soothed all over, relieved, cured. '

He gently rubbed his cheek against it, with growing animation, as if hewere at last coming back to life. 

'You won't give me anything nasty to drink, will you? You won't worry mewith all sorts of physic? Your hand is quite enough for me. I have comehere for you to put it there under my head. '

'Dear Serge, ' said Albine softly, 'how you must have suffered. '

'Suffered! yes, yes; but it's a long time ago. I slept badly, I had suchfrightful dreams. If I could, I would tell you all about it. '

He closed his eyes for a moment and strove hard to remember. 

'I can see nothing but darkness, ' he stammered. 'It is very odd, Ihave just come back from a long journey. I don't even know now where Istarted from. I had fever, I know, a fever that raced through my veinslike a wild beast. That was it--now I remember. The whole time I had anightmare, in which I seemed to be crawling along an endless undergroundpassage; and every now and then I had an attack of intolerable pain, andthen the passage would be suddenly walled up. A shower of stones fellfrom overhead, the side walls closed in, and there I stuck, panting, mad to get on; and then I bored into the obstacle and battered away withfeet and fists, and skull, despairing of ever being able to get throughthe ever increasing mound of rubbish. At other times, I only had totouch it with my finger and it vanished: I could then walk freely alongthe widened gallery, weary only from the pangs of my attack. '

Albine tried to lay a hand upon his lips. 

'No, ' said he, 'it doesn't tire me to talk. I can whisper to youhere, you see. I feel as if I were thinking and you could hear me. Thequeerest point about that underground journey of mine was that I hadn'tthe faintest idea of turning back again; I got obstinate, although I hadthe thought before me that it would take me thousands of years to clearaway a single heap of wreckage. It seemed a fated task, which I had tofulfil under pain of the greatest misfortunes. So, with my knees allbruised, and my forehead bumping against the hard rock, I set myselfto work with all my might, so that I might get to the end as quickly aspossible. The end? What was it?. . . Ah! I do not know, I do not know. '

He closed his eyes and pondered dreamily. Then, with a careless pout, heagain sank upon Albine's hand and said laughing: 'How silly of me! I ama child. '

But the girl, to ascertain if he were wholly hers, questioned him andled him back to the confused recollections he had tried to summon up. He could remember nothing, however; he was truly in a happy state ofchildhood. He fancied that he had been born the day before. 

'Oh! I am not strong enough yet, ' he said. 'My furthest recollection isof a bed which burned me all over, my head rolled about on a pillowlike a pan of live coals, and my feet wore away with perpetual rubbingagainst each other. I was very bad, I know. It seemed as if I werehaving my body changed, as if I were being taken all to pieces, and puttogether again like some broken machine. '

He laughed at this simile, and continued: 'I shall be all new again. Myillness has given me a fine cleaning. But what was it you were askingme? No, nobody was there. I was suffering all by myself at the bottomof a black hole. Nobody, nobody. And beyond that, nothing--I can seenothing. . . . Let me be your child, will you? You shall teach me to walk. I can see nothing else but you now. I care for nothing but you. . . . Ican't remember, I tell you. I came, you took me, and that is all. '

And restfully, pettingly, he said once more: 'How warm your hand is now!it is as nice as the sun. Don't let us talk any more. It makes me hot. '

A quivering silence fell from the blue ceiling of the large room. Thespirit lamp had just gone out, and from the kettle came a finer andfiner thread of steam. Albine and Serge, their heads side by side uponthe pillow, gazed at the large calico curtains drawn across the windows. Serge's eyes, especially, were attracted to them as to the very sourceof light, in which he sought to steep himself, as in diluted sunshinefitted to his weakness. He could tell that the sun lay behind thatyellower gleam upon one corner of the curtain, and that sufficed to makehim feel himself again. Meanwhile a far-off rustle of leaves came uponhis listening ear, and against the right-hand window the clean-cutgreenish shadow of a lofty bough brought him disturbing thoughts of theforest which he could feel to be near him. 

'Would you like me to open the curtains?' asked Albine, misunderstandinghis steady gaze. 

'No, no, ' he hastily replied. 

'It's a fine day; you would see the sunlight and the trees. '

'No, please don't. . . . I don't want to see anything outside. That boughthere tires me with its waving and its rising, as if it was alive. Leaveyour hand here, I will go to sleep. All is white now. It's so nice. '

And then he calmly fell asleep, while Albine watched beside him andbreathed upon his face to make his slumber cool. 

II

The fine weather broke up on the morrow, and it rained heavily. Serge's fever returned, and he spent a day of suffering, with his eyesdespairingly fixed upon the curtains through which the light now felldim and ashy grey as in a cellar. He could no longer see a trace ofsunshine, and he looked in vain for the shadow that had scared him, theshadow of that lofty bough which had disappeared amid the mist and thepouring rain, and seemed to have carried away with it the whole forest. Towards evening he became slightly delirious and cried out to Albinethat the sun was dead, that he could hear all the sky, all the countrybewailing the death of the sun. She had to soothe him like a child, promising him the sun, telling him that it would come back again, thatshe would give it to him. But he also grieved for the plants. The seeds, he said, must be suffering underground, waiting for the return of light;they had nightmares, they also dreamed that they were crawling along anunderground passage, hindered by mounds of ruins, struggling madly toreach the sunshine. And he began to weep and sob out in low tones thatwinter was a disease of the earth, and that he should die with theearth, unless the springtide healed them both. 

For three days more the weather was truly frightful. The downpour burstover the trees with the awful clamour of an overflowing river. Gustsof wind rolled by and beat against the windows with the violence ofenormous waves. Serge had insisted on Albine closing the shutters. Bylamplight he was no longer troubled by the gloom of the pallid curtains, he no longer felt the greyness of the sky glide in through the smallestchinks, and flow up to him like a cloud of dust intent on burying him. However, increasing apathy crept upon him as he lay there with shrunkenarms and pallid features; his weakness augmented as the earth grew moreailing. At times, when the clouds were inky black, when the bendingtrees cracked, and the grass lay limp beneath the downpour like thehair of a drowned woman, he all but ceased to breathe, and seemed tobe passing away, shattered by the hurricane. But at the first gleam oflight, at the tiniest speck of blue between two clouds, he breathed oncemore and drank in the soothing calm of the drying leaves, the whiteningpaths, the fields quaffing their last draught of water. Albine now alsolonged for the sun; twenty times a day would she go to the window on thelanding to scan the sky, delighted at the smallest scrap of white thatshe espied, but perturbed when she perceived any dusky, copper-tinted, hail-laden masses, and ever dreading lest some sable cloud should killher dear patient. She talked of sending for Doctor Pascal, but Sergewould not have it. 

'To-morrow there will be sunlight on the curtains, ' he said, 'and then Ishall be well again. '

One evening when his condition was most alarming, Albine again gave himher hand to rest his cheek upon. But when she saw that it brought him norelief she wept to find herself powerless. Since he had fallen into thelethargy of winter she had felt too weak to drag him unaided from thenightmare in which he was struggling. She needed the assistance ofspring. She herself was fading away, her arms grew cold, her breathscant; she no longer knew how to breathe life into him. For hourstogether she would roam about the spacious dismal room, and as shepassed before the mirror and saw herself darkening in it, she thoughtshe had become hideous. 

One morning, however, as she raised his pillows, not daring to try againthe broken spell of her hands, she fancied that she once more caught thefirst day's smile on Serge's lips. 

'Open the shutters, ' he said faintly. 

She thought him still delirious, for only an hour previously she hadseen but a gloomy sky on looking out from the landing. 

'Hush, go to sleep, ' she answered sadly; 'I have promised to wake you atthe very first ray---- Sleep on, there's no sun out yet. '

'Yes, I can feel it, its light is there. . . . Open the shutters. '

III

And there, indeed, the sunlight was. When Albine had opened theshutters, behind the large curtains, the genial yellow glow once morewarmed a patch of the white calico. But that which impelled Serge to situp in bed was the sight of the shadowy bough, the branch that for himheralded the return of life. All the resuscitated earth, with its wealthof greenery, its waters, and its belts of hills, was in that greenishblur that quivered with the faintest breath of air. It no longerdisturbed him; he greedily watched it rocking, and hungered for thefortified powers of the vivifying sap which to him it symbolised. Albine, happy once more, exclaimed, as she supported him in her arms:'Ah! my dear Serge, the winter is over. Now we are saved. '

He lay down again, his eyes already brighter, and his voice clearer. 'To-morrow I shall be very strong, ' he said. 'You shall draw back thecurtains. I want to see everything. '

But on the morrow he was seized with childish fear. He would not hear ofthe windows being opened wide. 'By-and-by, ' he muttered, 'later on. ' Hewas fearful, he dreaded the first beam of light that would flash uponhis eyes. Evening came on, and still he had been unable to make uphis mind to look upon the sun. He remained thus all day long, his faceturned towards the curtains, watching on their transparent tissue thepallor of morn, the glow of noon, the violet tint of twilight, allthe hues, all the emotions of the sky. There were pictured even thequiverings of the warm air at the light stroke of a bird's wing, eventhe delight of earth's odours throbbing in a sunbeam. Behind that veil, behind that softened phantasm of the mighty life without, he could hearthe rise of spring. He even felt stifled at times when in spite of thecurtains' barrier the rush of the earth's new blood came upon him toostrongly. 

The following morning he was still asleep when Albine, to hasten hisrecovery, cried out to him:

'Serge! Serge! here's the sun!'

She swiftly drew back the curtains and threw the windows wide open. Heraised himself and knelt upon his bed, oppressed, swooning, his handstightly pressed against his breast to keep his heart from breaking. Before him stretched the broad sky, all blue, a boundless blue; andin it he washed away his sufferings, surrendering himself to it, anddrinking from it sweetness and purity and youth. The bough whose shadowhe had noted jutted across the window and alone set against the azuresea its vigorous growth of green; but even this was too much for hissickly fastidiousness; it seemed to him that the very swallows flyingpast besmeared the purity of the azure. He was being born anew. Heraised little involuntary cries, as he felt himself flooded with light, assailed by waves of warm air, while a whirling, whelming torrent oflife flowed within him. As last with outstretched hands he sank backupon his pillow in a swoon of joy. 

What a happy, delicious day that was! The sun came in from the right, far away from the alcove. Throughout the morning Serge watched itcreeping onward. He could see it coming towards him, yellow as gold, perching here and there on the old furniture, frolicking in corners, at times gliding along the ground like a strip of ribbon. It was a slowdeliberate march, the approach of a fond mistress stretching her goldenlimbs, drawing nigh to the alcove with rhythmic motion, with voluptuouslingering, which roused intense desire. At length, towards two o'clock, the sheet of sunlight left the last armchair, climbed along thecoverlet, and spread over the bed like loosened locks of hair. To itsglowing fondling Serge surrendered his wasted hands: with his eyeshalf-closed, he could feel fiery kisses thrilling each of his fingers;he lay in a bath of light, in the embrace of a glowing orb. And whenAlbine leaned over smiling, 'Let me be, ' he stammered, his eyes nowshut; 'don't hold me so tightly. How do you manage to hold me like thisin your arms?'

But the sun crept down the bed again and slowly retreated to the left;and as Serge watched it bend once more and settle on chair after chair, he bitterly regretted that he had not kept it to his breast. Albinestill sat upon the side of the bed, and the pair of them, an arm roundeach other's neck, watched the slow paling of the sky. At times a mightythrill seemed to make it blanch. Serge's languid eyes now wandered overit more freely and detected in it exquisite tints of which he had neverdreamed. It was not all blue, but rosy blue, lilac blue, tawny blue, living flesh, vast and spotless nudity heaving like a woman's bosomin the breeze. At every glance into space he found a freshsurprise--unknown nooks, coy smiles, bewitching rounded outlines, gauzyveils which were cast over the mighty, glorious forms of goddessesin the depths of peeping paradises. And with his limbs lightened bysuffering he winged his way amid that shimmering silk, that stainlessdown of azure. The sun sank lower and lower, the blue melted into purestgold, the sky's living flesh gleamed fairer still, and then was slowlysteeped in all the hues of gloom. Not a cloud--nought but gradualdisappearance, a disrobing which left behind it but a gleam of modestyon the horizon. And at last the broad sky slumbered. 

'Oh, the dear baby!' exclaimed Albine, as she looked at Serge, who hadfallen asleep upon her neck at the same time as the heavens. 

She laid him down in bed and shut the windows. Next morning, however, they were opened at break of day. Serge could no longer live without thesunlight. His strength was growing, he was becoming accustomed to thegusts of air which sent the alcove curtains flying. Even the azure, theeverlasting azure, began to pall upon him. He grew weary of being whiteand swanlike, of ever swimming on heaven's limpid lake. He came to wishfor a pack of black clouds, some crumbling of the skies, that wouldbreak upon the monotony of all that purity. And as his health returned, he hungered for keener sensations. He now spent hours in gazing at theverdant bough: he would have liked to see it grow, expand, and throwout its branches to his very bed. It no longer satisfied him, butonly roused desires, speaking to him as it did of all the trees whosedeep-sounding call he could hear although their crests were hidden fromhis sight. An endless whispering of leaves, a chattering as of runningwater, a fluttering as of wings, all blended in one mighty, long-drawn, quivering voice, resounded in his ears. 

'When you are able to get up, ' said Albine, 'you shall sit at thewindow. You will see the lovely garden!'

He closed his eyes and murmured gently:

'Oh! I can see it, I hear it; I know where the trees are, where thewater runs, where the violets grow. '

And then he added: 'But I can't see it clearly, I see it without anylight. I must be very strong before I shall be able to get as far as thewindow. '

At times when Albine thought him asleep, she would vanish for hours. Andon coming in again, she would find him burning with impatience, his eyesgleaming with curiosity. 

'Where have you been?' he would call to her, taking hold of her arms, and feeling her skirts, her bodice, and her cheeks. 'You smell of allsorts of nice things. Ah! you have been walking on the grass?'

At this she would laugh and show him her shoes wet with dew. 

'You have been in the garden! you have been in the garden!' he thenexclaimed delightedly. 'I knew it. When you came in you seemed like alarge flower. You have brought the whole garden in your skirt. '

He would keep her by him, inhaling her like a nosegay. Sometimes shecame back with briars, leaves, or bits of wood entangled in her clothes. These he would remove and hide under his pillow like relics. One day shebrought him a bunch of roses. At the sight of them he was so affectedthat he wept. He kissed them and went to sleep with them in his arms. But when they faded, he felt so keenly grieved that he forbade Albine togather any more. He preferred her, said he, for she was as fresh and asbalmy; and she never faded, her hands, her hair, her cheeks were alwaysfragrant. At last he himself would send her into the garden, telling hernot to come back before an hour. 

'In that way, ' he said, 'I shall get sunlight, fresh air, and roses tillto-morrow. '

Often, when he saw her coming in out of breath, he would cross-examineher. Which path had she taken? Had she wandered among the trees, or hadshe gone round the meadow side? Had she seen any nests? Had she sat downbehind a bush of sweetbriar, or under an oak, or in the shade of a clumpof poplars? But when she answered him and tried to describe the gardento him, he would put his hand to her lips. 

'No, no, ' he said gently. 'It is wrong of me. I don't want to know. Iwould rather see it myself. '

Then he would relapse into his favourite dream of all the greenery whichhe could feel only a step away. For several days he lived on thatdream alone. At first, he said, he had perceived the garden much moredistinctly. As he gained strength, the surging blood that warmedhis veins seemed to blur his dreamy imaginings. His uncertaintiesmultiplied. He could no longer tell whether the trees were on the right, whether the water flowed at the bottom of the garden, or whether somegreat rocks were not piled below his windows. He talked softly of allthis to himself. On the slightest indication he would rear wondrousplans, which the song of a bird, the creaking of a bough, the scent of aflower, would suddenly make him modify, impelling him to plant a thicketof lilac in one spot, and in another to place flower-beds where formerlythere had been a lawn. Every hour he designed some new garden, much tothe amusement of Albine, who, whenever she surprised him at it, wouldexclaim with a burst of laughter: 'That's not it, I assure you. Youcan't have any idea of it. It's more beautiful than all the beautifulthings you ever saw. So don't go racking your head about it. Thegarden's mine, and I will give it to you. Be easy, it won't run away. '

Serge, who had already been so afraid of the light, felt considerabletrepidation when he found himself strong enough to go and rest hiselbows on the window-sill. Every evening he once more repeated, 'To-morrow, ' and 'To-morrow. ' He would turn away in his bed witha shudder when Albine came in, and would cry out that she smelt ofhawthorn, that she had scratched her hands in burrowing a hole througha hedge to bring him all its odour. One morning, however, she suddenlytook him up in her arms, and almost carrying him to the window, held himthere and forced him to look out and see. 

'What a coward you are!' she exclaimed with her fine ringing laugh. 

And waving one hand all round the landscape, she repeated with an air oftriumph, full of tender promise: 'The Paradou! The Paradou!'

Serge looked out upon it, speechless. 

IV

A sea of verdure, in front, to right, to left, everywhere. A sea rollingits surging billows of leaves as far as the horizon, unhindered byhouse, or screen of wall, or dusty road. A desert, virgin, hallowedsea, displaying its wild sweetness in the innocence of solitude. Thesun alone came thither, weltering in the meadows in a sheet of gold, threading the paths with the frolicsome scamper of its beams, lettingits fine-spun, flaming locks droop through the trees, sipping from thesprings with amber lips that thrilled the water. Beneath that flamingdust the vast garden ran riot like some delighted beast let loose atthe world's very end, far from everything and free from everything. So prodigal was the luxuriance of foliage, so overflowing the tide ofherbage, that from end to end it all seemed hidden, flooded, submerged. Nought could be seen but slopes of green, stems springing up likefountains, billowy masses, woodland curtains closely drawn, mantles ofcreepers trailing over the ground, and flights of giant boughs swoopingdown upon every side. 

Amidst that tremendous luxuriance of vegetation even lengthy scrutinycould barely make out the bygone plan of the Paradou. In the foreground, in a sort of immense amphitheatre, must have lain the flower garden, whose fountains were now sunken and dry, its stone balustradesshattered, its flight of steps all warped, and its statues overthrown, patches of their whiteness gleaming amidst the dusky stretches of turf. Farther back, behind the blue line of a sheet of water, stretched a mazeof fruit-trees; farther still rose towering woodland, its dusky, violetdepths streaked with bands of light. It was a forest which had regainedvirginity, an endless stretch of tree-tops rising one above the other, tinged with yellowish green and pale green and vivid green, according tothe variety of the species. 

On the right, the forest scaled some hills, dotting them with littleclumps of pine-trees, and dying away in straggling brushwood, while ahuge barrier of barren rock, heaped together like the fallen wreckage ofa mountain, shut out all view beyond. Flaming growths there cleaved therugged soil, monstrous plants lay motionless in the heat, like drowsingreptiles; a silvery streak, a foamy splash that glistened in thedistance like a cloud of pearls, revealed the presence of a waterfall, the source of those tranquil streams that lazily skirted theflower-garden. Lastly, on the left the river flowed through a vaststretch of meadowland, where it parted into four streamlets which windedfitfully beneath the rushes, between the willows, behind the tallertrees. And far away into the distance grassy patches prolonged thelowland freshness, forming a landscape steeped in bluish haze, wherea gleam of daylight slowly melted into the verdant blue of sunset. TheParadou--its flower-garden, forest, rocks, streams, and meadows--filledthe whole breadth of sky. 

'The Paradou!' stammered Serge, stretching out his arms as if to claspthe entire garden to his breast. 

He tottered, and Albine had to seat him in an armchair. There he satfor two whole hours intently gazing, without opening his lips, his chinresting on his hands. At times his eyelids fluttered and a flush roseto his cheeks. Slowly he looked, profoundly amazed. It was all too vast, too complex, too overpowering. 

'I cannot see, I cannot understand, ' he cried, stretching out his handsto Albine with a gesture of uttermost weariness. 

The girl came and leant over the back of his armchair. Taking his headbetween her hands, she compelled him to look again, and softly said:

'It's all our own. Nobody will ever come in. When you are well again, wewill go for walks there. We shall have room enough for walking all ourlives. We'll go wherever you like. Where would you like to go?'

He smiled. 

'Oh! not far, ' he murmured. 'The first day only two steps or so beyondthe door. I should surely fall---- See, I'll go over there, under thattree close to the window. '

But she resumed: 'Would you like to go into the flower-garden, theparterre? You shall see the roses--they have over-run everything, eventhe old paths are all covered with them. Or would you like the orchardbetter? I can only crawl into it on my hands and knees, the boughs areso bowed down with fruit. But we'll go even farther if you feel strongenough. We'll go as far as the forest, right into the depths of shade, far, far away; so far that we'll sleep out there when night steals overus. Or else, some morning, we can climb up yonder to the summit ofthose rocks. You'll see the plants which make me quake; you'll see thesprings, such a shower of water! What fun it will be to feel the sprayall over our faces!. . . But if you prefer to walk along the hedges, beside a brook, we must go round by the meadows. It is so nice underthe willows in the evening, at sunset. One can lie down on the grass andwatch the little green frogs hopping about on the rushes. '

'No, no, ' said Serge, 'you weary me, I don't want to go so far. . . . Iwill only go a couple of steps, that will be more than enough. '

'Even I, ' she still continued, 'even I have not yet been able to goeverywhere. There are many nooks I don't know. I have walked and walkedin it for years, and still I feel sure there are unknown spots around, places where the shade must be cooler and the turf softer. Listen, Ihave always fancied there must be one especially in which I should liketo live for ever. I know it's somewhere; I must have passed it by, orperhaps it's hidden so far away that I have never even got as far, withall my rambles. But we'll look for it together, Serge, won't we? andlive there. '

'No, no, be quiet, ' stammered the young man. 'I don't understand whatyou are saying. You're killing me. '

For a moment she let him sob in her arms. It troubled and grieved herthat she could find no words to soothe him. 

'Isn't the Paradou as beautiful, then, as you fancied it?' she asked atlast. 

He raised his face and answered:

'I don't know. It was quite little, and now it is ever growing biggerand bigger---- Take me away, hide me. '

She led him back to bed, soothing him like a child, lulling him with afib. 

'There, there! it's not true, there is no garden. It was only a storythat I told you. Go, sleep in peace. '

V

Every day in this wise she made him sit at the window during the coolhours of morning. He would now attempt to take a few steps, leaning thewhile on the furniture. A rosy tint appeared upon his cheeks, and hishands began to lose their waxy transparency. But, while he thus regainedhealth, his senses remained in a state of stupor which reduced him tothe vegetative life of some poor creature born only the day before. Indeed, he was nothing but a plant; his sole perception was that ofthe air which floated round him. He lacked the blood necessary forthe efforts of life, and remained, as it were, clinging to the soil, imbibing all the sap he could. It was like a slow hatching in the warmegg of springtide. Albine, remembering certain remarks of DoctorPascal, felt terrified at seeing him remain in this state, 'innocent, 'dull-witted like a little boy. She had heard it said that certainmaladies left insanity behind them. And she spent hours in gazing at himand trying her utmost, as mothers do, to make him smile. But as yet hehad not laughed. When she passed her hand across his eyes, he neversaw, he never followed the shadow. Even when she spoke to him, he barelyturned his head in the direction whence the sound came. She had but oneconsolation: he thrived splendidly, he was quite a handsome child. 

For another whole week she lavished the tenderest care on him. Shepatiently waited for him to grow. And as she marked various symptomsof awakening perception, her fears subsided and she began to thinkthat time might make a man of him. When she touched him now he startedslightly. Another time, one night, he broke into a feeble laugh. On themorrow, when she had seated him at the window, she went down into thegarden, and ran about in it, calling to him the while. She vanishedunder the trees, flitted across the sunny patches, and came backbreathless and clapping her hands. At first his wavering eyes failedto perceive her. But as she started off again, perpetually playing athide-and-seek, reappearing behind every other bush, he was at lastable to follow the white gleam of her skirt; and when she suddenly cameforward and stood with upraised face below his window, he stretched outhis arms and seemed anxious to go down to her. But she came upstairsagain, and embraced him proudly: 'Ah! you saw me, you saw me!' shecried. 'You would like to come into the garden with me, would younot?---- If you only knew how wretched you have made me these last fewdays, with your stupid ways, never seeing me or hearing me!'

He listened to her, but apparently with some slight sensation of painthat made him bend his neck in a shrinking way. 

'You are better now, however, ' she went on. 'Well enough to come downwhenever you like---- Why don't you say anything? Have you lost yourtongue? Oh, what a baby! Why, I shall have to teach him how to talk!'

And thereupon she really did amuse herself by telling him the names ofthe things he touched. He could only stammer, reiterating the syllables, and failing to utter a single word plainly. However, she began to walkhim about the room, holding him up and leading him from the bed to thewindow--quite a long journey. Two or three times he almost fell on theway, at which she laughed. One day he fairly sat down on the floor, andshe had all the trouble in the world to get him up on his feet again. Then she made him undertake the round of the room, letting him rest bythe way on the sofa and the chairs--a tour round a little world whichtook up a good hour. At last he was able to venture on a few stepsalone. She would stand before him with outstretched hands, and movebackwards, calling him, so that he should cross the room in search ofher supporting arms. If he sulked and refused to walk, she would takethe comb from her hair and hold it out to him like a toy. Then he wouldcome to her and sit still in a corner for hours, playing with her comb, and gently scratching his hands with its teeth. 

At last one morning she found him up. He had already succeeded inopening one of the shutters, and was attempting to walk about withoutleaning on the furniture. 

'Good gracious, we are active this morning!' she exclaimed gleefully. 'Why, he will be jumping out of the window to-morrow if he has his ownway---- So you are quite strong now, eh?'

Serge's answer was a childish laugh. His limbs were regaining thestrength of adolescence, but more perceptive sensations remainedunroused. He spent whole afternoons in gazing out on the Paradou, pouting like a child that sees nought but whiteness and hears but thevibration of sounds. He still retained the ignorance of urchinhood--hissense of touch as yet so innocent that he failed to tell Albine's gownfrom the covers of the old armchairs. His eyes still stared wonderingly;his movements still displayed the wavering hesitation of limbs whichscarce knew how to reach their goal; his state was one of incipient, purely instinctive existence into which entered no knowledge ofsurroundings. The man was not yet born within him. 

'That's right, you'll act the silly, will you?' muttered Albine. 'We'llsee. '

She took off her comb, and held it out to him. 

'Will you have my comb?' she said. 'Come and fetch it. '

When she had got him out of the room, by retreating before him all theway, she put her arm round his waist and helped him down each stair, amusing him while she put her comb back, even tickling his neck witha lock of her hair, so that he remained unaware that he was goingdownstairs. But when he was in the hall, he became frightened at thedarkness of the passage. 

'Just look!' she cried, throwing the door wide open. 

It was like a sudden dawn, a curtain of shadow snatched aside, revealingthe joyousness of early day. The park spread out before them verdantlylimpid, freshly cool and deep as a spring. Serge, entranced, lingeredupon the threshold, with a hesitating desire to feel that luminous lakewith his foot. 

'One would think you were afraid of wetting yourself, ' said Albine. 'Don't be frightened, the ground is safe enough. '

He had ventured to take one step, and was astonished at encountering thesoft resistance of the gravel. The first touch of the soil gave him ashock; life seemed to rebound within him and to set him for a momenterect, with expanding frame, while he drew long breaths. 

'Come now, be brave, ' insisted Albine. 'You know you promised me totake five steps. We'll go as far as the mulberry tree there under thewindow---- There you can rest. '

It took him a quarter of an hour to make those five steps. After eacheffort he stopped as if he had been obliged to tear up roots that heldhim to the ground. 

The girl, pushing him along, said with a laugh: 'You look just like awalking tree. '

Having placed him with his back leaning against the mulberry tree, inthe rain of sunlight falling from its boughs, she bounded off and lefthim, calling out to him that he must not stir. Serge, standingthere with drooping hands, slowly turned his head towards the park. Terrestrial childhood met his gaze. The pale greenery was steeped in thevery milk of youth, flooded with golden brightness. The trees were stillin infancy, the flowers were as tender-fleshed as babes, the streamswere blue with the artless blue of lovely infantile eyes. Beneath everyleaf was some token of a delightful awakening. 

Serge had fixed his eyes upon a yellow breach which a wide path made infront of him amidst a dense mass of foliage. At the very end, eastward, some meadows, steeped in gold, looked like the luminous field upon whichthe sun would descend, and he waited for the morn to take that path andflow towards him. He could feel it coming in a warm breeze, so faintat first that it barely brushed across his skin, but rising little bylittle, and growing ever brisker till he was thrilled all over. He couldalso taste it coming with a more and more pronounced savour, bringingthe healthful acridity of the open air, holding to his lips a feast ofsugary aromatics, sour fruits, and milky shoots. Further, he could smellit coming with the perfumes which it culled upon its way--the scent ofearth, the scent of the shady woods, the scent of the warm plants, thescent of living animals, a whole posy of scents, powerful enough tobring on dizziness. He could likewise hear it coming with the rapidflight of a bird skimming over the grass, waking the whole garden fromsilence, giving voice to all it touched, and filling his ears with themusic of things and beings. Finally, he could see it coming from the endof the path, from the meadows steeped in gold--yes, he could see thatrosy air, so bright that it lighted the way it took with a gleamingsmile, no bigger in the distance than a spot of daylight, but in a fewswift bounds transformed into the very splendour of the sun. And themorn flowed up and beat against the mulberry tree against which Sergewas leaning. And he himself resuscitated amidst the childhood of themorn. 

'Serge! Serge!' cried Albine, lost to sight behind the high shrubs ofthe flower garden. 'Don't be afraid, I am here. '

But Serge no longer felt frightened. He was being born anew in thesunshine, in that pure bath of light which streamed upon him. He wasbeing born anew at five-and-twenty, his senses hurriedly unclosing, enraptured with the mighty sky, the joyful earth, the prodigy ofloveliness spread out around him. This garden, which he knew not onlythe day before, now afforded him boundless delight. Everything filledhim with ecstasy, even the blades of grass, the pebbles in the paths, the invisible puffs of air that flitted over his cheeks. His whole bodyentered into possession of this stretch of nature; he embraced itwith his limbs, he drank it in with his lips, he inhaled it with hisnostrils, he carried it in his ears and hid it in the depths of hiseyes. It was his own. The roses of the flower garden, the lofty boughsof the forest, the resounding rocks of the waterfall, the meadows whichthe sun planted with blades of light, were his. Then he closed his eyesand slowly reopened them that he might enjoy the dazzle of a secondwakening. 

'The birds have eaten all the strawberries, ' said Albine disconsolately, as she ran up to him. 'See, I have only been able to find these two!'

But she stopped short a few steps away, heart-struck and gazing at Sergewith rapturous astonishment. 'How handsome you are!' she cried. 

She drew a little nearer; then stood there, absorbed in hercontemplation, and murmuring: 'I had never, never seen you before. '

He had certainly grown taller. Clothed in a loose garment, he stooderect, still somewhat slender, with finely moulded limbs, square chest, and rounded shoulders. His head, slightly thrown back, was poised upona flexible and snowy neck, rimmed with brown behind. Health and strengthand power were on his face. He did not smile, his expression was that ofrepose, with grave and tender mouth, firm cheeks, large nose, and grey, clear, commanding eyes. The long locks that thickly covered his headfell upon his shoulders in jetty curls; while a slender growth of hair, through which gleamed his white skin, curled upon his upper lip andchin. 

'Oh! how handsome, how handsome you are!' lingeringly repeated Albine, crouching at his feet and gazing up at him with loving eyes. 'But whyare you sulking with me? Why don't you speak to me?'

Still he stood there and made no answer. His eyes were far away; henever even saw that child at his feet. He spoke to himself in thesunlight, and said: 'How good the light is!'

That utterance sounded like a vibration of the sunlight itself. It fellamid the silence in the faintest of whispers like a musical sigh, aquiver of warmth and of life. For several days Albine had never heardhis voice, and now, like himself, it had altered. It seemed to her tocourse through the park more sweetly than the melody of birds, moreimperiously than the wind that bends the boughs. It reigned, it ruled. The whole garden heard it, though it had been but a faint and passingbreath, and the whole garden was thrilled with the joyousness itbrought. 

'Speak to me, ' implored Albine. 'You have never spoken to me like that. When you were upstairs in your room, when you were not dumb, you talkedthe silly prattle of a child. How is it I no longer know your voice?Just now I thought it had come down from the trees, that it reached mefrom every part of the garden, that it was one of those deep sighs thatused to worry me at night before you came. Listen, everything is keepingsilence to hear you speak again. '

But still he failed to recognise her presence. Tenderer grew her tones. 'No, don't speak if it tires you. Sit down beside me, and we willremain here on the grass till the sun wanes. And look, I have found twostrawberries. Such trouble I had too! The birds eat up everything. One'sfor you, both if you like; or we can halve them, and taste each of them. You'll thank me, and then I shall hear you. '

But he would not sit down, he refused the strawberries, which Albinepettishly threw away. She did not open her lips again. She would ratherhave seen him ill, as in those earlier days when she had given him herhand for a pillow, and had felt him coming back to life beneath thecooling breath she blew upon his face. She cursed the returning healthwhich now made him stand in the light like a young unheeding god. Wouldhe be ever thus then, with never a glance for her? Would he never befurther healed, and at last see her and love her? And she dreamed ofonce again being his healer, of accomplishing by the sole power of herlittle hands the cure of the second childhood in which he remained. She could clearly see that there was no spark in the depths of his greyeyes, that his was but a pallid beauty like that of the statues whichhad fallen among the nettles of the flower-garden. She rose and claspedhim, breathing on his neck to rouse him. But that morning Serge nevereven felt the breath that lifted his silky beard. The sun got low, itwas time to go indoors. On reaching his room, Albine burst into tears. 

From that morning forward the invalid took a short walk in the gardenevery day. He went past the mulberry tree, as far as the edge of theterrace, where a wide flight of broken steps descended to the floweryparterre. He grew accustomed to the open air, each bath of sunlightbrought him fresh vigour. A young chestnut tree, which had sprung fromsome fallen nut between two stones of the balustrade, burst the resinof its buds, and unfolded its leafy fans with far less vigour than heprogressed. One day, indeed, he even attempted to descend the steps, but in this his strength failed him, and he sat down among the dane-wortwhich had grown up between the cracks in the stone flags. Below, to theleft, he could see a small wood of roses. It was thither that he dreamtof going. 

'Wait a little longer, ' said Albine. 'The scent of the roses is toostrong for you yet. I have never been able to sit long under therose-trees without feeling exhausted, light-headed, with a longing tocry. Don't be afraid, I will some day lead you to the rose-trees, and Ishall surely weep among them, for you make me very sad. '

VI

One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of thesteps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearinga way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last fewyards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a verywood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps asbig as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of youngoaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collectionof plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest ofroses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on thesame stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, whileclimbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended inspindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fallat the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood--narrowfootways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolledin the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowersof small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Somesunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with brightpatterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and anaroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on awoman's bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rosebushes were full of songbirds' nests. 

'We must take care not to lose ourselves, ' said Albine, as she enteredthe wood. 'I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I wasable to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt atevery step. '

They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn outwith fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were onthe edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through thewood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round bluegap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from theclearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushesrising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangleof thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, andhung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tinyapertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, the light filtered like impalpable sunny dust. And from the vaulted roofhung stray branches, chandeliers, as it were, thick clusters suspendedfrom green thread-like stems, armfuls of flowers that reached to theground, athwart some rent in the leafy ceiling, which trailed aroundlike a tattered curtain. 

Albine meanwhile was gazing at Serge asleep. She had never seen him soutterly prostrated in body as now, his hands lying open on the turf, hisface deathly. So dead indeed he was to her that she thought she couldkiss his face without his even feeling it. And sadly, absently, shebusied her hands with shredding all the roses within her reach. Aboveher head drooped an enormous cluster which brushed against her hair, setroses on her twisted locks, her ears, her neck, and even threw a mantleof the fragrant flowers across her shoulders. Higher up, underher fingers, other roses rained down with large and tender petalsexquisitely formed, which in hue suggested the faintly flushing purityof a maiden's bosom. Like a living snowfall these roses already hid herfeet in the grass. And they climbed her knees, covered her skirt, and smothered her to her waist; while three stray petals, which hadfluttered on to her bodice, just above her bosom, there looked likethree glimpses of her bewitching skin. 

'Oh! the lazy fellow!' she murmured, feeling bored and picking up twohandfuls of roses, which she flung in Serge's face to wake him. 

He did not stir, however, but still lay there with the roses on his eyesand mouth. This made Albine laugh. She stooped down, and with her wholeheart kissed both his eyes and his mouth, blowing as she kissed to drivethe rose petals away; but they remained upon his lips, and she brokeinto still louder laughter, intensely amused at this flowery caressing. 

Serge slowly raised himself. He gazed at her with amazement, as ifstartled at finding her there. 

'Who are you? where do you come from? what are you doing here besideme?' he asked her. And still she smiled, transported with delightat marking this awakening of his senses. Then he seemed to remembersomething, and continued with a gesture of happy confidence:

'I know, you are my love, flesh of my flesh, you are waiting for me thatwe may be one for ever. I was dreaming of you. You were in my breast, and I gave you my blood, my muscles, my bones. I felt no pain. You tookhalf my heart so tenderly that I experienced keen inward delight at thusdividing myself. I sought all that was best and most beautiful withinme to give it to you. You might have carried off everything, and stillI should have thanked you. And I woke when you went out of me. Youleft through my eyes and mouth; ay, I felt it. You were all warm, allfragrant, so sweet that it was the thrill from you that has made meawake. '

Albine listened to his words with ecstasy. At last he saw her; at lasthis birth was accomplished, his cure begun. With outstretched hands shebegged him to go on. 

'How have I managed to live without you?' he murmured. 'No, I did notlive, I was like a slumbering animal. And now you are mine! and you areno one but myself! Listen, you must never leave me; for you are my verybreath, and in leaving me you would rob me of my life. We will remainwithin ourselves. You will be mine even as I shall be yours. Should Iever forsake you, may I be accursed, may my body wither like a uselessand noxious weed!'

He caught hold of her hands, and exclaimed in a voice quivering withadmiration: 'How beautiful you are!'

In the falling dust of sunshine Albine's skin looked milky white, scarcegilded here and there by the sunny sheen. The shower of roses around andon her steeped her in pinkness. 

Her fair hair, loosely held together by her comb, decked her head aswith a setting planet whose last bright sparks shone upon the nape ofher neck. She wore a white gown; her arms, her throat, her stainlessskin bloomed unabashed as a flower, musky with a goodly fragrance. Herfigure was slender, not too tall, but supple as a snake's, with softlyrounded, voluptuously expanding outlines, in which the freshness ofchildhood mingled with womanhood's nascent charms. Her oval face, withits narrow brow and rather full mouth, beamed with the tender livinglight of her blue eyes. And yet she was grave, too, her cheeksunruffled, her chin plump--as naturally lovely as are the trees. 

'And how I love you!' said Serge, drawing her to himself. 

They were wholly one another's now, clasped in each other's arms! Theydid not kiss, but held each other round the waist, cheek to cheek, united, dumb, delighted with their oneness. Around them bloomed theroses with a mad, amorous blossoming, full of crimson and rosy and whitelaughter. The living, opening flowers seemed to bare their very bosoms. Yellow roses were there showing the golden skin of barbarian maidens:straw-coloured roses, lemon-coloured roses, sun-coloured roses--everyshade of the necks which are ambered by glowing skies. Then there wasskin of softer hue: among the tea roses, bewitchingly moist and cool, one caught glimpses of modest, bashful charms, with skin as fine as silktinged faintly with a blue network of veins. Farther on all the smilinglife of the rose expanded: there was the blush white rose, barelytinged with a dash of carmine, snowy as the foot of a maid dabbling in aspring; there was the silvery pink, more subdued than even the glowwith which a youthful arm irradiates a wide sleeve; there was the clear, fresh rose, in which blood seemed to gleam under satin as in the bareshoulders of a woman bathed in light; and there was the bright pink rosewith its buds like the nipples of virgin bosoms, and its opening flowersthat suggested parted lips, exhaling warm and perfumed breath. Andthe climbing roses, the tall cluster roses with their showers of whiteflowers, clothed all these others with the lacework of their bunches, the innocence of their flimsy muslin; while, here and there, roses darkas the lees of wine, sanguineous, almost black, showed amidst the bridalpurity like passion's wounds. Verily, it was like a bridal--the bridalof the fragrant wood, the virginity of May led to the fertility ofJuly and August; the first unknowing kiss culled like a nosegay onthe wedding morn. Even in the grass, moss roses, clad in close-fittinggarments of green wool, seemed to be awaiting the advent of love. Flowers rambled all along the sun-streaked path, faces peeped outeverywhere to court the passing breezes. Bright were the smiles underthe spreading tent of the glade. Not a flower that bloomed the same: theroses differed in the fashion of their wooing. Some, shy and blushing, would show but a glimpse of bud, while others, panting and wide open, seemed consumed with infatuation for their persons. There were pert, gay little things that filed off, cockade in cap; there were huge ones, bursting with sensuous charms, like portly, fattened-up sultanas; therewere impudent hussies, too, in coquettish disarray, on whose petals thewhite traces of the powder-puff could be espied; there were virtuousmaids who had donned low-necked garb like demure _bourgeoises_; andaristocratic ladies, graceful and original, who contrived attractivedeshabilles. And the cup-like roses offered their perfume as in preciouscrystal; the drooping, urn-shaped roses let it drip drop by drop; theround, cabbage-like roses exhaled it with the even breath of slumberingflowers; while the budding roses tightly locked their petals and onlysent forth as yet the faint sigh of maidenhood. 

'I love you, I love you, ' softly repeated Serge. 

Albine, too, was a large rose, a pallid rose that had opened since themorning. Her feet were white, her arms were rosy pink, her neck was fairof skin, her throat bewitchingly veined, pale and exquisite. She wasfragrant, she proffered lips which offered as in a coral cup a perfumethat was yet faint and cool. Serge inhaled that perfume, and pressed herto his breast. Albine laughed. 

The ring of that laugh, which sounded like a bird's rhythmic notes, enraptured Serge. 

'What, that lovely song is yours?' he said. 'It is the sweetest I everheard. You are indeed my joy. '

Then she laughed yet more sonorously, pouring forth rippling scales ofhigh-pitched, flute-like notes that melted into deeper ones. It was anendless laugh, a long-drawn cooing, then a burst of triumphant musiccelebrating the delight of awakening love. And everything--the roses, the fragrant wood, the whole of the Paradou--laughed in that laugh ofwoman just born to beauty and to love. Till now the vast garden hadlacked one charm--a winning voice which should prove the living mirthof the trees, the streams, and the sunlight. Now the vast garden wasendowed with that charm of laughter. 

'How old are you?' asked Albine, when her song had ended in a faintexpiring note. 

'Nearly twenty-six, ' Serge answered. 

She was amazed. What! he was twenty-six! He, too, was astonished athaving made that answer so glibly, for it seemed to him that he had notyet lived a day--an hour. 

'And how old are you?' he asked in his turn. 

'Oh, I am sixteen. '

Then she broke into laughter again, quivering from head to foot, repeating and singing her age. She laughed at her sixteen years with afine-drawn laugh that flowed on with rhythmic trilling like a streamlet. Serge scanned her closely, amazed at the laughing life that transfiguredher face. He scarcely knew her now with those dimples in her cheeks, those bow-shaped lips between which peeped the rosy moistness of hermouth, and those eyes blue like bits of sky kindling with the rising ofthe sun. As she threw back her head, she sent a glow of warmth throughhim. 

He put out his hand, and fumbled mechanically behind her neck. 

'What do you want?' she asked. And suddenly remembering, she exclaimed:'My comb! my comb! that's it. '

She gave him her comb, and let fall her heavy tresses. A cloth of goldsuddenly unrolled and clothed her to her hips. Some locks which floweddown upon her breast gave, as it were a finishing touch to herregal raiment. At the sight of that sudden blaze, Serge uttered anexclamation; he kissed each lock, and burned his lips amidst thatsunset-like refulgence. 

But Albine now relieved herself of her long silence, and chatted andquestioned unceasingly. 

'Oh, how wretched you made me! You no longer took any notice of me, andday after day I found myself useless and powerless, worried out of mywits like a good-for-nothing. . . . And yet the first few days I had doneyou good. You saw me and spoke to me. . . . Do you remember when you werelying down, and went to sleep on my shoulder, and murmured that I didyou good?'

'No!' said Serge, 'no, I don't remember it. I had never seen you before. I have only just seen you for the first time--lovely, radiant, never tobe forgotten. '

She clapped her hands impatiently, exclaiming: 'And my comb? You mustremember how I used to give you my comb to keep you quiet when you werea little child? Why, you were looking for it just now. '

'No, I don't remember. Your hair is like fine silk. I have never kissedyour hair before. '

At this, with some vexation, she recounted certain particulars of hisconvalescence in the room with the blue ceiling. But he only laughedat her, and at last closed her lips with his hand, saying with anxiousweariness: 'No, be quiet, I don't know; I don't want to know anymore. . . . I have only just woke up, and found you there, covered withroses. That is enough. '

And he drew her once more towards him and held her there, dreamingaloud, and murmuring: 'Perhaps I have lived before. It must have been along, long time ago. . . . I loved you in a painful dream. You had the sameblue eyes, the same rather long face, the same youthful mien. But yourhair was carefully hidden under a linen cloth, and I never dared toremove that cloth, because your locks seemed to me fearsome andwould have made me die. But to-day your hair is the very sweetness ofyourself. It preserves your scent, and when I kiss it, when I bury myface in it like this, I drink in your very life. '

He kept on passing the long curls through his hands, and pressing themto his lips, as if to squeeze from them all Albine's blood. And afteran interval of silence, he continued: 'It's strange, before one's birth, one dreams of being born. . . . I was buried somewhere. I was very cold. I could hear all the life of the world outside buzzing above me. But Ishut my ears despairingly, for I was used to my gloomy den, and enjoyedsome fearful delights in it, so that I never sought to free myself fromall the earth weighing upon my chest. Where could I have been then? Whowas it gave me light?'

He struggled to remember, while Albine now waited in fear and tremblinglest he should really do so. Smiling, she took a handful of her hair andwound it round the young man's neck, thus fastening him to herself. Thisplayful act roused him from his musings. 

'You're right, ' he said, 'I am yours, what does the rest matter? It wasyou, was it not, who drew me out of the earth? I must have been underthis garden. What I heard were your steps rattling the little pebblesin the path. You were looking for me, you brought down upon my head thesongs of the birds, the scent of the pinks, the warmth of the sun. Ifancied that you would find me at last. I waited a long time for you. But I never expected that you would give yourself to me without yourveil, with your hair undone--the terrible hair which has become sosoft. '

He sat her on his lap, placing his face beside hers. 

'Do not let us talk any more. We are alone for ever. We love eachother. '

And thus in all innocence they lingered in each other's arms; for along, long time did they remain there forgetfully. The sun rose higher;and the dust of light fell hotter from the lofty boughs. The yellow andwhite and crimson roses were now only a ray of their delight, a signof their smiles to one another. They had certainly caused buds to openaround them. The roses crowned their heads and threw garlands abouttheir waists. And the scent of the roses became so penetrating, sostrong with amorous emotion, that it seemed to be the scent of their ownbreath. 

At last Serge put up Albine's hair. He raised it in handfuls withdelightful awkwardness, and stuck her comb askew in the enormousknot that he had heaped upon her head. And as it happened she lookedbewitching thus. Then, rising from the ground, he held out his hands toher, and supported her waist as she got up. They still smiled withoutspeaking a word, and slowly they went down the path. 

VII

Albine and Serge entered the flower garden. She was watching himwith tender anxiety, fearing lest he should overtire himself; but hereassured her with a light laugh. He felt strong enough indeed to carryher whithersoever she listed. When he found himself once more in thefull sunlight, he drew a sigh of content. At last he lived; he was nolonger a plant subject to the terrible sufferings of winter. And how hewas moved with loving gratitude! Had it been within his power, he wouldhave spared Albine's tiny feet even the roughness of the paths; hedreamed of carrying her, clinging round his neck, like a child lulledto sleep by her mother. He already watched over her with a guardian'swatchful care, thrusting aside the stones and brambles, jealous lest thebreeze should waft a fleeting kiss upon those darling locks which werehis alone. She on her side nestled against his shoulder and serenelyyielded to his guidance. 

Thus Albine and Serge strolled on together in the sunlight for the firsttime. A balmy fragrance floated in their wake, the very path on whichthe sun had unrolled a golden carpet thrilled with delight under theirfeet. Between the tall flowering shrubs they passed like a vision ofsuch wondrous charm that the distant paths seemed to entreat theirpresence and hail them with a murmur of admiration, even as crowds haillong-expected sovereigns. They formed one sole, supremely lovely being. Albine's snowy skin was but the whiteness of Serge's browner skin. And slowly they passed along clothed with sunlight--nay, they werethemselves the sun--worshipped by the low bending flowers. 

A tide of emotion now stirred the Paradou to its depths. The old flowergarden escorted them--that vast field bearing a century's untrammelledgrowth, that nook of Paradise sown by the breeze with the choicestflowers. The blissful peace of the Paradou, slumbering in the broadsunlight, prevented the degeneration of species. It could boast of atemperature ever equable, and a soil which every plant had long enrichedto thrive therein in the silence of its vigour. Its vegetation wasmighty, magnificent, luxuriantly untended, full of erratic growthsdecked with monstrous blossoming, unknown to the spade and watering-potof gardeners. Nature left to herself, free to grow as she listed, in thedepths of that solitude protected by natural shelters, threw restraintaside more heartily at each return of spring, indulged in mightygambols, delighted in offering herself at all seasons strange nosegaysnot meant for any hand to pluck. A rabid fury seemed to impel her tooverthrow whatever the effort of man had created; she rebelliously casta straggling multitude of flowers over the paths, attacked the rockerieswith an ever-rising tide of moss, and knotted round the necks of marblestatues the flexible cords of creepers with which she threw them down;she shattered the stonework of the fountains, steps, and terraces withshrubs which burst through them; she slowly, creepingly, spread over thesmallest cultivated plots, moulding them to her fancy, and planting onthem, as ensign of rebellion, some wayside spore, some lowly weed whichshe transformed into a gigantic growth of verdure. In days gone by theparterre, tended by a master passionately fond of flowers, had displayedin its trim beds and borders a wondrous wealth of choice blossoms. Andthe same plants could still be found; but perpetuated, grown into suchnumberless families, and scampering in such mad fashion throughout thewhole garden, that the place was now all helter-skelter riot to its verywalls, a very den of debauchery, where intoxicated nature had hiccups ofverbena and pinks. 

Though to outward seeming Albine had yielded her weaker self to theguidance of Serge, to whose shoulder she clung, it was she who reallyled him. She took him first to the grotto. Deep within a clump ofpoplars and willows gaped a cavern, formed by rugged bits of rocks whichhad fallen over a basin where tiny rills of water trickled between thestones. The grotto was completely lost to sight beneath the onslaught ofvegetation. Below, row upon row of hollyhocks seemed to bar all entrancewith a trellis-work of red, yellow, mauve, and white-hued flowers, whosestems were hidden among colossal bronze-green nettles, which calmlyexuded blistering poison. Above them was a mighty swarm of creeperswhich leaped aloft in a few bounds; jasmines starred with balmy flowers;wistarias with delicate lacelike leaves; dense ivy, dentated andresembling varnished metal; lithe honeysuckle, laden with pale coralsprays; amorous clematideae, reaching out arms all tufted with whiteaigrettes. And among them twined yet slenderer plants, binding themmore and more closely together, weaving them into a fragrant woof. Nasturtium, bare and green of skin, showed open mouths of ruddy gold;scarlet runners, tough as whipcord, kindled here and there a fire ofgleaming sparks; convolvuli opened their heart-shaped leaves, and withthousands of little bells rang a silent peal of exquisite colours;sweetpeas, like swarms of settling butterflies, folded tawny or rosywings, ready to be borne yet farther away by the first breeze. Itwas all a wealth of leafy locks, sprinkled with a shower of flowers, straying away in wild dishevelment, and suggesting the head of somegiantess thrown back in a spasm of passion, with a streaming ofmagnificent hair, which spread into a pool of perfume. 

'I have never dared to venture into all that darkness, ' Albine whisperedto Serge. 

He urged her on, carried her over the nettles; and as a great boulderbarred the way into the grotto, he held her up for a moment in his armsso that she might be able to peer through the opening that yawned at afew feet from the ground. 

'A marble woman, ' she whispered, 'has fallen full length into thestream. The water has eaten her face away. '

Then he, too, in his turn wanted to look, and pulled himself up. A coldbreeze played upon his cheeks. In the pale light that glided through thehole, he saw the marble woman lying amidst the reeds and the duckweed. She was naked to the waist. She must have been drowning there for thelast hundred years. Some grief had probably flung her into that springwhere she was slowly committing suicide. The clear water which flowedover her had worn her face into a smooth expanse of marble, a mere whitesurface without a feature; but her breasts, raised out of the water bywhat appeared an effort of her neck, were still perfect and lifelike, throbbing even yet with the joys of some old delight. 

'She isn't dead yet, ' said Serge, getting down again. 'One day we willcome and get her out of there. '

But Albine shuddered and led him away. They passed out again into thesunlight and the rank luxuriance of beds and borders. They wanderedthrough a field of flowers capriciously, at random. Their feet trod acarpet of lovely dwarf plants, which had once neatly fringed the walks, and now spread about in wild profusion. In succession they passedankle-deep through the spotted silk of soft rose catchflies, through thetufted satin of feathered pinks, and the blue velvet of forget-me-nots, studded with melancholy little eyes. Further on they forced their waythrough giant mignonette, which rose to their knees like a bath ofperfume; then they turned through a patch of lilies of the valley inorder that they might spare an expanse of violets, so delicate-lookingthat they feared to hurt them. But soon they found themselves surroundedon all sides by violets, and so with wary, gentle steps they passed overtheir fresh fragrance inhaling the very breath of springtide. Beyond theviolets, a mass of lobelias spread out like green wool gemmed withpale mauve. The softly shaded stars of globularia, the blue cups ofnemophila, the yellow crosses of saponaria, the white and purple onesof sweet rocket, wove patches of rich tapestry, stretching onward andonward, a fabric of royal luxury, so that the young couple might enjoythe delights of that first walk together without fatigue. But theviolets ever reappeared; real seas of violets that rolled all roundthem, shedding the sweetest perfumes beneath their feet and wafting intheir wake the breath of their leaf-hidden flowerets. 

Albine and Serge quite lost themselves. Thousands of loftier plantstowered up in hedges around them, enclosing narrow paths which theyfound it delightful to thread. These paths twisted and turned, wanderedmaze-like through dense thickets. There were ageratums with sky-bluetufts of bloom; woodruffs with soft musky perfume; brazen-throatedmimuluses, blotched with bright vermilion; lofty phloxes, crimson andviolet, throwing up distaffs of flowers for the breezes to spin; redflax with sprays as fine as hair; chrysanthemums like full golden moons, casting short faint rays, white and violet and rose, around them. Theyoung couple surmounted all the obstacles that lay in their path andcontinued their way betwixt the walls of verdure. To the right ofthem sprang up the slim fraxinella, the centranthus draped withsnowy blossoms, and the greyish hounds-tongue, in each of whose tinyflowercups gleamed a dewdrop. To their left was a long row of columbinesof every variety; white ones, pale rose ones, and some of deep violethues, almost black, that seemed to be in mourning, the blossoms thatdrooped from their lofty, branching stems being plaited and gofferedlike crape. Then, as they advanced further on, the character of thehedges changed. Giant larkspurs thrust up their flower-rods, between thedentated foliage of which gaped the mouths of tawny snapdragons, whilethe schizanthus reared its scanty leaves and fluttering blooms, thatlooked like butterflies' wings of sulphur hue splashed with soft lake. The blue bells of campanulae swayed aloft, some of them even over thetall asphodels, whose golden stems served as their steeples. In onecorner was a giant fennel that reminded one of a lace-dressed ladyspreading out a sunshade of sea-green satin. Then the pair suddenlyfound their way blocked. It was impossible to advance any further;a mass of flowers, a huge sheaf of plants stopped all progress. Downbelow, a mass of brank-ursine formed as it were a pedestal, from themidst of which sprang scarlet geum, rhodanthe with stiff petals, andclarkia with great white carved crosses, that looked like the insigniaof some barbarous order. Higher up still, bloomed the rosy viscaria, the yellow leptosiphon, the white colinsia, and the lagurus, whose dustygreen bloom contrasted with the glowing colours around it. Towering overall these growths scarlet foxgloves and blue lupins, rising in slendercolumns, formed a sort of oriental rotunda gleaming vividly with crimsonand azure; while at the very summit, like a surmounting dome of duskycopper, were the ruddy leaves of a colossal castor-bean. 

As Serge reached out his hands to try to force a passage, Albine stoppedhim and begged him not to injure the flowers. 'You will break the stemsand crush the leaves, ' she said. 'Ever since I have been here, I havealways taken care to hurt none of them. Come, and I will show you thepansies. '

She made him turn and led him from the narrow paths to the centre of theparterre, where, once upon a time, great basins had been hollowedout. But these had now fallen into ruin, and were nothing but gigantic_jardinieres_, fringed with stained and cracked marble. In one of thelargest of them, the wind had sown a wonderful basketful of pansies. The velvety blooms seemed almost like living faces, with bands of violethair, yellow eyes, paler tinted mouths, and chins of a delicate fleshcolour. 

When I was younger they used to make me quite afraid, ' murmured Albine. 'Look at them. Wouldn't you think that they were thousands of littlefaces looking up at you from the ground? And they turn, too, all inthe same direction. They might be a lot of buried dolls thrusting theirheads out of the ground. '

She led him still further on. They went the round of all the otherbasins. In the next one a number of amaranthuses had sprung up, raisingmonstrous crests which Albine had always shrunk from touching, such wastheir resemblance to big bleeding caterpillars. Balsams of all colours, now straw-coloured, now the hue of peach-blossom, now blush-white, nowgrey like flax, filled another basin where their seed pods split withlittle snaps. Then in the midst of a ruined fountain, there flourisheda colony of splendid carnations. White ones hung over the moss-coveredrims, and flaked ones thrust a bright medley of blossom between thechinks of the marble; while from the mouth of the lion, whence formerlythe water-jets had spurted, a huge crimson clove now shot out sovigorously that the decrepit beast seemed to be spouting blood. Near by, the principal piece of ornamental water, a lake, on whose surface swanshad glided, had now become a thicket of lilacs, beneath whose shadestocks and verbenas and day-lilies screened their delicate tints, anddozed away, all redolent of perfume. 

'But we haven't seen half the flowers yet, ' said Albine, proudly. 'Overyonder there are such huge ones that I can quite bury myself amongstthem like a partridge in a corn-field. '

They went thither. They tripped down some broad steps, from whose fallenurns still flickered the violet fires of the iris. All down the stepsstreamed gilliflowers, like liquid gold. The sides were flanked withthistles, that shot up like candelabra, of green bronze, twisted andcurved into the semblance of birds' heads, with all the fantasticelegance of Chinese incense-burners. Between the broken balustradesdrooped tresses of stonecrop, light greenish locks, spotted as withmouldiness. Then at the foot of the steps another parterre spread out, dotted over with box-trees that were vigorous as oaks; box-trees whichhad once been carefully pruned and clipped into balls and pyramids andoctagonal columns, but which were now revelling in unrestrained freedomof untidiness, breaking out into ragged masses of greenery, throughwhich blue patches of sky were visible. 

And Albine led Serge straight on to a spot that seemed to be thegraveyard of the flower-garden. There the scabious mourned, andprocessions of poppies stretched out in line, with deathly odour, unfolding heavy blooms of feverish brilliance. Sad anemones clustered inweary throngs, pallid as if infected by some epidemic. Thick-set daturasspread out purplish horns, from which insects, weary of life, suckedfatal poison. Marigolds buried with choking foliage their writhingstarry flowers, that already reeked of putrefaction. And there wereother melancholy flowers also: fleshy ranunculi with rusty tints, hyacinths and tuberoses that exhaled asphyxia and died from their ownperfume. But the cinerarias were most conspicuous, crowding thickly inhalf-mourning robes of violet and white. In the middle of this gloomyspot a mutilated marble Cupid still remained standing, smiling beneaththe lichens which overspread his youthful nakedness, while the arm withwhich he had once held his bow lay low amongst the nettles. 

Then Albine and Serge passed on through a rank growth of peonies, reaching to their waists. The white flowers fell to pieces as theypassed, with a rain of snowy petals which was as refreshing to theirhands as the heavy drops of a thunder shower. And the red ones grinnedwith apoplectical faces which perturbed them. Next they passed througha field of fuchsias, forming dense, vigorous shrubs that delighted themwith their countless bells. Then they went on through fields of purpleveronicas and others of geraniums, blazing with all the fiery tints ofa brasier, which the wind seemed to be ever fanning into fresh heat. Andthey forced their way through a jungle of gladioli, tall as reeds, whichthrew up spikes of flowers that gleamed in the full daylight with allthe brilliance of burning torches. They lost themselves too in a forestof sunflowers, with stalks as thick as Albine's wrist, a forest darkenedby rough leaves large enough to form an infant's bed, and peopled withgiant starry faces that shone like so many suns. And thence they passedinto another forest, a forest of rhododendrons so teeming with blossomthat the branches and leaves were completely hidden, and nothing buthuge nosegays, masses of soft calyces, could be seen as far as the eyecould reach. 

'Come along; we have not got to the end yet, ' cried Albine. 'Let us pushon. '

But Serge stopped. They were now in the midst of an old ruinedcolonnade. Some of the columns offered inviting seats as they layprostrate amongst primroses and periwinkles. Further away, among thecolumns that still remained upright, other flowers were growing inprofusion. There were expanses of tulips showing brilliant streaks likepainted china; expanses of calceolarias dotted with crimson and gold;expanses of zinnias like great daisies; expanses of petunias with petalslike soft cambric through which rosy flesh tints gleamed; and otherfields, with flowers they could not recognise spreading in carpetsbeneath the sun, in a motley brilliance that was softened by the greenof their leaves. 

'We shall never be able to see it all, ' said Serge, smiling and wavinghis hand. 'It would be very nice to sit down here, amongst all thisperfume. '

Near them there was a large patch of heliotropes, whose vanilla-likebreath permeated the air with velvety softness. They sat down upon oneof the fallen columns, in the midst of a cluster of magnificent lilieswhich had shot up there. They had been walking for more than an hour. They had wandered on through the flowers from the roses to the lilies. These offered them a calm, quiet haven after their lovers' ramble amidthe perfumed solicitations of luscious honeysuckle, musky violets, verbenas that breathed out the warm scent of kisses, and tuberoses thatpanted with voluptuous passion. The lilies, with their tall slim stems, shot up round them like a white pavilion and sheltered them with snowycups, gleaming only with the gold of their slender pistils. Andthere they rested, like betrothed children in a tower of purity; animpregnable ivory tower, where all their love was yet perfect innocence. 

Albine and Serge lingered amongst the lilies till evening. They feltso happy there, and seemed to break out into a new life. Serge felt thelast trace of fever leave his hands, while Albine grew quite white, witha milky whiteness untinted by any rosy hue. They were unconsciousthat their arms and necks and shoulders were bare, and their strayingunconfined hair in nowise troubled them. They laughed merrily one at theother, with frank open laughter. The expression of their eyes retainedthe limpid calmness of clear spring water. When they quitted the lilies, their feelings were but those of children ten years old; it seemed tothem that they had just met each other in that garden so that they mightbe friends for ever and amuse themselves with perpetual play. And asthey returned through the parterre, the very flowers bore themselvesdiscreetly, as though they were glad to see their childishness, andwould do nothing that might corrupt them. The forests of peonies, themasses of carnations, the carpets of forget-me-nots, the curtainsof clematis now steeped in the atmosphere of evening, slumbering inchildlike purity akin to their own, no longer spread suggestions ofvoluptuousness around them. The pansies looked up at them with theirlittle candid faces, like playfellows; and the languid mignonette, asAlbine's white skirt brushed by it, seemed full of compassion, and heldits breath lest it should fan their love prematurely into life. 

VIII

At dawn the next day it was Serge who called Albine. She slept in a roomon the upper floor. He looked up at her window and saw her throw openthe shutters just as she had sprung out of bed. They laughed merrily astheir eyes met. 

'You must not go out to-day, ' said Albine, when she came down. 'We muststay indoors and rest. To-morrow I will take you a long, long way off, to a spot where we can have a very jolly time. '

'But sha'n't we grow tired of stopping here?' muttered Serge. 

'Oh, dear no! I will tell you stories. '

They passed a delightful day. The windows were thrown wide open, and allthe beauty of the Paradou came in and rejoiced with them in the room. Serge now really took possession of that delightful room, where heimagined he had been born. He insisted upon seeing everything, and uponhaving everything explained to him. The plaster Cupids who sportedround the alcove amused him so much that he mounted upon a chair to tieAlbine's sash round the neck of the smallest of them, a little bit of aman who was turning somersaults with his head downward. Albine clappedher hands, and said that he looked like a cockchafer fastened by astring. Then, as though seized by an access of pity, she said, 'No, no, unfasten him. It prevents him from flying. '

But it was the Cupids painted over the doors that more particularlyattracted Serge's attention. He fidgeted at not being able to make outwhat they were playing at, for the paintings had grown very dim. Helpedby Albine, he dragged a table to the wall, and when they both hadclimbed upon it, Albine began to explain things to him. 

'Look, now, those are throwing flowers. Under the flowers you can onlysee some bare legs. It seems to me that when first I came here I couldmake out a lady reposing there. But she has been gone for a long timenow. '

They examined all the panels in turn; but they had faded to such adegree that little more could be distinguished than the knees and elbowsof infants. The details which had doubtless delighted the eyes ofthose whose old-time passion seemed to linger round the alcove, had socompletely disappeared under the influence of the fresh air, that theroom, like the park, seemed restored to pristine virginity beneath theserene glory of the sun. 

'Oh! they are only some little boys playing, ' said Serge, as hedescended from the table. 'Do you know how to play at "hot cockles"?'

There was no game that Albine did not know how to play at. But, for'hot cockles, ' at least three players are necessary, and that made themlaugh. Serge protested, however, that they got on too well together everto desire a third there, and they vowed that they would always remain bythemselves. 

'We are quite alone here; one cannot hear a sound, ' said the youngman, lolling on the couch. 'And all the furniture has such a pleasantold-time smell. The place is as snug as a nest. We ought to be veryhappy in this room. '

The girl shook her head gravely. 

'If I had been at all timid, ' she murmured, 'I should have been verymuch frightened at first. . . . That is one of the stories I want to tellyou. The people in the neighbourhood told it to me. Perhaps it isn'ttrue, but it will amuse us, at any rate. '

Then she came and sat down by Serge's side. 

'It is years and years since it all happened. The Paradou belonged toa rich lord, who came and shut himself up in it with a very beautifullady. The gates of the mansion were kept so tightly closed, and thegarden walls were built so very high, that no one ever caught sight evenof the lady's skirts. '

'Ah! I know, ' Serge interrupted; 'the lady was never seen again. '

Then, as Albine looked at him in surprise, somewhat annoyed to find thathe knew her story already, he added in a low voice, apparently a littleastonished himself: 'You told me the story before, you know. '

She declared that she had never done so; but all at once she seemed tochange her mind, and allowed herself to be convinced. However, that didnot prevent her from finishing her tale in these words: 'When the lordwent away his hair was quite white. He had all the gates barricaded up, so that no one might get inside and disturb the lady. It was in thisroom that she died. '

'In this room!' cried Serge. 'You never told me that! Are you quite surethat it was really in this room she died?'

Albine seemed put out. She repeated to him what every one in theneighbourhood knew. The lord had built the pavilion for the reception ofthis unknown lady, who looked like a princess. The servants employed atthe mansion afterwards declared that he spent all his days and nightsthere. Often, too, they saw him in one of the walks, guiding the tinyfeet of the mysterious lady towards the densest coppices. But for allthe world they would never have ventured to spy upon the pair, whosometimes scoured the park for weeks together. 

'And it was here she died?' repeated Serge, who felt touched withsorrow. 'And you have taken her room; you use her furniture, and yousleep in her bed. '

Albine smiled. 

'Ah! well, you know, I am not timid. Besides, it is so long since it allhappened. You said what a delightful room it was. '

Then they both dropped into silence, and glanced, for a moment, towardsthe alcove, the lofty ceiling, and the corners, steeped in grey gloom. The faded furniture seemed to speak of long past love. A gentle sigh, asof resignation, passed through the room. 

'No, indeed, ' murmured Serge, 'one could not feel afraid here. It is toopeaceful. '

But Albine came closer to him and said: 'There is something elsethat only a few people know, and that is that the lord and the ladydiscovered in the garden a certain spot where perfect happiness was tobe found, and where they afterwards spent all their time. I have beentold that by a very good authority. It is a cool, shady spot, hiddenaway in the midst of an impenetrable jungle, and it is so marvellouslybeautiful that anyone who reaches it forgets all else in the world. Thepoor lady must have been buried there. '

'Is it anywhere about the parterre?' asked Serge curiously. 

'Ah! I cannot tell, I cannot tell, ' said the young girl with anexpression of discouragement. 'I know nothing about it. I have searchedeverywhere, but I have never been able to find the least sign of thatlovely clearing. It is not amongst the roses, nor the lilies, nor theviolets. '

'Perhaps it is hidden somewhere away amongst those mournful-lookingflowers, where you showed me the figure of a boy standing with his armbroken off. '

'No, no, indeed. '

'Perhaps, then, it is in that grotto, near that clear stream, where thegreat marble woman, without a face, is lying. '

'No, no. '

Albine seemed to reflect for a moment. Then, as though speaking toherself, she went on: 'As soon as ever I came here, I began to hunt forit. I spent whole days in the Paradou, and ferreted about in all theout-of-the-way green corners, to have the pleasure of sitting for anhour in that happy spot. What mornings have I not wasted in gropingunder the brambles and peeping into the most distant nooks of the park!Oh! I should have known it at once, that enchanting retreat, with themighty tree that must shelter it with a canopy of foliage, with itscarpet of soft silky turf, and its walls of tangled greenery, which thevery birds themselves cannot penetrate. 

She raised her voice, and threw one of her arms round Serge's neck, asshe continued: 'Tell me, now; shall we search for it together? We shallsurely find it. You, who are strong, will push aside the heavy branches, while I crawl underneath and search the brakes. When I grow weary, youcan carry me; you can help me to cross the streams; and if we happento lose ourselves, you can climb the trees and try to discover our wayagain. Ah! and how delightful it will be for us to sit, side by side, beneath the green canopy in the centre of the clearing! I have been toldthat in one minute one may there live the whole of life. Tell me, mydear Serge, shall we set off to-morrow and scour the park, from bush tobush, until we have found what we want?'

Serge shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. 'What would be the use?' hesaid. 'Is it not pleasant in the parterre? Don't you think we ought toremain among the flowers, instead of seeking a greater happiness thatlies so far away?'

'It is there that the dead lady lies buried, ' murmured Albine, fallingback into her reverie. 'It was the joy of being there that killed her. The tree casts a shade, whose charm is deathly. . . . I would willingly dieso. We would clasp one another there, and we would die, and none wouldever find us again. '

'Don't talk like that, ' interrupted Serge. 'You make me feel so unhappy. I would rather that we should live in the bright sunlight, far away fromthat fatal shade. Your words distress me, as though they urged us tosome irreparable misfortune. It must be forbidden to sit beneath a treewhose shade can thus affect one. '

'Yes, ' Albine gravely declared, 'it is forbidden. All the folks of thecountryside have told me that it is forbidden. '

Then silence fell. Serge rose from the couch where he had been lolling, and laughed, and pretended that he did not care about stories. The sunwas setting, however, before Albine would consent to go into the gardenfor even a few minutes. She led Serge to the left, along the enclosingwall, to a spot strewn with fragments of stone, and woodwork, andironwork, bristling too with briars and brambles. It was the site of theold mansion, still black with traces of the fire which had destroyedthe building. Underneath the briars lay rotting timbers and fire-splitmasonry. The spot was like a little ravined, hillocky wilderness ofsterile rocks, draped with rude vegetation, clinging creepers thattwined and twisted through every crevice like green serpents. The youngfolks amused themselves by wandering across this chaos, groping about inthe holes, turning over the debris, trying to reconstruct somethingof the past out of the ruins before them. They did not confess theircuriosity as they chased one another through the midst of fallenfloorings and overturned partitions; but they were indeed, all the time, secretly pondering over the legend of those ruins, and of that lady, lovelier than day, whose silken skirt had rustled down those steps, where now lizards alone were idly crawling. 

Serge ended by climbing the highest of the ruinous masses; and, lookinground at the park which unfolded its vast expanse of greenery, he soughtthe grey form of the pavilion through the trees. Albine was standingsilent by his side, serious once more. 

'The pavilion is yonder, to the right, ' she said at last, withoutwaiting for Serge to ask her. 'It is the only one of the buildingsthat is left. You can see it quite plainly at the end of that grove oflime-trees. '

They fell into silence again; and then Albine, as though pursuing aloudthe reflections which were passing through their minds, exclaimed: 'Whenhe went to see her, he must have gone down yonder path, then past thosebig chestnut trees, and then under the limes. It wouldn't take him aquarter of an hour. '

Serge made no reply. But as they went home, they took the path whichAlbine had pointed out, past the chestnuts and under the limes. It was apath that love had consecrated. And as they walked over the grass, theyseemed to be seeking footmarks, or a fallen knot of ribbon, or a whiffof ancient perfume--something that would clearly satisfy them that theywere really travelling along the path that led to the joy of union. 

'Wait out here, ' said Albine, when they once more stood before thepavilion; 'don't come up for three minutes. '

Then she ran off merrily, and shut herself up in the room with the blueceiling. And when she had let Serge knock at the door twice, she softlyset it ajar, and received him with an old-fashioned courtesy. 

'Good morrow, my dear lord, ' she said as she embraced him. 

This amused them extremely. They played at being lovers with childishglee. In stammering accents they would have revived the passion whichhad once throbbed and died there. But it was like a first effort atlearning a lesson. They knew not how to kiss each other's lips, butsought each other's cheeks, and ended by dancing around each other, with shrieks of laughter, from ignorance of any other way of showing thepleasure they experienced from their mutual love. 

IX

The next morning Albine was anxious to start at sunrise upon the grandexpedition which she had planned the night before. She tapped her feetgleefully on the ground, and declared that they would not come backbefore nightfall. 

'Where are you going to take me?' asked Serge. 

'You will see, you will see. '

But he caught her by the hands and looked her very earnestly in theface. 'You must not be foolish, you know. I won't have you hunting forthat glade of yours, or for the tree, or for the grassy couch where onedroops and dies. You know that it is forbidden. '

She blushed slightly, protesting that she had no such idea in her head. Then she added: 'But if we should come across them, just by chance, youknow, and without really seeking them, you wouldn't mind sitting down, would you? Else you must love me very little. '

They set off, going straight through the parterre without stopping towatch the awakening of the flowers which were all dripping after theirdewy bath. The morning had a rosy hue, the smile of a beautiful child, just opening its eyes on its snowy pillow. 

'Where are you taking me?' repeated Serge. 

But Albine only laughed and would not answer. Then, on reaching thestream which ran through the garden at the end of the flower-beds, shehalted in great distress. The water was swollen with the late rains. 

'We shall never be able to get across, ' she murmured. 'I can generallymanage it by taking off my shoes and stockings, but, to-day, the waterwould reach to our waists. '

They walked for a moment or two along the bank to find some fordablepoint; but the girl said it was hopeless; she knew the stream quitewell. Once there had been a bridge across, but it had fallen in, and hadstrewn the river bed with great blocks of stone, between which the waterrushed along in foaming eddies. 

'Get on to my back, then, ' said Serge. 

'No, no; I'd rather not. If you were to slip, we should both of us get afamous wetting. You don't know how treacherous those stones are. '

'Get on to my back, ' repeated Serge. 

She was tempted to do so. She stepped back for a spring, and then jumpedup, like a boy; but she felt that Serge was tottering; and crying outthat she was not safely seated, she got down again. However, after twomore attempts, she managed to settle herself securely on Serge's back. 

'When you are quite ready, ' said the young man, laughing, 'we willstart. Now, hold on tightly. We are off. '

And, with three light strides, he crossed the stream, scarcely wettingeven his toes. Midway, however, Albine thought that he was slipping. Shebroke out into a little scream, and hugged him tightly round his neck. But he sprang forward, and carried her at a gallop over the fine sand onthe other side. 

'Gee up!' she cried, quite calm again, and delighted with this novelgame. 

He ran along with her for some distance, she clucking her tongue, andguiding him to right or left by some locks of his hair. 

'Here--here we are, ' she said at last, tapping him gently on the cheeks. 

Then she jumped to the ground; while he, hot and perspiring, leanedagainst a tree to draw breath. Albine thereupon began to scold him, andthreatened that she would not nurse him if he made himself ill again. 

'Stuff!' he cried, 'it's done me good. When I have grown quite strongagain, I will carry you about all day. But where are you taking me?'

'Here, ' she said, as she seated herself beneath a huge pear-tree. 

They were in the old orchard of the park. A hawthorn hedge, a real wallof greenery with here and there a gap, separated it from everythingelse. There was quite a forest of fruit trees, which no pruning knifehad touched for a century past. Some of the trees had been strangelywarped and twisted by the storms which had raged over them; whileothers, bossed all over with huge knots and full of deep holes, seemedonly to hold on to the soil with their bark. The high branches, benteach year by weight of fruit, stretched out like big rackets; and eachtree helped to keep its fellows erect. The trunks were like twistedpillars supporting a roof of greenery; and sometimes narrow cloisters, sometimes light halls were formed, while now and again the verdure sweptalmost to the ground and left scarcely room to pass. Round each colossusa crowd of wild and self-sown saplings had grown up, thicket-like withthe entanglement of their young shoots. In the greenish light whichfiltered like tinted water through the foliage, in the deep silenceof the mossy soil, one only heard the dull thud of the fruit as it wasculled by the wind. 

And there were patriarchal apricot trees that bore their great agequite bravely. Though decayed on one side, where they showed a perfectscaffolding of dead wood, they were so youthful, so full of life, that, on the other, young shoots were ever bursting through their rough bark. There were cherry trees, that formed complete towns with houses ofseveral stories, that threw out staircases and floors of branches, bigenough for half a score of families. Then there were the apple trees, with their limbs twisted like old cripples, with bark gnarled andknotted, and all stained with lichen-growth. There were also smooth peartrees, that shot up mast-like with long slender spars. And there wererosy-blossomed peach-trees that won a place amid this teeming growth aspretty maids do amidst a human crowd by dint of bright smiles and gentlepersistence. Some had been formerly trained as espaliers, but they hadbroken down the low walls which had once supported them, and now spreadabroad in wild confusion, freed from the trammels of trellis work, broken fragments of which still adhered to some of their branches. Theygrew just as they listed, and resembled well-bred trees, once neat andprim, which, having gone astray, now flaunted but vestiges of whilomrespectability. And from tree to tree, and from bough to bough, vinebranches hung in confusion. They rose like wild laughter, twined foran instant round some lofty knot, then started off again with yet moresonorous mirth, splotching all the foliage with the merry ebriety oftheir tendrils. Their pale sun-gilt green set a glow of bacchanalianismabout the weather-worn heads of the old orchard giants. 

Then towards the left were trees less thickly planted. Thin-foliagedalmonds allowed the sun's rays to pass and ripen the pumpkins, whichlooked like moons that had fallen to the earth. Near the edge of astream which flowed through the orchard there also grew various kinds ofmelons, some rough with knotty warts, some smooth and shining, as ovalas the eggs of ostriches. At every step, too, progress was barred bycurrant bushes, showing limpid bunches of fruit, rubies in one and allof which there sparkled liquid sunlight. And hedges of raspberrycanes shot up like wild brambles, while the ground was but a carpetof strawberry plants, teeming with ripe berries which exhaled a slightodour of vanilla. 

But the enchanted corner of the orchard was still further to the left, near a tier of rocks which there began to soar upwards. There you foundyourself in a veritable land of fire, in a natural hot-house, on whichthe sun fell freely. At first, you had to make your way through huge, ungainly fig trees, which stretched out grey branches like arms weary oflying still, and whose villose leather-like foliage was so dense thatin order to pass one constantly had to snap off twigs that had sproutedfrom the old wood. Next you passed on through groves of strawberry treeswith verdure like that of giant box-plants, and with scarlet berrieswhich suggested maize plants decked out with crimson ribbon. Thenthere came a jungle of nettle-trees, medlars and jujube trees, whichpomegranates skirted with never-fading verdure. The fruit of the latter, big as a child's fist, was scarcely set as yet; and the purple blossoms, fluttering at the ends of the branches, looked like the palpitatingwings of the humming birds, which do not even bend the shoots on whichthey perch. Lastly, there was a forest of orange and lemon trees growingvigorously in the open air. Their straight trunks stood like rows ofbrown columns, while their shiny leaves showed brightly against theblue of the sky, and cast upon the ground a network of light and shadow, figuring the palms of some Indian fabric. Here there was shade besidewhich that of the European orchard seemed colourless, insipid; the warmjoy of sunlight, softened into flying gold-dust; the glad certaintyof evergreen foliage; the penetrating perfume of blossom, and the moresubdued fragrance of fruit; all helping to fill the body with the softlanguor of tropical lands. 

'And now let us breakfast, ' cried Albine, clapping her hands. 'It mustbe at least nine o'clock, and I am very hungry. '

She had risen from the ground. Serge confessed that he, too, would findsome food acceptable. 

'You goose!' she said, 'you didn't understand, then, that I brought youhere to breakfast. We sha'n't die of hunger here. We can help ourselvesto all there is. '

They went along under the trees, pushing aside the branches and makingtheir way to the thickest of the fruit. Albine, who went first, turned, and in her flute-like voice asked her companion: 'What do you like best?Pears, apricots, cherries, or currants? I warn you that the pears arestill green; but they are very nice all the same. '

Serge decided upon having cherries, and Albine agreed it would be aswell to start with them; but when she saw him foolishly beginning toscramble up the first cherry tree he found, she made him go on foranother ten minutes through a frightful entanglement of branches. Thecherries on this tree, she said, were small and good for nothing; thoseon that were sour; those on another would not be ripe for at least aweek. She knew all the trees. 

'Stop, climb this one, ' she said at last, as she stopped at the foot ofa tree, so heavily laden with fruit that clusters of it hung down to theground, like strings of coral beads. 

Serge settled himself comfortably between two branches and began hisbreakfast. He no longer paid attention to Albine. He imagined she was inanother tree, a few yards away, when, happening to cast his eyes towardsthe ground, he saw her calmly lying on her back beneath him. She hadthrown herself there, and, without troubling herself to use her hands, was plucking with her teeth the cherries which dangled over her mouth. 

When she saw she was discovered, she broke out into a peal of laughter, and twisted about on the grass like a fish taken from the water. Andfinally, crawling along on her elbows, she gradually made the circuit ofthe tree, snapping up the plumpest cherries as she went along. 

'They tickle me so, ' she cried. 'See, there's a beauty just fallen on myneck. They are so deliciously fresh and juicy. They get into my ears, my eyes, my nose, everywhere. They are much sweeter down here than upthere. '

'Ah!' said Serge, laughing, 'you say that because you daren't climb up. '

She remained for a moment silent with indignation. 'Daren't!--I!--' shestammered. 

Then, having gathered up her skirts, she tightly grasped the tree andpulled herself up the trunk with a single effort of her strong wrists. And afterwards she stepped lightly along the branches, scarcely usingher hands to steady herself. She had all the agile nimbleness of asquirrel, and made her way onward, maintaining her equilibrium only bythe swaying poise of her body. When she was quite aloft at the end ofa frail branch, which shook dangerously beneath her weight, she cried;'Now you see whether I daren't climb. '

'Come down at once, ' implored Serge, full of alarm for her. 'I beg ofyou to come down. You will be injuring yourself. '

But she, enjoying her triumph, began to mount still higher. She crawledalong to the extreme end of a branch, grasping its leaves in her handsto maintain her hold. 

'The branch will break!' cried Serge, thoroughly frightened. 

'Let it break, ' she answered, with a laugh; 'it will save me the troubleof getting down. '

And the branch did break, but only slowly, with such deliberation that, as it gradually settled towards the ground, it let Albine slip down invery gentle fashion. She did not appear in the least degree frightened;but gave herself a shake, and said: 'That was really nice. It was quitelike being in a carriage. '

Serge had jumped down from the tree to catch her in his arms. As hestood there, quite pale from fright, she laughed at him. 'One tumblesdown from trees every day, ' she exclaimed, 'but there is never any harmdone. Look more cheerful, you great stupid! Stay, just wet your fingerand rub it upon my neck. I have scratched it. '

Serge wetted his finger and touched her neck with it. 

'There, I am all right again now, ' she cried, as she bounded off. 'Letus play at hide and seek, shall we?'

She was the first to hide. She disappeared, and presently from thedepths of the greenery, which she alone knew, and where Serge could notpossibly find her, she called, 'Cuckoo, cuckoo. ' But this game of hideand seek did not put a stop to the onslaught upon the fruit trees. Breakfasting went on in all the nooks and corners where the two bigchildren sought each other. Albine, while gliding beneath the branches, would stretch out her hand to pluck a green pear or fill her skirt withapricots. Then in some of her lurking-places she would come upon suchrich discoveries as would make her careless of the game, content tosit upon the ground and remain eating. Once, however, she lost sound ofSerge's movements. So, in her turn, she set about seeking him; and shewas surprised, almost vexed, when she discovered him under a plum-tree, of whose existence she herself had been ignorant, and whose ripe fruithad a delicious musky perfume. She soundly rated him. Did he want to eateverything himself, that he hadn't called to her to come? He pretendedto know nothing about the trees, but he evidently had a very keen scentto be able to find all the good things. She was especially indignantwith the poor tree itself--a stupid tree which no one had known of, andwhich must have sprung up in the night on purpose to put people out. Asshe stood there pouting, refusing to pluck a single plum, it occurred toSerge to shake the tree violently. And then a shower, a regular hail, ofplums came down. Albine, standing in the midst of the downfall, receivedplums on her arms, plums on her neck, plums on the very tip of her nose. At this she could no longer restrain her laughter; she stood in themidst of the deluge, crying 'More! more!' amused as she was by the roundbullet-like fruit which fell around her as she squatted there, withhands and mouth open, and eyes closed. 

It was a morning of childish play, of wild gambols in the Paradou. Albine and Serge spent hours, scampering up and down, shouting andsporting with each other, their thoughts still all innocence. And inwhat a delicious spot they found themselves! Depths of greenery, withundiscoverable hiding-places; paths, along whose windings it was neverpossible to be serious, such greedy laughter fell from the very hedges. In this happy orchard, there was such a playful straggling of bushes, such fresh and appetising shade, such a wealth of old trees laden likekindly grandfathers with sweet dainties. Even in the depths of therecesses green with moss, beneath the broken trunks which compelled themto creep the one behind the other, in the narrow leafy alleys, the youngfolks never succumbed to the perilous reveries of silence. No troubletouched them in that happy wood. 

And when they had grown weary of the apricot-trees and the plum-treesand the cherry-trees, they ran beneath the slender almond-trees; eatinggreen almonds, scarcely yet as big as peas, hunting for strawberries inthe grassy carpet, and regretting that the melons were not already ripe. Albine finished by running as fast as she could go, pursued by Serge, who was unable to overtake her. She rushed amongst the fig-trees, leaping over their heavy branches, and pulling off the leaves to throwthem behind her in her companion's face. In a few strides she hadcleared the clumps of arbutus, whose red berries she tasted on her way;and it was in the jungle of nettle-trees, medlars, and jujube-trees thatSerge lost her. At first he thought she was hiding behind a pomegranate;but found that he had mistaken two clustering blossoms for the rosyroundness of her wrists. Then he scoured the plantation of orange-trees, rejoicing in their beauty and perfume, and thinking that he must havereached the abode of the fairies of the sun. In the midst of them hecaught sight of Albine, who, not believing him so near her, was peeringinquisitively into the green depths. 

'What are you looking for?' he cried. 'You know very well that isforbidden. '

She sprang up hastily, and slightly blushed for the first time that day. Then sitting down by the side of Serge, she told him of the fine timesthere would be when the oranges should be ripe. The wood would thenbe all golden, all bright with those round stars, dotting with yellowsparks the arching green. 

When at last they really set off homeward she halted at everywild-growing fruit tree, and filled her pockets with sour pears andbitter plums, saying that they world be good to eat on their way. Theywould prove a hundred times more enjoyable than anything they had tastedbefore. Serge was obliged to swallow some of them, in spite of thegrimaces he made at each bite. And eventually they found themselvesindoors again, tired out but feeling very happy. 

X

A week later there was another expedition to the park. They had plannedto extend their rambles beyond the orchard, striking out to the leftthrough the meadows watered by the four streams. They would travelseveral miles over the thick grass, and they might live on fish, if theyhappened to lose themselves. 

'I will take my knife, ' said Albine, holding up a broad-bladed peasant'sknife. 

She crammed all kinds of things into her pockets, string, bread, matches, a small bottle of wine, some rags, a comb, and some needles. Serge took a rug, but by the time they had passed the lime-trees andreached the ruins of the chateau, he found it such an encumbrance thathe hid it beneath a piece of fallen wall. 

The sun was hotter than before, Albine had delayed their departure byher extensive preparations. Thus in the heat of the morning they steppedalong side by side, almost quietly. They actually managed to take twentypaces at a time without pushing one another or laughing. They began totalk. 

'I never can wake up, ' began Albine. 'I slept so soundly last night. Didyou?'

'Yes, indeed, very soundly, ' replied Serge. 

'What does it mean when you dream of a bird that talks to you?' the girlresumed. 

'I don't know. What did your bird say to you?'

'Oh, I have forgotten. But it said all kinds of things, and many ofthem sounded very comical. Stop, look at that big poppy over there. Yousha'n't get it, you sha'n't get it!'

And then she sprang forward; but Serge, thanks to his long legs, outstripped her and plucked the poppy, which he waved aboutvictoriously. She stood there with lips compressed, saying nothing, but feeling a strong inclination to cry. Serge threw down the flower. Nothing else occurred to him. Then, to make his peace with her, heasked: 'Would you like me to carry you as I did the other day?'

'No, no. '

She pouted a little, but she had not gone another thirty steps, when sheturned round smiling. A bramble had caught hold of her dress. 

'I thought it was you who were treading on my dress purposely. It won'tlet me go. Come and unfasten me. '

When she was released, they walked on again, side by side, very quietly. Albine pretended that it was much more amusing to stroll along in thisfashion, like steady grown-up folks. They had just reached the meadows. Far away, in front of them, stretched grassy expanses scarce broken hereand there by the tender foliage of willows. The grass looked soft anddowny, like velvet. It was a deep green, subsiding in the distance intolighter tints, and on the horizon assuming a bright yellow glow beneaththe flaring sun. The clumps of willows right over yonder seemed likepure gold, bathed in the tremulous brilliance of the sunshine. Dancingdust tipped the blades of grass with quivering light, and as the gentlebreezes swept over the free expanse, moire-like reflections appeared onthe caressed and quivering herbage. In the nearer fields a multitude oflittle white daisies, now in swarms, now straggling, and now in groups, like holiday makers at some public rejoicing, brightly peopled the darkgrass. Buttercups showed themselves, gay like little brass bells whichthe touch of a fly's wing would set tinkling. Here and there big lonelypoppies raised fiery cups, and others, gathered together further away, spread out like vats purple with lees of wine. Big cornflowers balancedaloft their light blue caps which looked as if they would fly awayat every breath of air. Then under foot there were patches of woollyfeather-grass and fragrant meadow-sweet, sheets of fescue, dog's-tail, creeping-bent, and meadow grass. Sainfoin reared its long finefilaments; clover unfurled its clear green leaves, plantains brandishedforests of spears, lucerne spread out in soft beds of green satinbroidered with purple flowers. And all these were seen, to right, toleft, in front, everywhere, rolling over the level soil, showing likethe mossy surface of a stagnant sea, asleep beneath the sky which everseemed to expand. Here and there, in the vast expanse, the vegetationwas of a limpid blue, as though it reflected the colour of the heavens. 

Albine and Serge stepped along over the meadow-lands, with the grassreaching to their knees. It was like wading through a pool. Now andthen, indeed, they found themselves caught by a current in which astream of bending stalks seemed to flow away between their legs. Thenthere were placid-looking, slumbering lakes, basins of short grass, which scarcely reached their ankles. As they walked along together, their joy found expression not in wild gambols, as in the orchard a weekbefore, but rather in loitering, with their feet caught among the supplearms of the herbage, tasting as it were the caresses of a pure streamwhich calmed the exuberance of their youth. Albine turned aside andslipped into a lofty patch of vegetation which reached to her chin. Onlyher head appeared. For a moment or two she stood there in silence. Thenshe called to Serge: 'Come here, it is just like a bath. It is as if onehad green water all over one. '

Then she gave a jump and scampered off without waiting for him, andthey both walked along the margin of the first stream which barred theironward course. It was a shallow tranquil brook between banks of wildcress. It flowed on so placidly and gently that its surface reflectedlike a mirror the smallest reed that grew beside it. Albine and Sergefollowed this stream, whose onward motion was slower than their own, fora long time before they came across a tree that flung a long shadowupon the idle waters. As far as their eyes could reach they saw the barebrook stretch out and slumber in the sunlight like a blue serpent halfuncoiled. At last they reached a clump of three willows. Two had theirroots in the stream; the third was set a little backward. Their trunks, rotten and crumbling with age, were crowned with the bright foliage ofyouth. The shadow they cast was so slight as scarcely to be perceptibleupon the sunlit bank. Yet here the water, which, both above and below, was so unruffled, showed a transient quiver, a rippling of its surface, as though it were surprised to find even this light veil cast over it. Between the three willows the meadow-land sloped down to the stream, andsome crimson poppies had sprung up in the crevices of the decaying oldtrunks. The foliage of the willows looked like a tent of greenery fixedupon three stakes by the water's edge, beside a rolling prairie. 

'This is the place, ' cried Albine, 'this is the place;' and she glidedbeneath the willows. 

Serge sat down by her side, his feet almost in the water. He glancedround him, and murmured: 'You know everything, you know all the bestspots. One might almost think this was an island, ten feet square, rightin the middle of the sea. '

'Yes, indeed, we are quite at home, ' she replied, as she gleefullydrummed the grass with her fists. 'It is altogether our own, and we aregoing to do everything ourselves. ' Then, as if struck by a brilliantidea, she sprang towards him, and, with her face close to his, asked himjoyously: 'Will you be my husband? I will be your wife. '

He was delighted at the notion, and replied that he would gladly beher husband, laughing even more loudly than she had done herself. Then Albine suddenly became grave, and assumed the anxious air of ahousewife. 

'You know, ' she said, 'that it is I who will have to give the orders. Wewill have breakfast as soon as you have laid the table. '

She gave him her orders in an imperious fashion. He had to stow all thevarious articles which she extracted from her pockets into a hole in oneof the willows, which bole she called the cupboard. The ragssupplied the household linen, while the comb represented the toilettenecessaries. The needles and string were to be used for mending theexplorers' clothes. Provision for the inner man consisted of the littlebottle of wine and a few crusts which she had saved from yesterday. Shehad, to be sure, some matches, by the aid of which she intended to cookthe fish they were going to catch. 

When Serge had finished laying the table, the bottle of wine in thecentre, and three crusts grouped round it, he hazarded the observationthat the fare seemed to be scanty. But Albine shrugged her shoulderswith feminine superiority. And wading into the water, she said in asevere tone, 'I will catch the fish; you can watch me. '

For half an hour she strenuously exerted herself in trying to catch someof the little fishes with her hands. She had gathered up her petticoatsand fastened them together with a piece of string. And she advancedquietly into the water, taking the greatest care not to disturb it. Whenshe was quite close to some tiny fish, that lay lurking between a coupleof pebbles, she thrust down her bare arm, made a wild grasp, and broughther hand up again with nothing in it but sand and gravel. Serge thenbroke out into noisy laughter which brought her back to the bank, indignant. She told him that he had no business to laugh at her. 

'But, ' he ended by asking, 'how are we going to cook your fish when youhave caught it? There is no wood about. '

That put the finishing touch to her discouragement. However, the fishin that stream didn't seem to be good for much; so she came out of thewater and ran through the long grass to get her feet dry. 

'See, ' she suddenly exclaimed, 'here is some pimpernel. It is very nice. Now we shall have a feast. '

Serge was ordered to gather a quantity of the pimpernel and place it onthe table. They ate it with their crusts. Albine declared that it wasmuch better than nuts. She assumed the position of mistress of theestablishment, and cut Serge's bread for him, for she would not trusthim with the knife. At last she made him store away in the 'cupboard'the few drops of wine that remained at the bottom of the bottle. He wasalso ordered to sweep the grass. Then Albine lay down at full length. 

'We are going to sleep now, you know. You must lie down by my side. '

He did as he was ordered. They lay there stiffly staring into the air, and saying that they were asleep, and that it was very nice. After awhile, however, they drew slightly away from one another, averting theirheads as if they felt some discomfort. And at last breaking the silencewhich had fallen between them, Serge exclaimed: 'I love you very much. '

It was love such as it is without any sensual feeling; that instinctivelove which wakens in the bosom of a little man ten years old at thesight of some white-robed baby-girl. The meadow-lands, spreading aroundthem all open and free, dissipated the slight fear each felt of theother. They knew that they lay there, seen of all the herbage, that theblue sky looked down upon them through the light foliage of the willows, and the thought was pleasant to them. The willow canopy over their headswas a mere open screen. The shade it cast was so imperceptible thatit wafted to them none of the languor that some dim coppice might havedone. From the far-off horizon came a healthy breeze fraught with allthe freshness of the grassy sea, swelling here and there into wavesof flowers; while, at their feet, the stream, childlike as they were, flowed idly along with a gentle babbling that sounded to them like thelaughter of a companion. Ah! happy solitude, so tranquil and placid, immensity wherein the little patch of grass serving as their couch tookthe semblance of an infant's cradle. 

'There, that's enough; said Albine, getting up; 'we've rested longenough. '

Serge seemed a little surprised at this speedy termination of theirsleep. He stretched out his arm and caught hold of Albine, as though todraw her near him again; and when she, laughing, dropped upon her kneeshe grasped her elbows and gazed up at her. He knew not to what impulsehe was yielding. But when she had freed herself, and again had risen toher feet, he buried his face amongst the grass where she had lain, andwhich still retained the warmth of her body. 

'Yes, ' he said at last, 'it is time to get up, ' and then he rose fromthe ground. 

They scoured the meadow-lands until evening began to fall. They went onand on, inspecting their garden. Albine walked in front, sniffing likea young dog, and saying nothing, but she was ever in search of the happyglade, although where they found themselves there were none of the bigtrees of which her thoughts were full. Serge meanwhile indulged in allkinds of clumsy gallantry. He rushed forward so hastily to thrust thetall herbage aside, that he nearly tripped her up; and he almost toreher arm from her body as he tried to assist her over the brooks. Theirjoy was great when they came to the three other streams. The firstflowed over a bed of pebbles, between two rows of willows, so closelyplanted that they had to grope between the branches with the risk offalling into some deep part of the water. It only rose to Serge's knees, however, and having caught Albine in his arms he carried her to theopposite bank, to save her from a wetting. The next stream flowed blackwith shade beneath a lofty canopy of foliage, passing languidly onwardwith the gentle rustling and rippling of the satin train of some lady, dreamily sauntering through the woodland depths. It was a deep, cold, and rather dangerous-looking stream, but a fallen tree that stretchedfrom bank to bank served them as a bridge. They crossed over, bestridingthe tree with dangling feet, at first amusing themselves by stirring thewater which looked like a mirror of burnished steel, but then suddenlyhastening, frightened by the strange eyes which opened in the depths ofthe sleepy current at the slightest splash. But it was the last streamwhich delayed them the most. It was sportive like themselves, it flowedmore slowly at certain bends, whence it started off again with merryripples, past piles of big stones, into the shelter of some clump oftrees, and grew calmer once more. It exhibited every humour as it spedalong over soft sand or rocky boulders, over sparkling pebbles or greasyclay, where leaping frogs made yellow puddles. Albine and Serge dabbledabout in delight, and even walked homewards through the stream inpreference to remaining on the bank. At every little island that dividedthe current they landed. They conquered the savage spot or restedbeneath the lofty canes and reeds, which seemed to grow there expresslyas shelter for shipwrecked adventurers. Thus they made a delightfulprogress, amused by the changing scenery of the banks, enlivened by themerry humour of the living current. 

But when they were about to leave the river, Serge realised that Albinewas still seeking something along the banks, on the island, even amongthe plants that slept on the surface of the water. He was obliged togo and pull her from the midst of a patch of water-lilies whose broadleaves set _collerettes_ around her limbs. He said nothing, but shookhis finger at her. And at last they went home, walking along, arm inarm, like young people after a day's outing. They looked at each other, and thought one another handsomer and stronger than before, and of acertainty their laughter had a different ring from that with which ithad sounded in the morning. 

XI

'Are we never going out again?' asked Serge some days later. 

And when he saw Albine shrug her shoulders with a weary air, he added, in a teasing kind of way, 'You have got tired of looking for your tree, then?'

They joked about the tree all day and made fun of it. It didn't exist. It was only a nursery-story. Yet they both spoke of it with a slightfeeling of awe. And on the morrow they settled that they would go tothe far end of the park and pay a visit to the great forest-trees whichSerge had not yet seen. Albine refused to take anything along with them. They breakfasted before starting and did not set off till late. The heatof the sun, which was then great, brought them a feeling of languor, and they sauntered along gently, side by side, seeking every patch ofsheltering shade. They lingered neither in the garden nor the orchard, through which they had to pass. When they gained the shady coolnessbeneath the big trees, they dropped into a still slower pace; and, without a word, but with a deep sigh, as though it were welcome reliefto escape from the glare of day, they pushed on into the forest'sdepths. And when they had nothing but cool green leaves about them, whenno glimpse of the sunlit expanse was afforded by any gap in thefoliage, they looked at each other and smiled, with a feeling of vagueuneasiness. 

'How nice it is here!' murmured Serge. 

Albine simply nodded her head. A choking sensation in her throatprevented her from speaking. Their arms were not passed as usual roundeach other's waist, but swung loosely by their sides. They walked alongwithout touching each other, and with their heads inclined towards theground. 

But Serge suddenly stopped short on seeing tears trickle down Albine'scheeks and mingle with the smile that played around her lips. 

'What is the matter with you?' he exclaimed; 'are you in pain? Have youhurt yourself?'

'No, don't you see I'm smiling? I don't know how it is, but the scent ofall these trees forces tears into my eyes. ' She glanced at him, and thenresumed: 'Why, you're crying too! You see you can't help it. '

'Yes, ' he murmured, 'all this deep shade affects one. It seems sopeaceful, so mournful here that one feels a little sad. But you musttell me, you know, if anything makes you really unhappy. I have not doneanything to annoy you, have I? you are not vexed with me?'

She assured him that she was not. She was quite happy, she said. 

'Then why are you not enjoying yourself more? Shall we have a race?'

'Oh! no, we can't race, ' she said, disdainfully, with a pout. Andwhen he went on to suggest other amusements, such as bird-nesting orgathering strawberries or violets, she replied a little impatiently: 'Weare too big for that sort of thing. It is childish to be always playing. Doesn't it please you better to walk on quietly by my side?'

She stepped along so prettily, that it was, indeed, a pleasure to hearthe pit-pat of her little boots on the hard soil of the path. Neverbefore had he paid attention to the rhythmic motion of her figure, thesweep of her skirts that followed her with serpentine motion. It washappiness never to be exhausted, to see her thus walking sedately byhis side, for he was ever discovering some new charm in the lissomsuppleness of her limbs. 

'You are right, ' he said, 'this is really the best. I would walk by yourside to the end of the world, if you wished it. '

A little further on, however, he asked her if she were not tired, andhinted that he would not be sorry to have a rest himself. 

'We might sit down for a few minutes, ' he suggested in a stammeringvoice. 

'No, ' she replied, 'I don't want to. '

'But we might lie down, you know, as we did in the meadows the otherday. We should be quite comfortable. '

'No, no; I don't want to. '

And she suddenly sprang aside, as if scared by the masculine armsoutstretched towards her. Serge called her a big stupid, and tried tocatch her. But at the light touch of his fingers she cried out with suchan expression of pain that he drew back, trembling. 

'I have hurt you?' he said. 

She did not reply for a moment, surprised, herself, at her cry of fear, and already smiling at her own alarm. 

'No; leave me, don't worry me;' and she added in a grave tone, thoughshe tried to feign jocularity: 'you know that I have my tree to lookfor. '

Then Serge began to laugh, and offered to help her in her search. Heconducted himself very gently in order that he might not again alarmher, for he saw that she was even yet trembling, though she had resumedher slow walk beside him. What they were contemplating was forbidden, and could bring them no luck; and he, like her, felt a delightfulawe, which thrilled him at each repeated sigh of the forest trees. Theperfume of the foliage, the soft green light which filtered throughthe leaves, the soughing silence of the undergrowth, filled them withtremulous excitement, as though the next turn of the path might leadthem to some perilous happiness. 

And for hours they walked on under the cool trees. They retained theirreserved attitude towards each other, and scarcely exchanged a word, though they never left each other's side, but went together through thedarkest greenery of the forest. At first their way lay through a jungleof saplings with trunks no thicker than a child's wrist. They had topush them aside, and open a path for themselves through the tendershoots which threw a wavy lacework of foliage before their eyes. Thesaplings closed up again behind them, leaving no trace of their passage, and they struggled on and on at random, ignorant of where they might be, and leaving nothing behind them to mark their progress, save a momentarywaving of shaken boughs. Albine, weary of being unable to see morethan three steps in front of her, was delighted when they at lastfound themselves free of this jungle, whose end they had long tried todiscover. They had now reached a little clearing, whence several narrowpaths, fringed with green hedges, struck out in various directions, twisting hither and thither, intersecting one another, bending andstretching in the most capricious fashion. Albine and Serge rose ontip-toes to peep over the hedges; but they were in no haste, and wouldwillingly have stayed where they were, lost in the mazy windings, without ever getting anywhere, if they had not seen before them theproud lines of the lofty forest trees. They passed at last beneath theirshade, solemnly and with a touch of sacred awe, as when one enters somevaulted cathedral. The straight lichen-stained trunks of the mightytrees, of a dingy grey, like discoloured stone, towered loftily, lineby line, like a far-reaching infinity of columns. Naves opened far away, with lower, narrower aisles; naves strangely bold in their proportions, whose supporting pillars were very slender, richly caned, so finelychiselled that everywhere they allowed a glimpse of the blue heavens. Areligious silence reigned beneath the giant arches, the ground below layhard as stone in its austere nakedness; not a blade of green was there, nought but a ruddy dust of dead leaves. And Serge and Albine listenedto their ringing footsteps as they went on, thrilled by the majesticsolitude of this temple. 

Here, indeed, if anywhere, must be the much-sought tree, beneath whoseshade perfect happiness had made its home. They felt that it was nigh, such was the delight which stole through them amidst the dimness ofthose mighty arches. The trees seemed to be creatures of kindliness, full of strength and silence and happy restfulness. They looked atthem one by one, and they loved them all; and they awaited from theirmajestic tranquillity some revelation whereby they themselves mightgrow, expand into the bliss of strong and perfect life. The maples, the ashes, the hornbeams, the cornels, formed a nation of giants, amultitude full of proud gentleness, who lived in peace, knowing that thefall of any one of them would have sufficed to wreck a whole corner ofthe forest. The elms displayed colossal bodies and limbs full of sap, scarce veiled by light clusters of little leaves. The birches and thealders, delicate as sylphs, swayed their slim figures in the breeze towhich they surrendered the foliage that streamed around them like thelocks of goddesses already half metamorphosed into trees. The planesshot up regularly with glossy tattooed bark, whence scaly fragmentsfell. Down a gentle slope descended the larches, resembling a band ofbarbarians, draped in _sayons_ of woven greenery. But the oaks werethe monarchs of all--the mighty oaks, whose sturdy trunks thrust outconquering arms that barred the sun's approach from all around them;Titan-like trees, oft lightning-struck, thrown back in postures likethose of unconquered wrestlers, with scattered limbs that alone gavebirth to a whole forest. 

Could the tree which Serge and Albine sought be one of those colossaloaks? or was it one of those lovely planes, or one of those pale, maidenly birches, or one of those creaking elms? Albine and Serge stillplodded on, unable to tell, completely lost amongst the crowding trees. For a moment they thought they had found the object of their quest inthe midst of a group of walnut trees from whose thick foliage fellso cold a shadow that they shivered beneath it. Further on they feltanother thrill of emotion as they came upon a little wood of chestnuttrees, green with moss and thrusting out big strange-shaped branches, onwhich one might have built an aerial village. But further still Albinecaught sight of a clearing, whither they both ran hastily. Here, in themidst of a carpet of fine turf, a locust tree had set a very toppling ofgreenery, a foliaged Babel, whose ruins were covered with the strangestvegetation. Stones, sucked up from the ground by the mounting sap, stillremained adhering to the trunk. High branches bent down to earth again, and, taking root, surrounded the parent tree with lofty arches, a nationof new trunks which ever increased and multiplied. Upon the bark, searedwith bleeding wounds, were ripening fruit-pods; the mere effort ofbearing fruit strained the old monster's skin until it split. The youngfolks walked slowly round it, passing under the arched branches whichformed as it were the streets of a city, and stared at the gaping cracksof the naked roots. Then they went off, for they had not felt there thesupernatural happiness they sought. 

'Where are we?' asked Serge. 

Albine did not know. She had never before come to this part of the park. They were now in a grove of cytisus and acacias, from whose clusteringblossoms fell a soft, almost sugary perfume. 'We are quite lost, ' shelaughed. 'I don't know these trees at all. '

'But the garden must come to an end somewhere, ' said Serge. 'When we getto the end, you will know where you are, won't you?'

'No, ' she answered, waving her hands afar. 

They fell into silence; never yet had the vastness of the park filledthem with such pleasure. They joyed at knowing that they were alone inso far-spreading a domain that even they themselves could not reach itslimits. 

'Well, we are lost, ' said Serge, gaily; then humbly drawing near her heinquired: 'You are not afraid, are you?'

'Oh! no. There's no one except you and me in the garden. What could Ibe afraid of? The walls are very high. We can't see them, but they guardus, you know. '

Serge was now quite close to her, and he murmured, 'But a little timeago you were afraid of me. '

She looked him straight in the face, perfectly calm, without the leastfaltering in her glance. 'You hurt me, ' she replied, 'but you aredifferent now. Why should I be afraid of you?'

'Then you will let me hold you like this. We will go back under thetrees. '

'Yes, you may put your arm around me, it makes me feel happy. And we'llwalk slowly, eh? so that we may not find our way again too soon. '

He had passed his arm round her waist, and it was thus that theysauntered back to the shade of the great forest trees, under whosearching vaults they slowly went, with love awakening within them. Albine said that she felt a little tired, and rested her head on Serge'sshoulder. The fabulous tree was now forgotten. They only sought to drawtheir faces nearer together that they might smile in one another's eyes. And it was the trees, the maples, the elms, the oaks, with their softgreen shade, that whisperingly suggested to them the first words oflove. 

'I love you!' said Serge, while his breath stirred the golden hair thatclustered round Albine's temples. He tried to think of other words, buthe could only repeat, 'I love you! I love you!'

Albine listened with a delightful smile upon her face. The music of herheart was in accord with his. 

'I love you! I love you!' she sighed, with all the sweetness of her softyoung voice. 

Then, lifting up her blue eyes, in which the light of love was dawning, she asked, 'How do you love me?'

Serge reflected for a moment. The forest was wrapped in solemn quietude, the lofty naves quivered only with the soft footsteps of the young pair. 

'I love you beyond everything, ' he answered. 'You are more beautifulthan all else that I see when I open my window in the morning. When Ilook at you, I want nothing more. If I could have you only, I should beperfectly happy. '

She lowered her eyes, and swayed her head as if accompanying a strain ofmusic. 'I love you, ' he went on. 'I know nothing about you. I knownot who you are, nor whence you came. You are neither my mother nor mysister; and yet I love you to a point that I have given you my wholeheart and kept nought of it for others. Listen, I love those cheeks ofyours, so soft and satiny; I love your mouth with its rose-sweet breath;I love your eyes, in which I see my own love reflected; I love evenyour eyelashes, even those little veins which blue the whiteness of yourtemples. Ah! yes, I love you, I love you, Albine. '

'And I love you, too, ' she answered. 'You are strong, and tall, andhandsome. I love you, Serge. '

For a moment or two they remained silent, enraptured. It seemed to themthat soft, flute-like music went before them, that their own words camefrom some dulcet orchestra which they could not see. Shorter and shorterbecame their steps as they leaned one towards the other, ever threadingtheir way amidst the mighty trees. Afar off through the long vistaof the colonnades were glimpses of waning sunlight, showing like aprocession of white-robed maidens entering church for a betrothalceremony amid the low strains of an organ. 

'And why do you love me?' asked Albine again. 

He only smiled, and did not answer her immediately; then he said, 'Ilove you because you came to me. That expresses all. . . . Now we aretogether and we love one another. It seems to me that I could not go onliving if I did not love you. You are the very breath of my life. '

He bent his head, speaking almost as though he were in a dream. 

'One does not know all that at first. It grows up in one as one's heartgrows. One has to grow, one has to get strong. . . . Do you remember howwe loved one another though we didn't speak of it? One is childish andsilly at first. Then, one fine day, it all becomes clear, and burstsout. You see, we have nothing to trouble about; we love one anotherbecause our love and our life are one. '

Albine's head was cast back, her eyes were tightly closed, and shescarce drew her breath. Serge's caressing words enraptured her: 'Do youreally, really love me?' she murmured, without opening her eyes. 

Serge remained silent, sorely troubled that he could find nothingfurther to say to prove to her the force of his love. His eyes wanderedover her rosy face, which lay upon his shoulder with the restfulness ofsleep. Her eyelids were soft as silk. Her moist lips were curved into abewitching smile, her brow was pure white, with just a rim of gold belowher hair. He would have liked to give his whole being with the wordwhich seemed to be upon his tongue but which he could not utter. Againhe bent over her, and seemed to consider on what sweet spot of that fairface he should whisper the supreme syllables. But he said nothing, heonly breathed a little sigh. Then he kissed Albine's lips. 

'Albine, I love you!'

'I love you, Serge!'

Then they stopped short, thrilled, quivering with that first love kiss. She had opened her eyes quite widely. He was standing with his lipsprotruding slightly towards hers. They looked at each other without ablush. They felt they were under the influence of some sovereign power. It was like the realisation of a long dreamt-of meeting, in which theybeheld themselves grown, made one for the other, for ever joined. For amoment they remained wondering, raising their eyes to the solemn vaultof greenery above them, questioning the tranquil nation of trees as ifseeking an echo of their kiss. But, beneath the serene complacence ofthe forest, they yielded to prolonged, ringing lovers' gaiety, full ofall the tenderness now born. 

'Tell me how long you have loved me. Tell me everything. Did you love methat day when you lay sleeping upon my hand? Did you love me when I fellout of the cherry tree, and you stood beneath it, stretching out yourarms to catch me, and looking so pale? Did you love me when you tookhold of me round the waist in the meadows to help me over the streams?'

'Hush, let me speak. I have always loved you. And you, did you love me;did you?'

Until the evening closed round them they lived upon that one word'love, ' in which they ever seemed to find some new sweetness. Theybrought it into every sentence, ejaculated it inconsequentially, merelyfor the pleasure they found in pronouncing it. Serge, however, did notthink of pressing a second kiss to Albine's lips. The perfume of thefirst sufficed them in their purity. They had found their way again, orrather had stumbled upon it, for they had paid no attention to the pathsthey took. As they left the forest, twilight had fallen, and the moonwas rising, round and yellow, between the black foliage. It was adelightful walk home through the park, with that discreet luminarypeering at them through the gaps in the big trees. Albine said thatthe moon was surely following them. The night was balmy, warm too withstars. Far away a long murmur rose from the forest trees, and Sergelistened, thinking: 'They are talking of us. '

When they reached the parterre, they passed through an atmosphere ofsweetest perfumes; the perfume of flowers at night, which is richer, more caressing than by day, and seems like the very breath of slumber. 

'Good night, Serge. '

'Good night, Albine. '

They clasped each other by the hand on the landing of the first floor, without entering the room where they usually wished each other goodnight. They did not kiss. But Serge, when he was alone, remained seatedon the edge of his bed, listening to Albine's every movement in the roomabove. He was weary with happiness, a happiness that benumbed his limbs. 

XII

For the next few days Albine and Serge experienced a feeling ofembarrassment. They avoided all allusion to their walk beneaththe trees. They had not again kissed each other, or repeated theirconfession of love. It was not any feeling of shame which had sealedtheir lips, but rather a fear of in any way spoiling their happiness. When they were apart, they lived upon the dear recollection of love'sawakening, plunged into it, passed once more through the happy hourswhich they had spent, with their arms around each other's waist, andtheir faces close together. It all ended by throwing them both into afeverish state. They looked at each other with heavy eyes, and talked, in a melancholy mood, of things that did not interest them in the least. Then, after a long interval of silence, Serge would say to Albine in atone full of anxiety: 'You are ill?'

But she shook her head as she answered, 'No, no. It is you who are notwell; your hands are burning. '

The thought of the park filled them with vague uneasiness which theycould not understand. They felt that danger lurked for them in someby-path, and would seize them and do them hurt. They never spoke aboutthese disquieting thoughts, but certain timid glances revealed to themthe mutual anguish which held them apart as though they were foes. Onemorning, however, Albine ventured, after much hesitation, to say toSerge: 'It is wrong of you to keep always indoors. You will fall illagain. '

Serge laughed in rather an embarrassed way. 'Bah!' he muttered, 'we havebeen everywhere, we know all the garden by heart. '

But Albine shook her head, and in a whisper replied, 'No, no, we don'tknow the rocks, we have never been to the springs. It was there that Iwarmed myself last winter. There are some nooks where the stones seem tobe actually alive. '

The next morning, without having said another word on the subject, theyset out together. They climbed up to the left behind the grotto wherethe marble woman lay slumbering; and as they set foot on the loweststones, Serge remarked: 'We must see everything. Perhaps we shall feelquieter afterwards. '

The day was very hot, there was thunder in the air. They had notventured to clasp each other's waist; but stepped along, one behind theother, glowing beneath the sunlight. Albine took advantage of a wideningof the path to let Serge go on in front; for the warmth of his breathupon her neck troubled her. All around them the rocks arose in broadtiers, storeys of huge flags, bristling with coarse vegetation. Theyfirst came upon golden gorse, clumps of sage, thyme, lavender, and otherbalsamic plants, with sour-berried juniper trees and bitter rosemary, whose strong scent made them dizzy. Here and there the path was hemmedin by holly, that grew in quaint forms like cunningly wrought metalwork, gratings of blackened bronze, wrought iron, and polished copper, elaborately ornamented, covered with prickly _rosaces_. And beforereaching the springs, they had to pass through a pine-wood. Its shadowseemed to weigh upon their shoulders like lead. The dry needles crackledbeneath their feet, throwing up a light resinous dust which burned theirlips. 

'Your garden doesn't make itself very agreeable just here, ' said Serge, turning towards Albine. 

They smiled at each other. They were now near the edge of the springs. The sight of the clear waters brought them relief. Yet these springs didnot hide beneath a covering of verdure, like those that bubble up on theplains and set thick foliage growing around them that they may slumberidly in the shade. They shot up in the full light of day from a cavityin the rock, without a blade of grass near by to tinge the clear waterwith green. Steeped in the sunshine they looked silvery. In their depthsthe sun beat against the sand in a breathing living dust of light. Andthey darted out of their basin like arms of purest white, they reboundedlike nude infants at play, and then suddenly leapt down in a waterfallwhose curve suggested a woman's breast. 

'Dip your hands in, ' cried Albine; 'the water is icy cold at thebottom. '

They were indeed able to refresh their hot hands. They threw water overtheir faces too, and lingered there amidst the spray which rose up fromthe streaming springs. 

'Look, ' cried Albine; 'look, there is the garden, and there are themeadows and the forest. '

For a moment they looked at the Paradou spread out beneath their feet. 

'And you see, ' she added, 'there isn't the least sign of any wall. Thewhole country belongs to us, right up to the sky. '

By this time, almost unawares, they had slipped their arms round eachother's waist. The coolness of the springs had soothed their feverishdisquietude. But just as they were going away, Albine seemed to recallsomething and led Serge back again, saying:

'Down there, below the rocks, a long time ago, I once saw the wall. '

'But there is nothing to be seen, ' replied Serge, turning a little pale. 

'Yes, yes; it must be behind that avenue of chestnut trees on the otherside of those bushes. '

Then, on feeling Serge's arm tremble, she added: 'But perhaps I ammistaken. . . . Yet I seem to remember that I suddenly came upon it as Ileft the avenue. It stopped my way, and was so high that I felt a littleafraid. And a few steps farther on, I came upon another surprise. Therewas a huge hole in it, through which I could see the whole countryoutside. '

Serge looked at her with entreaty in his eyes. She gave a little shrugof her shoulders to reassure him, and went on: 'But I stopped the holeup; I have told you that we are quite alone, and we are. I stopped it upat once. I had my knife with me, and I cut down some brambles androlled up some big stones. I would defy even a sparrow to force its waythrough. If you like, we will go and look at it one of these days, andthen you will be satisfied. '

But he shook his head. Then they went away together, still holding eachother by the waist; but they had grown anxious once more. Serge gazeddown askance at Albine's face, and she felt perturbed beneath hisglance. They would have liked to go down again at once, and thus escapethe uneasiness of a longer walk. But, in spite of themselves, as thoughimpelled by some stronger power, they skirted a rocky cliff and reacheda table-land, where once more they found the intoxication of the fullsunlight. They no longer inhaled the soft languid perfumes of aromaticplants, the musky scent of thyme, and the incense of lavender. Now theywere treading a foul-smelling growth under foot; wormwood with bitter, penetrating smell; rue that reeked like putrid flesh; and hot valerian, clammy with aphrodisiacal exudations. Mandragoras, hemlocks, hellebores, dwales, poured forth their odours, and made their heads swim till theyreeled and tottered one against the other. 

'Shall I hold you up?' Serge asked Albine, as he felt her leaningheavily upon him. 

He was already pressing her in his arms, but she struggled out of hisgrasp, and drew a long breath. 

'No; you stifle me, ' she said. 'Leave me alone. I don't know what is thematter with me. The ground seems to give way under my feet. It is thereI feel the pain. '

She took hold of his hand and laid it upon her breast. Then Serge turnedquite pale. He was even more overcome than she. And both had tears intheir eyes as they saw each other thus ill and troubled, unable to thinkof a remedy for the evil which had fallen upon them. Were they going todie here of that mysterious, suffocating faintness?

'Come and sit down in the shade, ' said Serge. 'It is these plants whichare poisoning us with their noxious odours. '

He led her gently along by her finger-tips, for she shivered andtrembled when he but touched her wrist. It was beneath a fine cedar, whose level roof-like branches spread nearly a dozen yards around, thatshe seated herself. Behind grew various quaint conifers; cypresses, withsoft flat foliage that looked like heavy lace; spruce firs, erect andsolemn, like ancient druidical pillars, still black with the blood ofsacrificed victims; yews, whose dark robes were fringed with silver;evergreen trees of all kinds, with thick-set foliage, dark leatheryverdure, splashed here and there with yellow and red. There was aweird-looking araucaria that stood out strangely with large regulararms resembling reptiles grafted one on the other, and bristling withimbricated leaves that suggested the scales of an excited serpent. Inthis heavy shade, the warm air lulled one to voluptuous drowsiness. Theatmosphere slept, breathless; and a perfume of Eastern love, the perfumethat came from the painted lips of the Shunamite, was exhaled by theodorous trees. 

'Are you not going to sit down?' said Albine. 

And she slipped a little aside to make room for him; but Serge steppedback and remained standing. Then, as she renewed her request, he droppedupon his knees, a little distance away, and said, softly: 'No, I am morefeverish even than you are; I should make you hot. If I wasn't afraid ofhurting you, I would take you in my arms, and clasp you so tightly thatwe should no longer feel any pain. '

He dragged himself nearer to her on his knees. 

'Oh! to have you in my arms! In the night I awake from dreams in whichI see you near me; but, alas! you are ever far away. There seems to besome wall built up between us which I can never beat down. And yet I amnow quite strong again; I could catch you up in my arms and swing youover my shoulder, and carry you off as though you belonged to me. '

He had let himself sink upon his elbows, in an attitude of deepadoration. And he breathed a kiss upon the hem of Albine's skirt. But atthis the girl sprang up, as though it was she herself that had receivedthe kiss. She hid her brow with her hands, perturbed, quivering, andstammering forth: 'Don't! don't! I beg of you. Let us go on. '

She did not hurry away, but let Serge follow her as she walked slowlyon, stumbling against the roots of the plants, and with her hands stillclasped round her head, as though to check the excitement that thrilledher. When they came out of the little wood, they took a few steps overledges of rocks, on which a whole nation of ardent fleshy plants wassquatting. It was like a crawling, writhing assemblage of hideousnameless monsters such as people a nightmare; monsters akin to spiders, caterpillars, and wood-lice, grown to gigantic proportions, some withbare glaucous skins, others tufted with filthy matted hairs, whilst manyhad sickly limbs--dwarf legs, and shrivelled, palsied arms--sprawlingaround them. And some displayed horrid dropsical bellies; some hadspines bossy with hideous humps, and others looked like dislocatedskeletons. Mamillaria threw up living pustules, a crawling swarm ofgreenish tortoises, bristling hideously with long hairs that werestiffer than iron. The echinocacti, which showed more flesh, suggestednests of young writhing, knotted vipers. The echinopses were mereexcrescent red-haired growths that made one think of huge insects rolledinto balls. The prickly-pears spread out fleshy leaves spotted withruddy spikes that resembled swarms of microscopic bees. The gasteriassprawled about like big shepherd-spiders turned over on their backs, with long-speckled and striated legs. The cacti of the cereus familyshowed a horrid vegetation, huge polyps, the diseases of an overheatedsoil, the maladies of poisoned sap. But the aloes, languidly unfoldingtheir hearts, were particularly numerous and conspicuous. Among themone found every possible tint of green, pale green and vivid, yellowishgreen and greyish, browny green, dashed with a ruddy tone, and deepgreen, fringed with pale gold. And the shapes of their leaves were asvaried as their tints. Some were broad and heart-shaped, others werelong and narrow like sword-blades; some bristled with spikey thorns, while yet others looked as though they had been cunningly hemmed at theedges. There were giant ones, in lonely majesty, with flower stalks thattowered up aloft like poles wreathed with rosy coral; and there weretiny ones clustering thickly together on one and the same stem, andthrowing forth on all sides leaves that gleamed and quivered likeadders' tongues. 

'Let us go back to the shade, ' begged Serge. 'You can sit down there asyou did just now, and I will lie at your feet and talk to you. '

Where they stood the sun rays fell like torrential rain. It was as ifthe triumphant orb seized upon the shadowless ground, and strained itto his blazing breast. Albine grew faint, staggered, and turned to Sergefor support. 

But the moment they felt each other's touch, they fell together withouteven a word. It was as though the very rock beneath them had opened, asthough they were ever going down and down. Their hands sought each othercaressingly, embracingly, but such keen anguish did they experiencethat they suddenly tore themselves apart, and fled, each in a differentdirection. Serge did not cease running till he had reached the pavilion, and had thrown himself upon his bed, his brain on fire, and despair inhis heart. Albine did not return till nightfall, after hours of weepingin a corner of the garden. It was the first time that they had notreturned home together, tired after their long wanderings. For threedays they kept apart, feeling terribly unhappy. 

XIII

Yet now the park was entirely their own. They had taken sovereignpossession of it. There was not a corner of it that was not theirs touse as they willed. For them alone the thickets of roses put forth theirblossoms, and the parterre exhaled its soft perfume, which lulled themto sleep as they lay at night with their windows open. The orchardprovided them with food, filling Albine's skirts with fruits, andspread over them the shade of its perfumed boughs, under which it wasso pleasant to breakfast in the early morning. Away in the meadows thegrass and the streams were all theirs; the grass, which extended theirkingdom to such boundless distance, spreading an endless silky carpetbefore them; and the streams, which were the best of their joys, emblematic of their own purity and innocence, ever offering themcoolness and freshness in which they delighted to bathe their youth. Theforest, too, was entirely theirs, from the mighty oaks, which ten mencould not have spanned, to the slim birches which a child might havesnapped; the forest, with all its trees, all its shade, all its avenuesand clearings, its cavities of greenery, of which the very birdsthemselves were ignorant; the forest which they used as they listed, as if it were a giant canopy, beneath which they might shelter from thenoontide heat their new-born love. They reigned everywhere, even amongthe rocks and the springs, even over that gruesome stretch of groundthat teemed with such hideous growth, and which had seemed to sink andgive way beneath their feet, but which they loved yet even more thanthe soft grassy couches of the garden, for the strange thrill of passionthey had felt there. 

Thus, now, in front of them, behind them, to the right of them andto the left, all was theirs. They had gained possession of the wholedomain, and they walked through a friendly expanse which knew them, andsmiled kindly greetings to them as they passed, devoting itself to theirpleasure, like a faithful and submissive servitor. The sky, with itsvast canopy of blue overhead, was also theirs to enjoy. The park wallscould not enclose it, their eyes could ever revel in its beauty, and itentered into the joy of their life, at daytime with its triumphal sun, at night with its golden rain of stars. At every moment of the day itdelighted them afresh, its expression ever varying. In the early morningit was pale as a maiden just risen from her slumber; at noon, it wasflushed, radiant as with a longing for fruitfulness, and in theevening it became languid and breathless, as after keen enjoyment. Itscountenance was constantly changing. Particularly in the evenings, atthe hour of parting, did it delight them. The sun, hastening towards thehorizon, ever found a fresh smile. Sometimes he disappeared in themidst of serene calmness, unflecked by a single cloud, sinking graduallybeneath a golden sea. At other times he threw out crimson glories, torehis vaporous robe to shreds, and set amidst wavy flames that streakedthe skies like the tails of gigantic comets, whose radiant heads lit upthe crests of the forest trees. Then, again, extinguishing his raysone by one, he would softly sink to rest on shores of ruddy sand, far-reaching banks of blushing coral; and then, some other night, hewould glide away demurely behind a heavy cloud that figured the greyhangings of some alcove, through which the eye could only detect a sparklike that of a night-light. Or else he would rush to his couch ina tumult of passion, rolled round with white forms which graduallycrimsoned beneath his fiery embraces, and finally disappeared with himbelow the horizon in a confused chaos of gleaming, struggling limbs. 

It was only the plants which had not made their submission. Albine andSerge passed like monarchs through the kingdom of animals, who renderedthem humble and loyal obeisance. When they crossed the parterre, flightsof butterflies arose to delight their eyes, to fan them with quiveringwings, and to follow in their train like living sunbeams or flyingblossoms. In the orchard, they were greeted by the birds that banquetedin the fruit-trees. The sparrows, the chaffinches, the golden orioles, the bullfinches, showed them the ripest fruit scarred by their hungrybeaks; and while they sat astride the branches and breakfasted, birdstwittered and sported round them like children at play, and evenpurloined the fruit beneath their very feet. Albine found even moreamusement in the meadows, where she caught the little green frogswith eyes of gold, that lay squatting amongst the reeds, absorbed incontemplation; while Serge, with a piece of straw, poked the cricketsout of their hiding-places, or tickled the grasshoppers to make themsing. He picked up insects of all colours, blue ones, red ones, yellowones, and set them creeping upon his sleeve, where they gleamed andglittered like buttons of sapphire and ruby and topaz. 

Then there was all the mysterious life of the streams; the grey-backedfishes that threaded the dim waters, the eels whose presence wasbetrayed by a slight quivering of the water-plants, the young fry, whichdispersed like blackish sand at the slightest sound, the long-leggedflies and the water-beetles that ruffled into circling silvery ripplesthe stagnant surface of the pools; all that silent teeming life whichdrew them to the water and impelled them to dabble and stand in it, sothat they might feel those millions of existences ever and ever glidingpast their limbs. At other times, when the day was hot and languid, theywould betake themselves beneath the voiceful shade of the forest andlisten to the serenades of their musicians, the clear fluting of thenightingales, the silvery bugle-notes of the tomtits, and the far-offaccompaniment of the cuckoos. They gazed with delight upon the swiftflight of the pheasants, whose plumes gleamed like sudden sun raysamidst the branches, and with a smile they stayed their steps to let atroop of young roebucks bound past, or else a couple of grave stags thatslackened their pace to look at them. Again, on other days they wouldclimb up amongst the rocks, when the sun was blazing in the heavens, and find a pleasure in watching the swarms of grasshoppers which at thesound of their footsteps arose with a great crepitation of wings fromthe beds of thyme. The snakes that lay uncoiled beneath the parchedbushes, or the lizards that sprawled over the red-hot stones, watchedthem with friendly eyes. 

Of all the life that thus teemed round them in the park, Albine andSerge had only become really conscious since the day when a kiss hadawakened them to life themselves. Now it deafened them at times, andspoke to them in a language which they did not understand. It was thatlife--all the voices of the animal creation, all the perfumes and softshadows of the flowers and trees--which perturbed them to such a pointas to make them angry with one another. And yet throughout the wholepark they found nothing but loving familiarity. Every plant and everycreature was their friend. All the Paradou was one great caress. 

Before they had come thither, the sun had for a whole century reignedover it in lonely majesty. The garden, then, had known no other master;it had beheld him, every morning, scaling the boundary wall with hisslanting rays, at noontide it had seen him pour his vertical heat uponthe panting soil; and at evening it had seen him go off, on the otherside, with a kiss of farewell upon its foliage. And so the garden hadno shyness; it welcomed Albine and Serge, as it had so long welcomedthe sun, as pleasant companions, with whom one puts on no ceremony. The animals, the trees, the streams, the rocks, all continued in anunrestrained state of nature, speaking aloud, living openly, without asecret, displaying the innocent shamelessness, the hearty tenderness ofthe world's first days. Serge and Albine, however, suffered from thesevoluptuous surroundings, and at times felt minded to curse the garden. On the afternoon when Albine had wept so bitterly after their saunteramongst the rocks, she had called out to the Paradou, whose intensity oflife and passion filled her with distress:

'If you really be our friend, why, why do you make us so wretched?'

XIV

The next morning Serge barricaded himself in his room. The perfume fromthe garden irritated him. He drew the calico curtains closely across thewindow to shut out the sight of the park. Perhaps he thought he mightrecover all his old serenity and calm if he shut himself off from thatgreenery, whose shade sent such passionate thrills quivering throughhim. 

During the long hours they spent together, Albine and he never now spokeof the rocks or the streams, the trees or the sky. The Paradou might nolonger have been in existence. They strove to forget it. And yet theywere all the time conscious of its presence on the other side ofthose slight curtains. Scented breezes forced their way in through theinterstices of the window frame, the many voices of nature madethe panes resound. All the life of the park laughed, chattered, andwhispered in ambush beneath their window. As it reached them theircheeks would pale and they would raise their voices, seeking someoccupation which might prevent them from hearing it. 

'Have you noticed, ' said Serge one morning during these uneasyintervals, 'there is a painting of a woman over the door there? She islike you. '

He laughed noisily as he finished speaking. They both turned to thepaintings and dragged the table once more alongside the wall, with anervous desire to occupy themselves. 

'Oh! no, ' murmured Albine. 'She is much fatter than I am. But one can'tsee her very well; her position is so queer. '

They relapsed into silence. From the decayed, faded painting a scene, which they had never before noticed, now showed forth. It was as if thepicture had taken shape and substance again beneath the influence ofthe summer heat. You could sea a nymph with arms thrown back and pliantfigure on a bed of flowers which had been strewn for her by youngcupids, who, sickle in hand, ever added fresh blossoms to her rosycouch. And nearer, you could also see a cloven-hoofed faun who hadsurprised her thus. But Albine repeated, 'No, she is not like me, she isvery plain. '

Serge said nothing. He looked at the girl and then at Albine, as thoughhe were comparing them one with the other. Albine pulled up one of hersleeves, as if to show that her arm was whiter than that of the picturedgirl. Then they subsided into silence again, and gazed at the painting;and for a moment Albine's large blue eyes turned to Serge's grey ones, which were glowing. 

'You have got all the room painted again, then?' she cried, as shesprang from the table. 'These people look as though they were all comingto life again. '

They began to laugh, but there was a nervous ring about their merrimentas they glanced at the nude and frisking cupids which started tolife again on all the panels. They no longer took those survivals ofvoluptuous eighteenth century art to represent mere children at play. They were disturbed by the sight of them, and as Albine felt Serge's hotbreath on her neck she started and left his side to seat herself on thesofa. 'They frighten me, ' she murmured. 'The men are like robbers, and the women, with their dying eyes, look like people who are beingmurdered. '

Serge sat down in a chair, a little distance away, and began to talk ofother matters. But they remained uneasy. They seemed to think that allthose painted figures were gazing at them. It was as if the troopingcupids were springing out of the panelling, casting the flowers theyheld around them, and threatening to bind them together with the blueribbons which already enchained two lovers in one corner of the ceiling. And the whole story of the nymph and her faun lover, from his first peepat her to his triumph among the flowers, seemed to burst into warm life. Were all those lovers, all those impudent shameless cupids about to stepdown from their panels and crowd around them? They already seemed tohear their panting sighs, and to feel their breath filling the spaciousroom with the perfume of voluptuousness. 

'It's quite suffocating, isn't it?' sighed Albine. 'In spite of everyairing I have given it, the room has always seemed close to me!

'The other night, ' said Serge, 'I was awakened by such a penetratingperfume, that I called out to you, thinking you had come into the room. It was just like the soft warmth of your hair when you have decked itwith heliotropes. . . . In the earlier times it seemed to be wafted to mefrom a distance, it was like the lingering memory of a perfume; but nowI can't sleep for it, and it is so strong and penetrating that it quitestupefies me. The alcove grows so hot, too, at night that I shall beobliged to lie on the couch. '

Albine laid her fingers on her lips, and whispered, 'It is the deadgirl--she who once lived here. '

They sniffed the odorous air with forced gaiety, but in reality feelingvery troubled. Certainly never before had the room exhaled such adisquieting aroma. The very walls seemed to be still echoing the faintrustling of perfumed skirts; and the floor had retained the fragranceof satin slippers dropped by the bedside, and near the head of the beditself Serge thought he could trace the imprint of a little hand, whichhad left behind it a clinging scent of violets. Over all the furniturethe phantom presence of the dead girl still lingered fragrantly. 

'See, this is the armchair where she used to sit, ' cried Albine; 'thereis the scent of her shoulders at the back of it yet. '

She sat down in it herself, and bade Serge drop upon his knees and kissher hand. 

'You remember the day when I first let you in and said, "Good morrow, my dear lord!" But that wasn't all, was it? He kissed her hands when thedoor was closed. There they are, my hands. They are yours. '

Then they tried to resume their old frolics in order that they mightforget the Paradou, whose joyous murmur they heard ever rising outside, and that they might no longer think of the pictures nor yield to thelanguor-breathing influence of the room. Albine put on an affectedmanner, leant back in her chair, and finally laughed at the foolishfigure which Serge made at her feet. 

'You stupid!' she said, 'take me round the waist, and say pretty thingsto me, since you are supposed to be in love with me. Don't you know howto make love then?'

But as soon as she felt him clasp her with eager impetuosity, she beganto struggle, and freed herself from his embrace. 

'No, no; leave me alone. I can't bear it. I feel as though I werechoking in this room. '

From that day forward they felt the same kind of fear for the room asthey already felt for the garden. Their one remaining harbour of refugewas now a place to be shunned and dreaded, a spot where they could nolonger find themselves together without watching each other furtively. Albine now scarcely ventured to enter it, but remained near thethreshold, with the door wide open behind her so as to afford her animmediate retreat. Serge lived there in solitude, a prey to sickeningrestlessness, half-stifling, lying on the couch and vainly trying toclose his ears to the sighs of the soughing park and his nostrils tothe haunting fragrance of the old furniture. At night he dreamt wildpassionate dreams, which left him in the morning nervous and disquieted. He believed that he was falling ill again, that he would never recoverplenitude of health. For days and days he remained there in silence, with dark rings round his sleepy eyes, only starting into wakefulnesswhen Albine came to visit him. They would remain face to face, gazingat one another sadly, and uttering but a few soft words, which seemed tochoke them. Albine's eyes were even darker than Serge's, and were filledwith an imploring gaze. 

Then, after a week had gone by, Albine's visit never lasted more thana few minutes. She seemed to shun him. When she came to the room, sheappeared thoughtful, remained standing, and hurried off as soon aspossible. When he questioned her about this change in her demeanourtowards him, and reproached her for no longer being friendly, she turnedher head away and avoided replying. He never could get her to tell himhow she spent the mornings that she passed alone. She would onlyshake her head, and talk about being very idle. If he pressed hermore closely, she bounded out of the room, just wishing him a hastygood-night as she disappeared through the doorway. He often noticed, however, that she had been crying. He observed, too, in her expressionthe phases of a hope that was never fulfilled, the perpetual strugglingof a desire eager to be satisfied. Sometimes she seemed quiteoverwhelmed with melancholy, dragging herself about with an air of utterdiscouragement, like one who no longer had any pleasure in living. Atother times she laughed lightly, her face shone with an expression oftriumphant hope, of which, however, she would not yet speak, and herfeet could not remain still, so eager was she to dart away to whatseemed to her some last certainty. But on the following day, she wouldsink again into desperation, to soar afresh on the morrow on the pinionsof renewed hope. One thing which she could not conceal from Serge wasthat she suffered from extreme lassitude. Even during the few momentsthey spent together she could not prevent her head from nodding, or keepherself from dozing off. 

Serge, recognising that she was unwilling to reply, had ceased toquestion her; and, when she now entered his room, he contented himselfwith casting an anxious glance at her, fearful lest some evening sheshould no longer have strength enough to come to him. Where could shethus reduce herself to such exhaustion? What perpetual struggle was itthat brought about those alternations of joy and despair? One morninghe started at the sound of a light footfall beneath his window. Itcould not be a roe venturing abroad in that manner. Moreover he couldrecognise that light footfall. Albine was wandering about the Paradouwithout him. It was from the Paradou that she returned to him with allthose hopes and fears and inward wrestlings, all that lassitude whichwas killing her. And he could well guess what she was seeking out there, alone in the woody depths, with all the silent obstinacy of a woman whohas vowed to effect her purpose. After that he used to listen for hersteps. He dared not draw aside the curtain and watch her as she hurriedalong through the trees; but he experienced strange, almost painfulemotion, in listening to ascertain what direction she took, whether sheturned to right or to left, whether she went straight on through theflower-beds, and how far her ramble extended. Amidst all the noisy lifeof the Paradou, amidst the soughing chorus of the trees, the rustling ofthe streams, and the ceaseless songs of the birds, he could distinguishthe gentle pit-pat of her shoes so plainly that he could have toldwhether she was stepping over the gravel near the rivers, the crumblingmould of the forest, or the bare ledges of the rocks. In time he evenlearned to tell, from the sound of her nervous footfall, whether shecame back hopeful or depressed. As soon as he heard her step on thestaircase, he hurried from the window, and he never let her know thathe had thus followed her from afar in her wanderings. But she must haveguessed it, for with a glance she always afterwards told him where shehad been. 

'Stay indoors, and don't go out, ' he begged her, with clasped hands, one morning when he saw her still unrecovered from the fatigue of theprevious day. 'You drive me to despair. '

But she hastened away in irritation. The garden, now that it rang withAlbine's footfalls, seemed to have a more depressing influence than everupon Serge. The pit-pat of her feet was yet another voice that calledhim; an imperious voice that echoed ever more and more loudly withinhim. He closed his ears and tried to shut out the sound, but the distantfootsteps still echoed to him in the throbbings of his heart. And whenshe came back, in the evening, it was the whole park that came back withher, with the memories of their walks together, and of the slow dawn oftheir love, in the midst of conniving nature. She seemed to have growntaller and graver, mellowed, matured by her solitary rambles. Therewas nothing left in her of the frolicsome child, and his teeth wouldsuddenly set at times when he looked at her and beheld her so desirable. 

One day, about noon, Serge heard Albine returning in hot haste. He hadrestrained himself from listening for her steps when she went away. Usually, she did not return till late, and he was amazed at herimpetuosity as she sped along, forcing her way through the branches thatbarred her path. As she passed beneath his window, he heard her laugh;and as she mounted the stairway, she panted so heavily that he almostthought he could feel her hot breath streaming against his face. Shethrew the door wide open, and cried out: 'I have found it!'

Then she sat down and repeated softly, breathlessly: 'I have found it! Ihave found it!'

Serge, distracted, laid his fingers on her lips, and stammered: 'Don'ttell me anything, I beg you. I want to know nothing of it. It will killme, if you speak. '

Then she sank into silence with gleaming eyes and lips tightly pressedlest the words she kept back should spring out in spite of her. Andshe stayed in the room till evening, trying to meet Serge's glance, andimparting to him, each time that their eyes met, something of that whichshe had discovered. Her whole face beamed with radiance, she exhaled adelicious odour, she was full of life; and Serge felt that she permeatedhim through all his senses. Despairingly did he struggle against thisgradual invasion of his being. 

On the morrow she returned to his room as soon as she was up. 

'Aren't you going out?' he asked, conscious that he would be vanquishedshould she remain there. 

'No, ' she said; she wasn't going out any more. As by degrees sherecovered from her fatigue he felt her becoming stronger, moretriumphant. She would soon be able to take him by the hand and drag himto that spot, whose charm her silence proclaimed so loudly. That day, however, she did not speak; she contented herself with keeping himseated on a cushion at her feet. It was not till the next morningthat she ventured to say: 'Why do you shut yourself up here? It is sopleasant under the trees. '

He rose from her feet, and stretched out his arms entreatingly. But shelaughed at him. 

'Well, well, then, we won't go out, since you would rather not. . . . But this room has such a strange scent, and we should be much morecomfortable in the garden. It is very wrong of you to have taken such adislike to it. '

He had again settled himself at her feet in silence, his eyelidslowered, his features quivering with passionate emotion. 

'We won't go out, ' she repeated, 'so don't worry. But do you reallyprefer these pictures to the grass and flowers in the park? Do youremember all we saw together? It is these paintings which make us feelso unhappy. They are a nuisance, always looking and watching us as theydo. '

As Serge gradually leant more closely against her, she passed her armround his neck and laid his head upon her lap, while murmuring in yet alower tone: 'There is a little corner there I know, where we might beso very happy. Nothing would trouble us there; the fresh air would coolyour feverishness. '

Then she stopped, as she felt him quivering. She was afraid lest shemight again revive his old fears. But she gradually conquered him merelyby the caressing gaze of her blue eyes. His eyelids were now raised, andhe rested there quietly, wholly hers, his tremor past. 

'Ah! if you only knew!' she softly breathed; and seeing that hecontinued to smile, she went on boldly: 'It is all a lie; it is notforbidden. You are a man now and ought not to be afraid. If we wentthere, and any danger threatened me, you would protect me, you woulddefend me, would you not? You could carry me off on your back, couldn'tyou? I am never the least afraid when I have you with me. Look howstrong your arms have grown. What is there for any one with such strongarms as yours to be afraid of?'

She caressed him beguilingly as she spoke, stroking his hair and neckand shoulders with her hand. 

'No, it is not forbidden, ' she resumed. 'That is only a story forstupids, and was invented, long ago, by some one who didn't want to bedisturbed in the most charming spot in the whole garden. As soon asyou sat down on that grassy carpet, you would be happy and well again. Listen, then, come with me. '

He shook his head but without any sign of vexation, as though indeed heliked thus being teased. Then after a short silence, grieved to see herpouting, and longing for a renewal of her caresses, he opened his lipsand asked: 'Where is it?'

She did not answer him immediately. Her eyes seemed to be wandering faraway: 'It is over yonder, ' she murmured at last. 'I cannot explain toyou clearly. One has to go down the long avenue, and then to turn tothe left, and then again to the left. We must have passed it at least ascore of times. You might look for it for ever without finding it, ifI didn't go with you to show you. I could find my way to it quitestraight, though I could never explain it to you. '

'And who took you there?'

'I don't know. That morning the trees and plants seemed to drive methere. The long branches pushed me on, the grass bent down before meinvitingly, the paths seemed to open expressly for me to take them. AndI believe the animals themselves helped to lead me there, for I saw astag trotting on before me as though he wanted me to follow; while acompany of bullfinches flitted on from tree to tree, and warned me withtheir cries whenever I was about to take a wrong direction. '

'And is it very beautiful?'

Again she did not reply. Deep ecstasy filled her eyes; at last, when shewas able to speak again, she said: 'Ah! so beautiful, that I couldnever tell you of it. I was so charmed that I was conscious only ofsome supreme joy, which I could not name, falling from the leaves andslumbering amid the grass. And I ran back here to take you along with methat I might not be without you. '

Then she clasped her arms round his neck again, and entreated himpassionately, her lips almost pressed to his own. 

'Oh! you will come!' she stammered; 'you must come; you will make me somiserable if you don't. You can't want me to be miserable. . . . And evenif you knew that you would die there, even if that shade should be fatalto both of us, would you hesitate or cast a regretful look behind? Weshould remain there, at the foot of the tree, and sleep on quietly forever, in one anther's arms. Ah! would it not be bliss indeed?'

'Yes, yes!' he stammered, transported by her passionate entreaties. 

'But we shall not die, ' she continued, raising her voice, and laughingwith the laugh which proclaims woman's victory; 'we shall live to loveeach other. It is a tree of life, a tree whose shadow will make usstronger, more perfect, more complete. You will see that all will now gohappily. Some blessed joy will assuredly descend on us from heaven! Willyou come?'

His face paled, and his eyelids quivered, as though too powerful a lightwere suddenly beating against them. 

'Will you come? will you come?' she cried again, yet more passionately, and already half rising to her feet. 

He sprang up and followed her, at first with tottering steps and thenwith his arm thrown round her waist, as if he could endure no separationfrom her. He went where she went, carried along in the warm fragrancethat streamed from her hair. And as he thus remained slightly in therear, she turned upon him a face so radiant with love, such temptinglips and eyes, which so imperiously bade him follow, that he would havegone with her anywhere, trusting and unquestioning, like a dog. 

XV

They went down and out into the garden without the smile fading fromSerge's face. All that he saw of the greenery around him was such as wasreflected in the clear depths of Albine's eyes. As they approached, thegarden smiled and smiled again, a murmur of content sped from leaf toleaf and from bough to bough to the furthest depths of the avenues. Fordays and days the garden must have been hoping and expecting to see themthus, clinging to one another, making their peace again with the treesand searching for their lost love on the grassy banks. A solemn warningbreath sighed through the branches; the afternoon sky was drowsy withheat; the plants raised their bowing heads to watch them pass. 

'Listen, ' whispered Albine. 'They drop into silence as we come nearthem; but over yonder they are expecting us, they are telling each otherthe way they must lead us. . . . I told you we should have no trouble aboutthe paths, the trees themselves will direct us with their spreadingarms. '

The whole park did, indeed, appear to be impelling them gently onward. In their rear it seemed as if a barrier of brush-wood had bristled upto prevent them from retracing their steps; while, in front of them, thegrassy lawns spread out so invitingly, that they glided along the softslopes, without thought of choosing their way. 

'And the birds are coming with us, too, ' said Albine. 'It is the tomtitsthis time. Don't you see them? They are skimming over the hedges, andthey stop at each turning to see that we don't lose our way. ' Then sheadded: 'All the living things of the park are with us. Can't you hearthem? There is a deep rustling close behind us. It is the birds inthe trees, the insects in the grass, the roebucks and the stags in thecoppices, and even the little fishes splashing the quiet water withtheir beating fins. Don't turn round, or you will frighten them. Ah! Iam sure we have a rare train behind us. '

They still walked on, unfatigued. Albine spoke only to charm Serge withthe music of her voice, while Serge obeyed the slightest pressure of herhand. They knew not what they passed, but they were certain that theywere going straight towards their goal. And as they went along, thegarden became gradually graver, more discreet; the soughing of thebranches died away, the streams hushed their plashing waters, the birds, the beasts, and the insects fell into silence. All around them reignedsolemn stillness. 

Then Albine and Serge instinctively raised their heads. In front of themthey beheld a colossal mass of foliage; and, as they hesitated for amoment, a roe, after gazing at them with its sweet soft eyes, boundedinto the thickets. 

'It is there, ' said Albine. 

She led the way, her face again turned towards Serge, whom she drew withher, and they disappeared amid the quivering leaves, and all grew quietagain. They were entering into delicious peace. 

In the centre there stood a tree covered with so dense a foliage thatone could not recognise its species. It was of giant girth, with a trunkthat seemed to breathe like a living breast, and far-reaching boughsthat stretched like protecting arms around it. It towered up therebeautiful, strong, virile, and fruitful. It was the king of the garden, the father of the forest, the pride of the plants, the beloved of thesun, whose earliest and latest beams smiled daily on its crest. From itsgreen vault poured all the joys of creation: fragrance of flowers, musicof birds, gleams of golden light, wakeful freshness of dawn, slumbrouswarmth of evening twilight. So strong was the sap that it burst throughthe very bark, bathing the tree with the powers of fruitfulness, makingit the symbol of earth's virility. Its presence sufficed to give theclearing an enchanting charm. The other trees built up around it animpenetrable wall, which isolated it as in a sanctuary of silenceand twilight. There was but greenery there, not a scrap of sky, not aglimpse of horizon; nothing but a swelling rotunda, draped with greensilkiness of leaves, adorned below with mossy velvet. And one entered, as into the liquid crystal of a source, a greenish limpidity, a sheetof silver reposing beneath reflected reeds. Colours, perfumes, sounds, quivers, all were vague, indeterminate, transparent, steeped in afelicity amidst which everything seemed to faint away. Languorouswarmth, the glimmer of a summer's night, as it fades on the bareshoulder of some fair girl, a scarce perceptible murmur of love sinkinginto silence, lingered beneath the motionless branches, unstirred by theslightest zephyr. It was hymeneal solitude, a chamber where Nature layhidden in the embraces of the sun. 

Albine and Serge stood there in an ecstasy of joy. As soon as the treehad received them beneath its shade, they felt eased of all the anxiousdisquiet which had so long distressed them. The fears which had madethem avoid each other, the fierce wrestling of spirit which had tornand wounded them, without consciousness on their part of what they werereally contending against, vanished, and left them in perfect peace. Absolute confidence, supreme serenity, now pervaded them, they yieldedunhesitatingly to the joy of being together in that lonely nook, so completely hidden from the outside world. They had surrenderedthemselves to the garden, they awaited in all calmness the behests ofthat tree of life. It enveloped them in such ecstasy of love that thewhole clearing seemed to disappear from before their eyes, and to leavethem wrapped in an atmosphere of perfume. 

'The air is like ripe fruit, ' murmured Albine. 

And Serge whispered in his turn: 'The grass seems so full of life andmotion, that I could almost think I was treading on your dress. '

It was a kind of religious feeling which made them lower their voices. No sentiment of curiosity impelled them to raise their heads and scanthe tree. The consciousness of its majesty weighed heavily upon them. With a glance Albine asked whether she had overrated the enchantment ofthe greenery, and Serge answered her with two tears that trickleddown his cheeks. The joy that filled them at being there could not beexpressed in words. 

'Come, ' she whispered in his ear, in a voice that was softer than asigh. 

And she glided on in front of him, and seated herself at the very footof the tree. Then, with a fond smile, she stretched out her hands tohim; while he, standing before her, grasped them in his own with aresponsive smile. Then she drew him slowly towards her and he sank downby her side. 

'Ah! do you remember, ' he said, 'that wall which seemed to have grown upbetween us? Now there is nothing to keep us apart--you are not unhappynow?'

'No, no, ' she answered; 'very happy. '

For a moment they relapsed into silence whilst soft emotion stole overthem. Then Serge, caressing Albine, exclaimed: 'Your face is mine; youreyes, your mouth, your cheeks are mine. Your arms are mine, from yourshoulders to the tips of your nails. You are wholly mine. ' And as hespoke he kissed her lips, her eyes, her cheeks. He kissed her arms, withquick short kisses, from her fingers to her shoulders. He poured uponher a rain of kisses hot as a summer shower, deluging her cheeks, herforehead, her lips, and her neck. 

'But if you are mine, I am yours, ' said he; 'yours for ever; for I nowwell know that you are my queen, my sovereign, whom I must worshipon bended knee. I am here only to obey you, to lie at your feet, toanticipate your wishes, to shelter you with my arms, to drive awaywhatever might trouble your tranquillity. And you are my life's goal. Since I first awoke in this garden, you have ever been before me; I havegrown up that I might be yours. Ever, as my end, my reward, have Igazed upon your grace. You passed in the sunshine with the sheen ofyour golden hair; you were a promise that I should some day know all themysteries and necessities of creation, of this earth, of these trees, these waters, these skies, whose last secret is yet unrevealed. I belongto you; I am your slave; I will listen to you and obey you, with my lipsupon your feet. '

He said this, bowed to the ground, adoring Woman. And Albine, full ofpride, allowed herself to be adored. She yielded her hands, her cheeks, her lips, to Serge's rapturous kisses. She felt herself indeed a queenas she saw him, who was so strong, bending so humbly before her. She hadconquered him, and held him there at her mercy. With a single wordshe could dispose of him. And that which helped her to recogniseher omnipotence was that she heard the whole garden rejoicing at hertriumph, with gradually swelling paeans of approval. 

'Ah! if we could fly off together, if we could but die even, in oneanother's arms, ' faltered Serge, scarce able to articulate. But Albinehad strength enough to raise her finger as though to bid him listen. 

It was the garden that had planned and willed it all. For weeks andweeks it had been favouring and encouraging their passion, and at last, on that supreme day, it had lured them to that spot, and now it becamethe Tempter whose every voice spoke of love. From the flower-beds, amidthe fragrance of the languid blossoms, was wafted a soft sighing, whichtold of the weddings of the roses, the love-joys of the violets; andnever before had the heliotropes sent forth so voluptuous a perfume. Mingled with the soft air which arose from the orchard were all theexhalations of ripe fruit, the vanilla of apricots, the musk of oranges, all the luscious aroma of fruitfulness. From the meadows came fullernotes, the million sighs of the sun-kissed grass, the multitudinouslove-plaints of legions of living things, here and there softened bythe refreshing caresses of the rivulets, on whose banks the very willowspalpitated with desire. And the forest proclaimed the mighty passion ofthe oaks. Through the high branches sounded solemn music, organ strainslike the nuptial marches of the ashes and the birches, the hornbeamsand the planes, while from the bushes and the young coppices arose noisymirth like that of youthful lovers chasing one another over banks andinto hollows amid much crackling and snapping of branches. From afar, too, the faint breeze wafted the sounds of the rocks splitting in theirpassion beneath the burning heat, while near them the spiky plantsloved in a tragic fashion of their own, unrefreshed by the neighbouringsprings, which themselves glowed with the love of the passionate sun. 

'What do they say?' asked Serge, half swooning, as Albine pressed him toher bosom. The voices of the Paradou were growing yet more distinct. The animals, in their turn, joined in the universal song of nature. The grasshoppers grew faint with the passion of their chants; thebutterflies scattered kisses with their beating wings. The amoroussparrows flew to their mates; the rivers rippled over the loves of thefishes; whilst in the depths of the forest the nightingales sent forthpearly, voluptuous notes, and the stags bellowed their love aloud. Reptiles and insects, every species of invisible life, every atom ofmatter, the earth itself joined in the great chorus. It was the chorusof love and of nature--the chorus of the whole wide world; and in thevery sky the clouds were radiant with rapture, as to those two childrenLove revealed the Eternity of Life. 

XVI

Albine and Serge smiled at one another. 

'I love you, Albine, ' said Serge. 

'Serge, I love you, ' Albine answered. 

And never before had those syllables 'I love you' had for them sosupreme a meaning. They expressed everything. Joy pervaded those younglovers, who had attained to the fulness of life. They felt that theywere now on a footing of equality with the forces of the world; and withtheir happiness mingled the placid conviction that they had obeyed theuniversal law. And Serge seemed to have awakened to life, lion-like, to rule the whole far expanse under the free heavens. His feet plantedthemselves more firmly on the ground, his chest expanded, there waspride and confidence in his gait and demeanour. He took Albine by thehands, she was trembling, and he was obliged to support her. 

'Don't be afraid, ' he said; 'you are she whom I love. '

It was Albine now who had become the submissive one. She drooped herhead upon his shoulder, glancing up at him with anxious scrutiny. Wouldhe never bear her spite for that hour of adoration in which he hadcalled himself her slave? But he smiled, and stroked her hair, whileshe said to him: 'Let me stay like this, in your arms, for I cannotwalk without you. I will make myself so small and light, that you willscarcely know I am there. ' Then becoming very serious she added, 'Youmust always love me; and I will be very obedient and do whatever youwish. I will yield to you in all things if you but love me. '

Serge felt more powerful and virile on seeing her so humble. 'Why areyou trembling so?' he asked her; 'I can have no cause to reproach you. '

But she did not answer him, she gazed almost sadly upon the tree and thefoliage and the grass around them. 

'Foolish child!' he said, laughing; 'are you afraid that I shall beangry with you for your love? We have loved as we were meant to love. Let me kiss you. '

But, dropping her eyelids so that she might not see the tree, she said, in a low whisper, 'Take me away!'

Serge led her thence, pacing slowly and giving one last glance at thespot which love had hallowed. The shadows in the clearing were growingdarker, and a gentle quiver coursed through the foliage. When theyemerged from the wood and caught sight of the sun, still shiningbrightly in the horizon, they felt easier. Everything around Serge nowseemed to bend down before him and pay homage to his love. The gardenwas now nothing but an appanage of Albine's beauty, and seemed to havegrown larger and fairer amid the love-kisses of its rulers. 

But Albine's joy was still tinged with disquietude. She would suddenlypause amid her laughter and listen anxiously. 

'What is the matter?' asked Serge. 

'Nothing, ' she replied, casting furtive glances behind her. 

They did not know in what out-of-the-way corner of the park they were. To lose themselves in their capricious wanderings only served to amusethem as a rule; but that day they experienced anxious embarrassment. Bydegrees they quickened their pace, plunging more and more deeply into alabyrinth of bushes. 

'Don't you hear?' asked Albine, nervously, as she suddenly stoppedshort, almost breathless. 

Serge listened, a prey, in his turn, to the anxiety which the girl couldno longer conceal. 

'All the coppice seems full of voices, ' she continued. 'It sounds asthough there were people deriding us. Listen! Wasn't that a laughthat sounded from that tree? And over yonder did not the grass murmursomething as my dress brushed against it?'

'No, no, ' he said, anxious to reassure her, 'the garden loves us; and, if it said anything, it would not be to vex or annoy us. Don't youremember all the sweet words which sounded through the leaves? You arenervous and fancy things. '

But she shook her head and faltered: 'I know very well that the gardenis our friend. . . . So it must be some one who has broken into it. I amcertain I hear some one. I am trembling all over. Oh! take me away andhide me somewhere, I beseech you. '

Then they went on again, scanning every tree and bush, and imaginingthat they could see faces peering at them from behind every trunk. Albine was certain, she said, that there were steps pursuing them in thedistance. 'Let us hide ourselves, ' she begged. 

She had turned quite scarlet. It was new-born modesty, a sense ofshame which had laid hold of her like a fever, mantling over the snowywhiteness of her skin, which never previously had known that flush. Serge was alarmed at seeing her thus crimson, her face full of distress, her eyes brimming with tears. He tried to clasp her in his arms againand to soothe her with a caress; but she slipped away from him, and, with a despairing gesture, made sign that they were not alone. And herblushes grew deeper as her eyes fell upon her bare arms. She shudderedwhen her loose hanging hair stirred against her neck and shoulders. The slightest touch of a waving bough or a passing insect, the softestbreath of air, now made her tremble as if some invisible hand weregrasping at her. 

'Calm yourself, ' begged Serge, 'there is no one. You are as crimson asthough you had a fever. Let us rest here for a moment. Do; I beg you. '

She had no fever at all, she said, but she wanted to get back as quicklyas possible, so that no one might laugh at her. And, ever increasing herpace, she plucked handfuls of leaves and tendrils from the hedges, whichshe entwined about her. She fastened a branch of mulberry over her hair, twisted bindweed round her arms, and tied it to her wrists, and circledher neck with such long sprays of laurustinus, that her bosom was hiddenas by a veil of leaves. 

And that shame of hers proved contagious. Serge, who first had jested, asking her if she were going to a ball, glanced at himself, and likewisefelt alarmed and ashamed, to a point that he also wound foliage abouthis person. 

Meantime, they could discover no way out of the labyrinth of bushes, butall at once, at the end of the path, they found themselves face to facewith an obstacle, a tall, grey, grave mass of stone. It was the wall ofthe Paradou. 

'Come away! come away!' cried Albine. 

And she sought to drag him thence; but they had not taken another twentysteps before they again came upon the wall. They then skirted it at aran, panic-stricken. It stretched along, gloomy and stern, withouta break in its surface. But suddenly, at a point where it fringed ameadow, it seemed to fall away. A great breach gaped in it, like a hugewindow of light opening on to the neighbouring valley. It must have beenthe very hole that Albine had one day spoken of, which she said she hadblocked up with brambles and stones. But the brambles now lay scatteredaround like severed bits of rope, the stones had been thrown somedistance away, and the breach itself seemed to have been enlarged bysome furious hand. 

XVII

'Ah! I felt sure of it, ' cried Albine, in accents of supreme despair. 'I begged you to take me away--Serge, I beseech you, don't look throughit. '

But Serge, in spite of himself, stood rooted to the ground, on thethreshold of the breach through which he gazed. Down below, in thedepths of the valley, the setting sun cast a sheet of gold upon thevillage of Les Artaud, which showed vision-like amidst the twilight inwhich the neighbouring fields were already steeped. One could plainlydistinguish the houses that straggled along the high road; the littleyards with their dunghills, and the narrow gardens planted withvegetables. Higher up, the tall cypress in the graveyard reared itsdusky silhouette, and the red tiles on the church glowed brazier-like, the dark bell looking down on them like a human face, while the oldparsonage at the side threw its doors and windows open to the eveningair. 

'For pity's sake, ' sobbed Albine, 'don't look out, Serge. Remember thatyou promised you would always love me. Ah! will you ever love me enough, now? Stay, let me cover your eyes with my hands. You know it was myhands that cured you. You won't push me away. '

But he put her from him gently. Then, while she fell down and clung tohis legs, he passed his hands across his face, as though he were wipingfrom his brow and eyes some last lingering traces of sleep. It wasyonder, then, that lay the unknown world, the strange land of which hehad never dreamed without vague fear. Where had he seen that country?From what dream was he awakening, that he felt such keen anguishswelling up in his breast till it almost choked him? The village wasbreaking out into life at the close of the day's work. The men werecoming home from the fields with weary gait, their jackets thrown overtheir shoulders; the women, standing by their doors, were beckoning tothem to hasten on; while the children, in noisy bands, chased thefowls about and pelted them with stones. In the churchyard a couple ofscapegraces, a lad and a girl, were creeping along under the shelter ofthe wall in order to escape notice. Swarms of sparrows were retiringto roost beneath the eaves of the church; and, on the steps of theparsonage, a blue calico skirt had just appeared, of such spreadingdimensions as to quite block the doorway. 

'Oh! he is looking out! he is looking out!' sobbed Albine. 'Listen tome. It was only just now that you promised to obey me. I beg of you toturn round and to look upon the garden. Haven't you been very happy inthe garden? It was the garden which gave me to you. Think of the happydays it has in store for us, what lasting bliss and enjoyment. Insteadof which it will be death that will force its way through that hole, if you don't quickly flee and take me with you. See, all those peopleyonder will come and thrust themselves between us. We were so quitealone, so secluded, so well guarded by the trees! Oh! the garden is ourlove! Look on the garden, I beg it of you on my knees!'

But Serge was quivering. He had began to recollect. The past wasre-awakening. He could distinctly hear the stir of the village life. Those peasants, those women and children, he knew them. There was themayor, Bambousse, returning from Les Olivettes, calculating how muchthe approaching vintage would yield him; there were the Brichets, thehusband crawling along, and the wife moaning with misery. There wasRosalie flirting with big Fortune behind a wall. He recognised also thepair in the churchyard, that mischievous Vincent and that bold hussyCatherine, who were catching big grasshoppers amongst the tombstones. Yes, and they had Voriau, the black dog, with them, helping them andferreting about in the dry grass, and sniffing at every crack in the oldstones. Under the eaves of the church the sparrows were twitteringand bickering before going to roost. The boldest of them flew down andentered the church through the broken windows, and, as Serge followedthem with his eyes, he recollected all the noise they had formerly madebelow the pulpit and on the step by the altar rails, where crumbs werealways put for them. And that was La Teuse yonder, on the parsonagedoorstep, looking fatter than ever in her blue calico dress. She wasturning her head to smile at Desiree, who was coming up from the yard, laughing noisily. Then they both vanished indoors, and Serge, distractedwith all these revived memories, stretched out his arms. 

'It is all over now, ' faltered Albine, as she sank down amongst thebroken brambles. 'You will never love me enough again. '

She wept, while Serge stood rooted by the breach, straining his earsto catch the slightest sound that might be wafted from the village, waiting, as it were, for some voice that might fully awaken him. Thebell in the church-tower had begun to sway, and slowly through the quietevening air the three chimes of the _Angelus_ floated up to the Paradou. It was a soft and silvery summons. The bell now seemed to be alive. 

'O God!' cried Serge, falling on his knees, quite overcome by theemotion which the soft notes of the bell had excited in him. 

He bent down towards the ground, and he felt the three peals of the_Angelus_ pass over his neck and echo through his heart. The voice ofthe bell seemed to grow louder. It was raised again sternly, pitilessly, for a few moments which seemed to him to be years. It summoned upbefore him all his old life, his pious childhood, his happy days at theseminary, and his first Masses in that burning valley of Les Artaud, where he had dreamt of a solitary, saintly life. He had always heard itspeaking to him as it was doing now. He recognised every inflection ofthat sacred voice, which had so constantly fallen upon his ears, likethe grave and gentle voice of a mother. Why had he so long ceased tohear it? In former times it had promised him the coming of Mary. HadMary come then and taken him and carried him off into those happy greenfastnesses, which the sound of the bell could not reach? He would neverhave lapsed into forgetfulness if the bell had not ceased to ring. Andas he bent his head still lower towards the earth, the contact of hisbeard with his hands made him start. He could not recognise his own selfwith that long silky beard. He twisted it and fumbled about in his hairseeking for the bare circle of the tonsure, but a heavy growth of curlsnow covered his whole head from his brow to the nape of his neck. 

'Ah! you were right, ' he said, casting a look of despair at Albine. 'It was forbidden. We have sinned, and we have merited some terriblepunishment. . . . But I, indeed, I tried to reassure you, I did not hearthe threats which sounded in your ears through the branches. '

Albine tried to clasp him in her arms again as she sobbed out, 'Get up, and let us escape together. Perhaps even yet there is time for us tolove each other. '

'No, no; I haven't the strength. I should stumble and fall over thesmallest pebble in the path. Listen to me. I am afraid of myself. I knownot what man dwells in me. I have murdered myself, and my hands are redwith blood. If you took me away, you would never see aught in my eyessave tears. '

She kissed his wet eyes, as she answered passionately, 'No matter! Doyou love me?'

He was too terrified to answer her. A heavy step set the pebbles rollingon the other side of the wall. A growl of anger seemed to draw nigh. Albine had not been mistaken. Some one was, indeed, there, disturbingthe woodland quiet with jealous inquisition. Then both Albine and Serge, as if overwhelmed with shame, sought to bide themselves behind a bush. But Brother Archangias, standing in front of the breach, could alreadysee them. 

The Brother remained for a moment silent, clenching his fists andlooking at Albine clinging round Serge's neck, with the disgust of a manwho has espied some filth by the roadside. 

'I suspected it, ' he mumbled between his teeth. 'It was virtuallycertain that they had hidden him here. '

Then he took a few steps, and cried out: 'I see you. It is anabomination. Are you a brute beast to go coursing through the woods withthat female? She has led you far astray, has she not? She has besmearedyou with filth, and now you are hairy like a goat. . . . Pluck a branchfrom the trees wherewith to smite her on the back. '

Again Albine whispered in an ardent, prayerful voice: 'Do you love me?Do you love me?'

But Serge, with bowed head, kept silence, though he did not yet driveher from him. 

'Fortunately, I have found you, ' continued Brother Archangias. 'Idiscovered this hole. . . . You have disobeyed God, and have slain your ownpeace. Henceforward, for ever, temptation will gnaw you with its fierytooth, and you will no longer have ignorance of evil to help you tofight it. It was that creature who tempted you to your fall, was it not?Do you not see the serpent's tail writhing amongst her hair? The meresight of her shoulders is sufficient to make one vomit with disgust. . . . Leave her. Touch her not, for she is the beginning of hell. In the nameof God, come forth from that garden. '

'Do you love me? Oh! do you love me?' reiterated Albine. 

But Serge hastily drew away from her as though her bare arms andshoulders really scorched him. 

'In the name of God! In the name of God!' cried the Brother, in a voiceof thunder. 

Serge unresistingly stepped towards the breach. As soon as BrotherArchangias, with rough violence, had dragged him out of the Paradou, Albine, who had fallen half fainting to the ground, with hands wildlystretched towards the love which was deserting her, rose up again, choking with sobs. And she fled, vanished into the midst of the trees, whose trunks she lashed with her streaming hair. 

BOOK III

I

When Abbe Mouret had said the _Pater_, he bowed to the altar, and wentto the Epistle side. Then he came down, and made the sign of the crossover big Fortune and Rosalie, who were kneeling, side by side, beforethe altar-rails. 

'_Ego conjungo vos in matrimonium, in nomine Patris, et Filii, etSpiritus Sancti_. '

'_Amen_, ' responded Vincent, who was serving the mass, and glancingcuriously at his big brother out of the corner of his eye. 

Fortune and Rosalie bent their heads, affected by some slight emotion, although they had nudged each other with their elbows when they kneltdown, by way of making one another laugh. But Vincent went to get thebasin and the sprinkler. Fortune placed the ring in the basin, a thickring of solid silver. When the priest had blessed it, sprinkling itcrosswise, he returned it to Fortune, who slipped it upon Rosalie'sfinger. Her hand was still discoloured with grass-stains, which soap hadnot been able to remove. 

'_In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_, ' Abbe Mouret murmuredagain, giving them a final benediction. 

'_Amen_, ' responded Vincent. 

It was early morning. The sun was not yet shining through the bigwindows of the church. Outside one could hear the noisy twittering ofthe sparrows in the branches of the service tree, whose foliage shotthrough the broken panes. La Teuse, who had not previously had time toclean the church, was now dusting the altar, craning up on her sound legto wipe the feet of the ochre and lake-bedaubed Christ, and arrangingthe chairs as quietly as possible; all the while bowing and crossingherself, and following the service, but not omitting a single sweep ofher feather broom. Quite alone, at the foot of the pulpit, was motherBrichet, praying in a very demonstrative fashion. She kept on her knees, and repeated the prayers in so loud a whisper that it seemed as if aswarm of bluebottles had taken possession of the nave. 

At the other end of the church near the confessional, Catherine heldan infant in swaddling clothes. As it began to cry, she turned her backupon the altar, and tossed it up, and amused it with the bell-rope, which dangled just over its nose. 

'_Dominus vobiscum_, ' said the priest, turning round, and spreading outhis hands. 

'_Et cum spiritu tuo_, ' responded Vincent. 

At that moment three big girls came into the church. They were too shyto go far up, though they jostled one another to get a better view ofwhat was going on. They were three friends of Rosalie, who had droppedin for a minute or two on their way to the fields, curious as they wereto hear what his reverence would say to the bride and bridegroom. Theyhad big scissors hanging at their waists. At last they hid themselvesbehind the font, where they pinched each other and twisted themselvesabout, while trying to choke their bursts of laughter with theirclenched fists. 

'Well, ' whispered La Rousse, a finely built girl, with copper-colouredskin and hair, 'there won't be any scrimmage to get out of church whenit's all over. '

'Oh! old Bambousse is quite right, ' murmured Lisa, a short dark girl, with gleaming eyes; 'when one has vines, one looks after them. Since hisreverence so particularly desired to marry Rosalie, he can very well doit all alone. '

The other girl, Babet, who was humpbacked, tittered. 'There's motherBrichet, ' she said; 'she is always here. She prays for the whole family. Listen, do you hear how she's buzzing? All that will mean something inher pocket. She knows very well what she is about, I can tell you. '

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

At this all three burst into a laugh. La Teuse, in the distance, threatened them with her broom. At the altar, Abbe Mouret was taking thesacrament. As he went from the Epistle side towards Vincent, so that thewater of ablution might be poured upon his thumb and fore-finger, Lisasaid more softly: 'It's nearly over. He will begin to talk to themdirectly. '

'Yes, ' said La Rousse, 'and so big Fortune will still be able to go tohis work, and Rosalie won't lose her day's pay at the vintage. It isvery convenient to be married so early in the morning. He looks verysheepish, that big Fortune. '

'Of course, ' murmured Babet. 'It tires him, keeping so long on hisknees. You may be sure that he has never knelt so long since his firstcommunion. '

But the girls' attention was suddenly distracted by the baby whichCatherine was dangling in her arms. It wanted to get hold of thebell-rope, and was quite blue with rage, frantically stretching out itslittle hands and almost choking itself with crying. 

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

The baby now burst into still louder wailing, and struggled like alittle Imp. 

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

Catherine lifted up her head, and began to laugh, with the shamelessnessof a little minx. 'It's not at all amusing, ' she said, giving the baby ashake. 'Be quiet, will you, little pig! My sister plumped it down on myknees. '

'Naturally, ' said Babet, mischievously. 'You could scarcely haveexpected her to give the brat to Monsieur le Cure to nurse. '

At this sally, La Rousse almost fell over in a fit of laughter. Sheleaned against the wall, holding her sides with her hands. Lisa threwherself against her, and attempted to soothe her by pinching her backand shoulders; while Babet laughed with a hunchback's laugh, whichgrated on the ear like the sound of a saw. 

'If it hadn't been for the little one, ' she continued, 'Monsieur le Curewould have lost all use for his holy water. Old Bambousse had made uphis mind to marry Rosalie to young Laurent, of Figuieres. '

However, the girls' merriment and their chatter now came to an end, forthey saw La Teuse limping furiously towards them. At this the three bighussies felt alarmed, stepped back, and subsided into sedateness. 

'You worthless things!' hissed La Teuse. 'You come to talk a lot offilth here, do you? Aren't you ashamed of yourself, La Rousse? You oughtto be there, on your knees, before the altar, like Rosalie. I will throwyou outside if you stir again. Do you hear?'

La Rousse's copper cheeks were tinged with a rising blush, and Babetglanced at her and tittered. 

'And you, ' continued La Teuse, turning towards Catherine, 'just youleave that baby alone. You are pinching it on purpose to make it scream. Don't tell me you are not. Give it to me. '

She took the child, hushed it in her arms for a moment, and then laidit upon a chair, where it went to sleep, peacefully like a cherub. The church then subsided into solemn quietness, disturbed only by thechattering of the sparrows on the rowan tree outside. At the altar, Vincent had carried the missal to the right again, and Abbe Mouret hadjust folded the corporal and slipped it within the burse. He was nowsaying the concluding prayers with a solemn earnestness, which neitherthe screams of the baby nor the giggling of the three girls had beenable to disturb. He seemed to hear nothing of them, but to be whollyabsorbed in the prayers which he was offering up to Heaven for thehappiness of the pair whose union he had just blessed. The sky thatmorning was grey with a hazy heat, which veiled the sun. Through thebroken windows a russet vapour streamed into the church, betokeninga stormy day. Along the walls the gaudily coloured pictures of theStations of the Cross displayed their red, blue, and yellow patches;at the bottom of the nave the dry woodwork of the gallery creaked andstrained; and under the doorway the tall grass by the steps thrustripening straw, all alive with little brown grasshoppers. The clock, in its wooden case, made a whirring noise, as though it were someconsumptive trying to clear his throat, and then huskily struckhalf-past six. 

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

'_Deo gratias_, ' responded Vincent. 

Then, having kissed the altar, Abbe Mouret once more turned round, and murmured over the bent heads of the newly married pair the finalbenediction: '_Deus Abraham, Deus Isaac, et Deus Jacob vobiscumsit_'--his voice dying away into a gentle whisper. 

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

'He is very pale, ' observed Lisa. 'He isn't a bit like Monsieur Caffin, whose fat face always seemed to be on the laugh. My little sister Rosesays that she daren't tell him anything when she goes to confess. '

'All the same, ' murmured La Rousse, 'he's not ugly. His illness has agedhim a little, but it seems to suit him. He has bigger eyes, and lines atthe corners of his mouth which make him look like a man. Before he hadthe fever, he was too much like a girl. '

'I believe he's got some great trouble, ' said Babet. 'He looks as thoughhe were pining away. His face is deadly pale, but how his eyes glitter!When he drops his eyelids, it is just as though he were doing it toextinguish the fire in his eyes. '

La Teuse again shook her broom at them. 'Hush!' she hissed out, soenergetically that it seemed as if a blast of wind had burst into thechurch. 

Meantime Abbe Mouret had collected himself, and he began, in a ratherlow voice:

'My dear brother, my dear sister, you are joined together in Jesus. Theinstitution of marriage symbolises the sacred union between Jesus andHis Church. It is a bond which nothing can break; which God wills shallbe eternal, so that man may not sever those whom Heaven has joined. Inmaking you flesh of each other's flesh, and bone of each other's bone, God teaches you that it is your duty to walk side by side throughlife, a faithful couple, along the paths which He, in His omnipotence, appoints for you. And you must love each other with God-like love. Theslightest ill-feeling between you will be disobedience to the Creator, Who has joined you together as a single body. Remain, then, for everunited, after the likeness of the Church, which Jesus has espoused, ingiving to us all His body and blood. '

Big Fortune and Rosalie sat listening, with their noses peaked upinquisitively. 

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

'Oh! he says what they all say, ' answered La Rousse. 'He has a glibtongue, like all the priests have. '

Abbe Mouret went on with his address, his eyes wandering over the headsof the newly wedded couple towards a shadowy corner of the church. Andby degrees his voice became more flexible, and he put emotion into thewords he spoke, words which he had formerly learned by heart from amanual intended for the use of young priests. He had turned slightlytowards Rosalie, and whenever his memory failed him, he added sentencesof his own:

'My dear sister, submit yourself to your husband, as the Church submitsitself to Jesus. Remember that you must leave everything to follow him, like a faithful handmaiden. You must give up father and mother, you mustcleave only to your husband, and you must obey him that you may obey Godalso. And your yoke will be a yoke of love and peace. Be his comfort, his happiness, the perfume of his days of strength, the support of hisdays of weakness. Let him find you, as a grace, ever by his side. Lethim have but to reach out his hand to find yours grasping it. It is thusthat you will step along together, never losing your way, and that youwill meet with happiness in the carrying out of the divine laws. Oh! mydear sister, my dear daughter, your humility will hear sweet fruit; itwill give birth to all the domestic virtues, to the joys of the hearth, and the prosperity that attends a God-fearing family. Have for yourhusband the love of Rachel, the wisdom of Rebecca, the constant fidelityof Sarah. Tell yourself that a pure life is the source of all happiness. Pray to God each morning that He may give you strength to live as awoman who respects her responsibilities and duties; for the punishmentyou would otherwise incur is terrible: you would lose your love. Oh! tolive loveless, to tear flesh from flesh, to belong no more to the onewho is half of your very self, to live on in pain and agony, bereft ofthe one you have loved! In vain would you stretch out your arms to him;he would turn away from you. You would yearn for happiness, but youwould find in your heart nothing but shame and bitterness. Hear me, mydaughter, it is in your own conduct, in your obedience, in your purity, in your love, that God has established the strength of your union. '

As Abbe Mouret spoke these words, there was a burst of laughter at theother end of the church. The baby had just woke up on the chair where LaTeuse had laid it. But it was no longer in a bad temper. Having kickeditself free of its swaddling clothes, it was laughing merrily, andshaking its rosy little feet in the air. It was the sight of theselittle feet that made it laugh. 

Rosalie, who was beginning to find the priest's address rather tedious, turned her head to smile at the child. But, when she saw it kickingabout on the chair, she grew alarmed, and cast an angry look atCatherine. 

'Oh! you can look at me as much as you like, ' said Catherine. 'I'm notgoing to take it any more. It would only begin to cry again. '

And she turned aside to ferret in an ant-hole at a corner of one of thestone flags under the gallery. 

'Monsieur Caffin didn't talk so long, ' now remarked La Rousse. 'When hemarried Miette, he just gave her two taps on the cheek and told her tobe good. '

My dear brother, ' resumed Abbe Mouret, turning towards big Fortune, 'itis God who, to-day, gives you a companion, for He does not wish that manshould live alone. But, if He ordains that she shall be your servant, He demands from you that you shall be to her a master full of gentlenessand love. You will love her, because she is part of your own flesh, ofyour own blood, and your own bone. You will protect her, because God hasgiven you strong arms only that you may stretch them over her head inthe hour of danger. Remember that she is entrusted to you, and thatyou cannot abuse her submission and weakness without sin. Oh! my dearbrother, what proud happiness should be yours! Henceforth, you will nolonger live in the selfish egotism of solitude. At all hours you willhave a lovable duty before you. There is nothing better than to love, unless it be to protect those whom we love. Your heart will expand;your manly strength will increase a hundredfold. Oh! to be a support andstay, to have a love given into your keeping, to see a being sink herexistence in yours and say, "Take me and do with me what you will! Itrust myself wholly to you!" And may you be accursed if you ever abandonher! It would be a cowardly desertion which God would assuredly punish. From the moment she gives herself to you, she becomes yours for ever. Carry her rather in your arms, and set her not upon the ground until itbe certain that she will be there in safety. Give up everything, my dearbrother--'

But here the Abbe's voice faltered, and only an indistinct murmur camefrom his lips. He had quite closed his eyes, his face was deathly white, and his voice betokened such deep distress that big Fortune himself shedtears without knowing why. 

'He hasn't recovered yet, ' said Lisa. 'It is wrong of him to fatiguehimself. See, there's Fortune crying!'

'Men are softer-hearted than women, ' murmured Babet. 

'He spoke very well, all the same, ' remarked La Rousse. 'Those prieststhink of a lot of things that wouldn't occur to anybody else. '

'Hush!' cried La Teuse, who was already making ready to extinguish thecandles. 

But Abbe Mouret still stammered on, trying to utter a few moresentences. 'It is for this reason, my dear brother, my dear sister, thatyou must live in the Catholic Faith, which alone can ensure the peace ofyour hearth. Your families have taught you to love God, to pray to Himevery morning and evening, to look only for the gifts of His mercy--'

He was unable to finish. He turned round, took the chalice off thealtar, and retired, with bowed head, into the vestry, preceded byVincent, who almost let the cruets and napkin fall, in trying to seewhat Catherine might be doing at the end of the church. 

'Oh! the heartless creature!' said Rosalie, who left her husband to goand take her baby in her arms. The child laughed. She kissed it, andrearranged its swaddling clothes, while threatening Catherine with herfist. 'If it had fallen, ' she cried out, 'I would have boxed your earsfor you, nicely. '

Big Fortune now came slouching along. The three girls stepped towardshim, with compressed lips. 

'See how proud he is, ' murmured Babet to the others. 'He is sure ofinheriting old Bambousse's money now. I used to see him creeping alongevery night under the little wall with Rosalie. '

Then they giggled, and big Fortune, standing there in front of them, laughed even louder than they did. He pinched La Rousse, and let Lisajeer at him. He was a sturdy young blood, and cared nothing for anybody. The priest's address had annoyed him. 

'Hallo! mother, come on!' he called in his loud voice. But motherBrichet was begging at the vestry door. She stood there, tearful andwizen, before La Teuse, who was slipping some eggs into the pocket ofher apron. Fortune didn't seem to feel the least sense of shame. He justwinked and remarked: 'She is a knowing old card, my mother is. But thenthe Cure likes to see people at mass. '

Meanwhile, Rosalie had grown calm again. Before leaving the church, sheasked Fortune if he had begged the priest to come and bless theirroom, according to the custom of the country. So Fortune ran off to thevestry, striding heavily through the church, as if it were a field. Hesoon reappeared, shouting that his reverence would come. La Teuse, whowas scandalised at the noise made by all these people, who seemed tothink themselves in a public street, gently clapped her hands, andpushed them towards the door. 

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

She thought they had all gone, when her eye caught sight of Catherine, whom Vincent had joined. They were bending anxiously over the ants'nest. Catherine was poking a long straw into the hole so roughly, thata swarm of frightened ants had rushed out upon the floor. Vincentdeclared, however, that she must get her straw right to the bottom ifshe wished to find the queen. 

'Ah! you young imps!' cried La Teuse, 'what are you after there? Can'tyou leave the poor little things alone? That is Mademoiselle Desiree'sants' nest. She would be nicely pleased if she saw you!'

At this the children promptly took to their heels. 

II

Abbe Mouret, now wearing his cassock but still bareheaded, had comeback to kneel at the foot of the altar. In the grey light that streamedthrough the window, his tonsure showed like a large livid spot amidsthis hair; and a slight quiver, as if from cold, sped down his neck. Withhis hands tightly clasped he was praying earnestly, so absorbed in hisdevotions that he did not hear the heavy footsteps of La Teuse, whohovered around without daring to disturb him. She seemed to be grievedat seeing him bowed down there on his knees. For a moment, she thoughtthat he was in tears, and thereupon she went behind the altar to watchhim. Since his return, she had never liked to leave him in the churchalone, for one evening she had found him lying in a dead faint upon theflagstones, with icy lips and clenched teeth, like a corpse. 

'Come in, mademoiselle!' she said to Desiree, who was peeping throughthe vestry-doorway. 'He is still here, and he will lay himself up. Youknow you are the only person that he will listen to. '

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

Then she gently sidled up to the priest, passed an arm round his neck, and kissed him. 

'Good morning, brother, ' she said. 'Do you want to make me die of hungerthis morning?'

The face he turned upon her was so intensely sad, that she kissedhim again on both his cheeks. He was emerging from agony. Then, onrecognising her, he tried to put her from him, but she kept hold of oneof his hands and would not release it. She would scarcely allow him tocross himself, but insisted upon leading him away. 

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

La Teuse had laid out the breakfast beneath two big mulberry trees, whose spreading branches formed a sheltering roof at the bottom of thelittle garden. The sun, which had at last succeeded in dissipatingthe stormy-looking vapours of early morning, was warming the bedsof vegetables, while the mulberry-trees cast a broad shadow over therickety table, on which were laid two cups of milk and some thick slicesof bread. 

'You see how nice it looks, ' said Desiree, delighted at breakfasting inthe fresh air. 

She was already cutting some of the bread into strips, which she atewith eager appetite. And as she saw La Teuse still standing in front ofthem, she said, 'Why don't you eat something?'

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

Then, after a moment's silence, looking with admiration at the girl'sbig bites, she said to the priest: 'It is quite a pleasure to see her. Doesn't she make you feel hungry, Monsieur le Cure? You should forceyourself. '

Abbe Mouret smiled as he glanced at his sister. 'Yes, yes, ' he murmured;'she gets on famously, she grows fatter every day. '

'That's because I eat, ' said Desiree. 'If you would eat you would getfat, too. Are you ill again? You look very melancholy. I don't want tohave it all over again, you know. I was so very lonely when they tookyou away to cure you. '

'She is right, ' said La Teuse. 'You don't behave reasonably, Monsieur leCure. You can't expect to be strong, living, as you do, on two or threecrumbs a day, as though you were a bird. You don't make blood; andthat's why you are so pale. Don't you feel ashamed of keeping as thin asa lath when we are so fat; we who are only women? People will begin tothink that we gobble up everything and leave you nothing but the emptyplates. '

Then both La Teuse and Desiree, brimful of health and strength, scoldedhim affectionately. His eyes seemed very large and bright, but empty, expressionless. He was still gently smiling. 

'I am not ill, ' he said; 'I have nearly finished my milk. ' He hadswallowed two mouthfuls of it, but had not touched the bread. 

'The animals, now, ' said Desiree, thoughtfully, 'seem to get on muchmore comfortably than we do. The fowls never have headaches, have they?The rabbits grow as fat as ever one wants them to be. And you never sawmy pig looking sad. '

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

'I have named it Matthew, because it is so like that fat man who bringsthe letters. It is growing so big and strong. It is very unkind of youto refuse to come and look at it as you always do. You will come to seeit some day, won't you?'

While she was thus talking she had laid hold of her brother's share ofbread, and was eating away at it. She had already finished one piece, and was beginning the second, when La Teuse became aware of what she wasdoing. 

'That doesn't belong to you, that bread! You are actually stealing hisfood from him now!'

'Let her have it, ' said Abbe Mouret, gently. 'I shouldn't have touchedit myself. Eat it all, my dear, eat it all. '

For a moment Desiree fell into confusion, with her eyes fixed upon thebread, whilst she struggled to check her rising tears. Then she began tolaugh, and finished the slice. 

'My cow, ' said she, continuing her remarks, 'is never as sad as you are. You were not here when uncle Pascal gave her to me, on the promise thatI would be a good girl, or you would have seen how pleased she was whenI kissed her for the first time. '

She paused to listen. A cock crowed in the yard, and a great uproarfollowed, with flapping of wings and cackling, grunting, and hoarsecries as if the whole yard were in a state of commotion. 

'Ah! you know, ' resumed Desiree, clapping her hands, 'she must be incalf now. I took her to the bull at Beage, three leagues from here. There are very few bulls hereabouts, you know. '

La Teuse shrugged her shoulders, and glanced at the priest with anexpression of annoyance. 

'It would be much better, mademoiselle, ' said she, 'if you were to goand quiet your fowls. They all seem to be murdering one another. '

Indeed, the uproar in the yard had now become so great that the girl wasalready hurrying off with a great rustling of her petticoats, when thepriest called her back. 'The milk, my dear; you have not finished themilk. '

He held out his cup to her, which he had scarcely touched. And she cameback and drank the milk without the slightest scruple, in spite of LaTeuse's angry look. Then she again set off for the poultry-yard, wherethey soon heard her reducing the fowls to peace and order. She had, perhaps, sat down in the midst of them, for she could be heard gentlyhumming as though she were trying to lull them to sleep. 

III

'Now my soup is too hot!' grumbled La Teuse, as she returned from thekitchen with a basin, from which a wooden spoon was projecting. 

She placed herself just in front of Abbe Mouret, and began to eat verycautiously from the edge of the spoon. She wanted to enliven the Abbeand to draw him out of his melancholy moodiness. Ever since he hadreturned from the Paradou, he had declared himself well again, andhad never complained. Often, indeed, he smiled in so soft and sweet afashion, that his fever seemed to have increased his saintliness, atleast so thought the villagers. But, at intervals, he had fits of gloomysilence, and appeared to be suffering torture which he strove to bearuncomplainingly. It was a mute agony which bore down upon him, and, for hours at a time, left him stupefied, a prey to a frightful inwardstruggle, the violence of which could only be guessed by the sweat ofanguish that streamed down his face. 

At such times La Teuse refused to leave him, and overwhelmed him witha torrent of gossip, until he had gradually recovered tranquillity bycrushing the rebellion of his blood. On that particular morning, the oldservant foresaw a more grievous attack than usual, and poured forth anamazing flood of talk, while continuing her wary manoeuvres with thespoon, which threatened to burn her tongue. 

'Well, well, ' said she, 'one has to live among a lot of wild beaststo see such goings-on. Would any one ever think in a decent village ofbeing married by candlelight? It shows what a poor sort these Artaudsare. When I was in Normandy, I used to see weddings that threw every oneinto commotion for a couple of leagues round. They would feast for threewhole days. The priest would be there, and the mayor, too; and at themarriage of one of my cousins, all the firemen came as well. And didn'tthey have a fine time of it! But to make a priest get up before sunriseand marry people before even the chickens have left their roost, why, there's no sense in it! If I had been your reverence, I should haverefused to do it. You haven't had your proper sleep, and you may havecaught cold in the church. It is that which has upset you. Besides whichit would be better to marry brute beasts than that Rosalie and her uglylout. That brat of theirs dirtied one of the chairs. --But you ought totell me when you feel poorly, and I could make you something warm. --Eh!Monsieur le Cure, speak to me!'

He answered, in a feeble voice, that he was quite well, and only neededa little fresh air. He had just leant against one of the mulberry-trees, and was breathing rather quickly, as if faint. 

'Oh! all right, ' went on La Teuse, 'do just as you like. Go on marryingpeople when you haven't the strength for it, and when you know verywell that it's bound to upset you. I knew how it would be; I told you soyesterday. And if you took my advice, you wouldn't stay where you are. The smell of the yard is bad for you. It is frightful just now. I can'timagine what Mademoiselle Desiree can be stirring about there. She'ssinging away, and doesn't seem to mind it at all. Ah! that reminds meof something I want to tell you. You know that I did all I could to keepher from taking the cow to Beage; but she's like you, obstinate, andwill go her own way. Fortunately, however, for her, she's none the worsefor it. She delights to be amongst the animals and their young ones. But come now, your reverence, do be reasonable. Let me take you to yourroom. You must lie down and rest a little. What, you don't want to!Well, then, so much the worse for you, if you suffer! Besides, it'sabsurd to keep one's worries locked up in one's heart till they stifleone. '

Then, in her indignation, she hastily swallowed a big spoonful of soupat the risk of burning her throat. She rattled the handle of the spoonagainst the bowl, muttering and grumbling to herself. 

'There never was such a man, ' said she. 'He would die rather than saya word. But it's all very well for him to keep silent. I know quiteenough, and it doesn't require much cleverness to guess the rest. Well!well! let him keep it to himself. I dare say it is better. '

La Teuse was jealous. Dr. Pascal had had a tremendous fight with herin order to get her patient away at the time when he had come to theconclusion that the young priest's case would be quite hopeless if heshould remain at the parsonage. He had then explained to her that thesound of the bell would aggravate and intensify Serge's fever, that thereligious pictures and statuettes scattered about his room would fillhis brain with hallucinations, and that entirely new surroundingswere necessary if he was to be restored to health and strength andpeacefulness of mind. She, however, had vigorously shaken her head, anddeclared that her 'dear child' would nowhere find a better nurse thanherself. Still, she had ended by yielding. She had even resignedherself to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against thisselection of the doctor's, which astonished her. But she retaineda strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by thesilence which Abbe Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there. She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce himto talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and hisobstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon aboutand crying:

'You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Cure, if you were so happythere--I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you betterthan I do. '

It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to hersuspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could notcheck a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At thisLa Teuse's kindly heart was filled with regret. 

'Ah!' she murmured, 'it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I toldhim what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to theirown ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummagingin your body afterwards--It made me so angry that I would never speak ofit to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Cure, you have me to thank that nobodyknew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable!When Abbe Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during yourabsence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts ofstories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don't even know whereSwitzerland is. --Well! well! I surely don't want to say anything to painyou, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Veryfinely they've cured you indeed! It would have been very much better ifthey had left you with me. I shouldn't have thought of trying to turnyour head. '

Abbe Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupther. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away fromhim, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in hermotherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her. 

'You would never let me tell you about Abbe Caffin. As soon as I beganto speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbe Caffin hadhad his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was avery holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he wasa man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things. Well, therewas a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of amiller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school. Well, to put itshortly, what was likely to happen did happen. When the story got about, all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbe. But he managedto escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there. Then he was sent here. The poor man was punished quite enough by beingmade to live in this hole of a place. I heard of the girl afterwards. She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy. '

La Teuse, delighted at having been allowed to tell her story, interpreted the priest's silence as an encouragement to continue hergossiping. So she drew a little nearer to him and said:

'He was very friendly with me, was good Monsieur Caffin, and often spoketo me of his sin. It won't keep him out of heaven, I'm sure. He can restquite peacefully out there under the turf, for he never harmed any one. For my part, I can't understand why people should get so angry with apriest when such a thing unhappily befalls him. Of course it's wrong, and likely to anger God; but then one can confess and repent, and getabsolution. Isn't it so, your reverence, that when one truly repents, one is saved in spite of one's sins?'

Abbe Mouret slowly raised his head. By a supreme effort he had overcomehis agony, and though his face was still very pale, he exclaimed in afirm voice, 'One should never sin; never! never!'

'Ah! sir, ' cried the old servant, 'you are too proud and reserved. It isnot a nice thing, that pride of yours. --If I were in your place, I wouldnot harden myself like that. I would talk of what was troubling me, andnot try to rend my heart in pieces. You should reconcile yourself to theseparation gradually. The worry wears off little by little. But, insteadof that, you won't even allow people's names to be uttered. You forbidthem to be mentioned. It is as though they were dead. Since you cameback, I have not dared to tell you the least bit of news. Well, well, I am going to speak now, and I shall tell you all I know; because I seequite well that it is all this silence that is preying upon your heart. '

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

'Yes, yes, ' she went on, 'I get news from over yonder, very oftenindeed, and I am going to tell it to you. To begin with, there is someone there who is no happier than you are. '

'Silence! Silence!' said Abbe Mouret, summoning all his strength to riseand move away. 

But La Teuse also rose and barred his way with her bulky figure. She wasangry, and cried out:

'There, you see, you want to be off already! But you are going to listento me. You know quite well that I am not over fond of the people yonder, don't you? If I talk to you about them, it is for your own good. Somepeople say that I am jealous. Well, one day I mean to take you overthere. You would be with me, and you wouldn't be afraid of any harmhappening. Will you go?'

He motioned her away from him with his hands, and his face was calmagain as he said:

'I desire nothing. I wish to know nothing. There is high mass to-morrow. You must see that the altar is made ready. '

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

'Don't be uneasy, my good Teuse. I am stronger than you imagine. I shallbe able to cure myself without any one's assistance. '

With these words he went off, bearing himself sturdily, with his headerect, for he had vanquished his feelings. His cassock rustled verygently against the borders of thyme. La Teuse, who for a moment hadremained rooted to the spot where she was standing, sulkily picked upher basin and wooden spoon. Then, shrugging her big shoulders again andagain, she mumbled between her teeth:

'That's all bravado of his. He imagines that he is differently made fromother men, just because he is a priest. Well, as a matter of fact, he isvery firm and determined. I have known some who wouldn't have had to bewheedled so long. And he is quite capable of crushing his heart, justas one might crush a flea. It must be the Almighty who gives him hisstrength. '

As she returned to the kitchen she saw Abbe Mouret standing by the gateof the farmyard. Desiree had stopped him there to make him feel a caponwhich she had been fattening for some weeks past. He told her pleasantlythat it was very heavy, and the big child chuckled with glee. 

'Ah! well, ' said La Teuse in a fury, 'that bird has got to crush itsheart too. But then it can't help itself. '

IV

Abbe Mouret spent his days at the parsonage. He shunned the long walkswhich he had been wont to take before his illness. The scorched soil ofLes Artaud, the ardent heat of that valley where the vines could nevereven grow straight, distressed him. On two occasions, in the morning, hehad attempted to go out and read his breviary as he strolled along theroad; but he had not gone beyond the village. He had returned home, overcome by the perfumes, the heat, the breadth of the landscape. Itwas only in the evening, in the cool twilight air, that he ventured tosaunter a little in front of the church, on the terrace which led tothe graveyard. In the afternoons, to fill up his time, and satisfy hiscraving for some kind of occupation, he had imposed upon himself thetask of pasting paper over the broken panes of the church windows, Thishad kept him for a week mounted on a ladder, arranging his paper paneswith great exactness, and laying on the paste with the most scrupulouscare in order to avoid any mess. 

La Teuse stood at the foot of the ladder and watched him. And Desireeurged that he must not fill up all the windows, or else the sparrowswould no longer be able to get through. To please her, the priest lefta pane or two in each window unfilled. Then, having completed theserepairs, he was seized with the ambition of decorating the church, without summoning to his aid either mason or carpenter or painter. Hewould do it all himself. This sort of handiwork would amuse him, hesaid, and help to bring back his strength. Uncle Pascal encouraged himevery time he called at the parsonage, assuring him that such exerciseand fatigue were better than all the drugs in the world. And so AbbeMouret began to stop up the holes in the walls with plaster, to drivefresh nails into the disjoined altars, and to crush and mix paints, in order that he might put a new coating on the pulpit andconfessional-box. It was quite an event in the district, and folkstalked of it for a couple of leagues round. Peasants would come andstand gazing, with their hands behind their backs, at his reverence'swork. The Abbe himself, with a blue apron tied round his waist, and hishands all soiled with his labour, became absorbed in it, and used it asan excuse for no longer going out. He spent his days in the midst of hisrepairs, and was more tranquil than he had been before; almost cheerful, indeed, as he forgot the outer world, the trees and the sunshine and thewarm breezes, which had formerly disturbed him so much. 

'Monsieur le Cure is free to do as he pleases, since the parish hasn'tgot to find the money, ' said old Bambousse, who came round every eveningto see how the work was progressing. 

Abbe Mouret spent all his savings on it. Some of his decorations, indeed, were so awkward that they would have excited many people'ssmiles. The replastering of the stonework soon tired him: so hecontented himself with patching up the church walls all round to aheight of some six feet from the ground. La Teuse mixed the plaster. When she talked of repairing the parsonage as well, for she wascontinually fearing that it would topple down on their heads, he toldher that he did not think he could manage it, that a regular workmanwould be necessary; a reply which led to a terrible quarrel betweenthem. La Teuse said it was quite ridiculous to go on ornamenting thechurch, where nobody slept, while their bedrooms were in such a crazycondition, for she was quite sure they would all be found, one morning, crushed to death by the fallen ceilings. 

'I shall end by bringing my bed here, and placing it behind the altar, 'she grumbled. 'I feel quite terrified sometimes at night. '

However, when the plaster was all used up, she said no more aboutrepairing the parsonage. The painting which the priest executed quitedelighted her. It was the chief charm of the improvements. The Abbe, who had repaired the woodwork everywhere with bits of boards, tookparticular pleasure in spreading his big brush, dipped in bright yellowpaint, over all this woodwork. The gentle, up-and-down motion of thebrush lulled him, left him thoughtless for hours whilst he gazed on theoily streaks of paint. When everything was quite yellow, the pulpit, the confessional-box, the altar rails, even the clock-case itself, heventured to try his hand at imitation marble work by way of touching upthe high altar. Then, growing bolder, he painted it all over. Glisteningwith white and yellow and blue, it was pronounced superb. People who hadnot been to mass for fifty years streamed into the church to see it. 

And now the paint was dry. All that remained for Abbe Mouret to do wasto edge the panels with brown beading. So, that afternoon, he set towork at it, wishing to get it done by evening; for on the following day, as he had reminded La Teuse, there would be high mass. She was thereready to arrange the altar. She had already placed on the credencethe candlesticks and the silver cross, the porcelain vases filled withartificial roses, and the laced cloth which was only used on greatfestivals. The beading, however, proved so difficult of execution, thatit was not completed till late in the evening. It was growing quite darkas the Abbe finished his last panel. 

'It will be really too beautiful, ' said a rough voice from amidst thegreyish gloom of twilight which was filling the church. 

La Teuse, who had knelt down to get a better view of the Abbe's brush asit glided along his rule, started with alarm. 

'Ah! it's Brother Archangias, ' she said, turning round. 'You came in bythe sacristy then? You gave me quite a turn. Your voice seemed to soundfrom under the floor. '

Abbe Mouret had resumed his work, after greeting the Brother with aslight nod. The Brother remained standing there in silence, with his fathands clasped in front of his cassock. Then, shrugging his shoulders, as he observed with what scrupulous care the priest sought to make hisbeading perfectly straight, he repeated:

'It will be really too beautiful. '

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

'Dear me!' she said, 'I had quite forgotten you were there. You reallyought to cough before you speak. You have a voice that comes on one sosuddenly that one might think it was a voice from the grave. '

She rose up and drew back a little the better to admire the Abbe's work. 

'Why too beautiful?' she asked. 'Nothing can be too beautiful when it isdone for the Almighty. If his reverence had only had some gold, he wouldhave done it with gold, I'm sure. '

When the priest had finished, she hastened to change the altar-cloth, taking the greatest care not to smudge the beading. Then she arrangedthe cross, the candlesticks, and the vases symmetrically. Abbe Mourethad gone to lean against the wooden screen which separated the choirfrom the nave, by the side of Brother Archangias. Not a word passedbetween them. Their eyes were fixed upon the silver crucifix, which, inthe increasing gloom, still cast some glimmer of light on the feet andthe left side and the right temple of the big Christ. When La Teuse hadfinished, she came down towards them, triumphantly. 

'Doesn't it look lovely?' she asked. 'Just you see what a crowd therewill be at mass to-morrow! Those heathens will only come to God's housewhen they think He is well-to-do. Now, Monsieur le Cure, we must do asmuch for the Blessed Virgin's altar. '

'Waste of money!' growled Brother Archangias. 

But La Teuse flew into a tantrum; and, as Abbe Mouret remained silent, she led them both before the altar of the Virgin, pushing them anddragging them by their cassocks. 

'Just look at it, ' said she; 'it is too shabby for anything, now thatthe high altar is so smart. It looks as though it had never been paintedat all. However much I may rub it of a morning, the dust sticks to it. It is quite black; it is filthy. Do you know what people will say aboutyou, your reverence? They will say that you care nothing for the BlessedVirgin; that's what they'll say. '

'Well, what of it?' queried Brother Archangias. 

La Teuse looked at him, half suffocated by indignation. 

'What of it? It would be sinful, of course, ' she muttered. 'This altaris like a neglected tomb in a graveyard. If it were not for me, thespiders would spin their webs across it, and moss would soon grow overit. From time to time, when I can spare a bunch of flowers, I give it tothe Virgin. All the flowers in our garden used to be for her once. '

She had mounted the altar steps, and she took up two withered bunches offlowers, which had been left there, forgotten. 

'See! it is just as it is in the graveyards, ' she said, throwing theflowers at Abbe Mouret's feet. 

He picked them up, without replying. It was quite dark now, and BrotherArchangias stumbled about amongst the chairs and nearly fell. He growledand muttered some angry words, in which the names of Jesus and Maryrecurred. When La Teuse, who had gone for a lamp, returned into thechurch, she asked the priest:

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

'Yes, ' he answered. 'I have finished. We will see about the rest lateron. '

She walked away in front of them, carrying all the things with her, andkeeping silence, lest she should say too much. And as Abbe Mouret hadkept the withered bunches of flowers in his hand, Brother Archangiassaid to him, as they passed the farmyard: 'Throw those things away. '

The Abbe took a few steps more, with downcast head; and then over thepalings he flung the flowers upon a manure-heap. 

V

The Brother, who had already had his own meal, seated himself astride achair, while the priest dined. Since Serge's return to Les Artaud, theBrother had thus spent most of his evenings at the parsonage; but neverbefore had he imposed his presence upon the other in so rough a fashion. He stamped on the tiled floor with his heavy boots, his voice thunderedand he smote the furniture, whilst he related how he had whipped some ofhis pupils that morning, or expounded his moral principles in termsas stern, as uncompromising as bludgeon-blows. Then feeling bored, hesuggested that he and La Teuse should have a game at cards. They hadendless bouts of 'Beggar-my-neighbour' together, that being the onlygame which La Teuse had ever been able to learn. Abbe Mouret wouldsmilingly glance at the first few cards flung on the table and wouldthen gradually sink into reverie, remaining for hours forgetful of hisself-restraint, oblivious of his surroundings, beneath the suspiciousglances of Brother Archangias. 

That evening La Teuse felt so cross that she had talked of going to bedas soon as the cloth was removed. The Brother, however, wanted hisgame of cards. So he caught hold of her shoulders and sat her down, soroughly that the chair creaked beneath her. And forthwith he began toshuffle the cards. Desiree, who hated him, had gone off carrying herdessert, which she generally took upstairs with her every evening to eatin bed. 

'I want the red cards, ' said La Teuse. 

Then the struggle began. The old woman at first won some of theBrother's best cards. But before long two aces fell together on thetable. 

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

She threw down a nine, which rather alarmed her, but as the Brother, in his turn, only put down a seven, she picked up the cards with atriumphant air. At the end of half an hour, however, she had only gainedtwo aces, so that the chances remained fairly equal. And a quarter ofan hour later she lost an ace. The knaves and kings and queens wereperpetually coming and going as the battle furiously progressed. 

'It's a splendid game, eh?' said Brother Archangias, turning towardsAbbe Mouret. 

But when he saw him sitting there, so absorbed in his reverie, with sucha gentle smile playing unconsciously round his lips, he roughly raisedhis voice:

'Why, Monsieur le Cure, you are not paying any attention to us! It isn'tpolite of you. We are only playing on your account. We were tryingto amuse you. Come and watch the game. It would do you more good thandozing and dreaming away there. Where were you just now?'

The priest started. He said nothing, but with quivering eyelids tried toforce himself to look at the game. The play went on vigorously. La Teusewon her ace back, and then lost it again. On some evenings they wouldfight in this way over the aces for quite four hours, and often theywould go off to bed, angry at having failed to bring the contest to adecisive issue. 

'But, dear me! I've only just remembered it!' suddenly cried La Teuse, who greatly feared that she was going to be beaten. 'His reverence hasto go out to-night. He promised Fortune and Rosalie that he would go tobless their room, according to the custom. Make haste, Monsieur le Cure!The Brother will go with you. '

Abbe Mouret had already risen from his chair, and was looking forhis hat. But Brother Archangias, still holding his cards, flew into atantrum: 'Oh! don't bother about it, ' said he. 'What does it want tobe blessed for that pigsty of theirs? It is a custom that you should doaway with. I can't see any sense in it. Stay here and let us finish thegame. That is much the best thing to do. '

'No, ' said the priest, 'I promised to go. Those good people might feelhurt if I didn't. You stay here and play your game out while you arewaiting for me. '

La Teuse glanced uneasily at Brother Archangias. 

'Well, yes, I will stay here, ' cried the Brother. 'It is really tooabsurd. '

But before Abbe Mouret could open the door, he flung his cards on thetable and rose to follow him. Then half turning back he called to LaTeuse:

'I should have won. Leave the cards as they are, and we will play thegame out to-morrow. '

'Oh! they are all mixed now, ' answered the old servant, who had lost notime in shuffling them together. 'Did you suppose that I was going toput your hand away under a glass case? And, besides, I might very wellhave won, for I still had an ace left. '

A few strides brought Brother Archangias up with Abbe Mouret, who waswalking down the narrow path that led to the village. The Brother hadundertaken the task of keeping watch over the Abbe's movements. Heincessantly played the spy upon him, accompanying him everywhere, or, if he could not go in person, sending some school urchin to followhim. With that terrible laugh of his, he was wont to remark that he was'God's gendarme. '

And, in truth, the Abbe seemed like a culprit ever guarded by the blackshadow of the Brother's cassock; a culprit to be treated distrustfully, since in his weakness he might well lapse into fresh crime were he leftfree from surveillance for a single moment. Thus he was watched andguarded with all the spiteful eagerness that some jealous old maidmight have displayed, the overreaching zeal of a gaoler who might carryprecautions so far as to exclude even such rays of light as might creepthrough the chinks of the prison-house. Brother Archangias was always onthe watch to keep out the sunlight, to prevent even a whiff of air fromentering, to shut up his prison so completely that nothing from outsidecould gain access to it. He noted the Abbe's slightest fits of weakness, and by his glance divined his tender thoughts, which with a word hepitilessly crushed, as though they were poisonous vermin. The priest'sintervals of silence, his smiles, the paling of his brow, the faintquivering of his limbs, were all noted by the Brother. But he neverspoke openly of the transgression. His presence alone was a sufficientreproach. The manner in which he uttered certain words imparted to themall the sting of a whip stroke. With a mere gesture he expressed hisutter disgust for the priest's sin. Like one of those betrayed husbandswho enjoy torturing their wives with cruel allusions, he contentedhimself with recalling the scene at the Paradou, in an indirect fashion, by some word or phrase which sufficed to annihilate the Abbe, wheneverthe latter's flesh rebelled. 

It was nearly ten o'clock and most of the villagers of Les Artaud hadretired to rest. But from a brightly lighted house at the far end, nearthe mill, there still came sounds of merriment. While keeping the bestrooms for his own use, old Bambousse had given a corner of his house tohis daughter and son-in-law. They were all assembled there, drinking alast glass, while waiting for the priest. 

'They are drunk, ' growled Brother Archangias. 'Don't you hear the rowthey are making?'

Abbe Mouret made no reply. It was a lovely night and all looked bluishin the moonlight, which lent to the distant part of the valley theaspect of a sleeping lake. The priest slackened his pace that he mightthe more fully enjoy the charm of that soft radiance, and now and thenhe even stopped as he came upon some expanse of light, experiencing thedelightful quiver which the proximity of fresh water brings one on ahot day. But the Brother continued striding along, grumbling and callinghim. 

'Come along; come along! It isn't good to loiter out of doors at thistime of night. You would be much better in bed. '

All at once, however, just as they were entering the village, Archangiashimself stopped short in the middle of the road. He was looking towardsthe heights, where the white lines of the roads vanished amidst blackpatches of pine-woods, and he growled to himself, like a dog that scentsdanger. 

'Who can be coming down so late?' he muttered. 

But the priest, who neither saw nor heard anything, was now, in histurn, anxious to press on. 

'Stay! stay! there he is, ' eagerly added Brother Archangias. 'He hasjust turned the corner. See! he is in the moonlight now. One can see himplainly. It is a tall man, with a stick. '

Then, after a moment's silence, he resumed, in a voice husky with fury:'It is he, that beggar! I felt sure it was!'

Thereupon, the new-comer having now reached the bottom of the hill, AbbeMouret saw that it was Jeanbernat. In spite of his eighty years, the oldman set his feet down with such force, that his heavy, nailed bootssent sparks flying from the flints on the road. And he walked along asupright as an oak, without the aid of his stick, which he carried acrosshis shoulder like a musket. 

'Ah! the villain!' stammered the Brother, still standing motionless. 'May the fiend light all the blazes of hell under his feet!'

The priest, who felt greatly disturbed, and despaired of inducing hiscompanion to come on, turned round to continue his journey, hoping that, by a quick walk to the Bambousses' house, he might yet manage to avoidJeanbernat. But he had not taken five strides before he heard thebantering voice of the old man close behind him. 

'Hie! Cure! wait for me. Are you afraid of me?'

And as Abbe Mouret stopped, he came up and continued: 'Ah! thosecassocks of yours are tiresome things, aren't they? They prevent yourgetting along too quickly. It's such a fine clear night, too, that onecan recognise you by your gown a long way off. When I was right at thetop of the hill, I said to myself, "Surely that is the little priestdown yonder. " Oh! yes, I still have very good eyes. . . . Well, so younever come to see us now?'

'I have had so much to do, ' murmured the priest, who had turned verypale. 

'Well, well, every one's free to please himself. If I've mentioned thematter, it's only because I want you to know that I don't bear you anygrudge for being a priest. We wouldn't even talk about your religion, it's all one and the same to me. But the little one thinks that it's Iwho prevents your coming. I said to her, "The priest is an idiot, " andI think so, indeed. Did I try to eat you during your illness? Why, Ididn't even go upstairs to see you. Every one's free, you know. '

He spoke on in the most unconcerned manner, pretending that he did notnotice the presence of Brother Archangias; but as the latter suddenlybroke into an angry grunt, he added, 'Why, Cure, so you bring your pigout with you?'

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

Jeanbernat, whose stick was still raised, then pretended to recognisehim. 

'Hands off!' he cried. 'Ah! it's you, you soul-saver! I ought to haveknown you by your smell. We have a little account to settle together, remember. I have sworn to cut off your ears in the middle of yourschool. It will amuse the children you are poisoning. '

The Brother fell back before the raised staff, a flood of abuse risingto his lips; but he began to stammer and went on disjointedly:

'I will set the gendarmes after you, scoundrel! You spat on the church;I saw you. You give the plague to the poor people who merely pass yourdoor. At Saint-Eutrope you made a girl die by forcing her to chew aconsecrated wafer which you had stolen. At Beage you went and dug up thebodies of little dead children and carried them away on your back. Youare an old sorcerer! Everybody knows it, you scoundrel! You are thedisgrace of the district. Whoever strangles you will gain heaven for thedeed. '

The old man listened with a sneer, twirling the while his staff betweenhis fingers. And between the Brother's successive insults he ejaculatedin an undertone:

'Go on, go on; relieve yourself, you viper. I'll break your back for youby-and-by. '

Abbe Mouret tried to interfere, but Brother Archangias pushed him away, exclaiming: 'You are led by him yourself! Didn't he make you trampleupon the cross? Deny it, if you dare!' Then again, turning toJeanbernat, he yelled: 'Ah! Satan, you must have chuckled and no mistakewhen you held a priest in your grasp! May Heaven curse those who abettedyou in that sacrilege! What was it you did, at night, while he slept?You came and moistened his tonsure with your saliva, eh? so that hishair might grow more quickly. And then you breathed upon his chin andhis cheeks that his beard might grow a hand's breadth in a single night. And you rubbed all your philters into his body, and breathed into hismouth the lasciviousness of a dog. You turned him into a brute-beast, Satan. '

'He's idiotic, ' said Jeanbernat, resting his stick on his shoulder. 'Hequite bores me. '

The Brother, however, growing bolder, thrust his fists under the oldman's nose. 

'And that drab of yours!' he cried, 'you can't deny that you set her onto damn the priest. '

Then he suddenly sprang backwards, with a shriek, for the old man, swinging his stick with all his strength, had just broken it over hisback. Retreating yet a little further, Archangias picked from a heap ofstones beside the road a piece of flint twice the size of a man's fist, and threw it at Jeanbernat. It would surely have split the other'sforehead open if he had not bent down. He, however, now likewise crossedover to a heap of stones, sheltered himself behind it, and providedhimself with missiles; and from one heap to the other a terrible combatbegan, with a perfect hail of flints. The moon now shone very brightly, and their dark shadows fell distinctly on the ground. 

'Yes, yes, you set that hussy on to ruin him!' repeated the Brother, wild with rage. 'Ah! you are astonished that I know all about it! Youhope for some monstrous result from it all. Every morning you make thethirteen signs of hell over that minx of yours! You would like her tobecome the mother of Antichrist. You long for Antichrist, you villain!But may this stone blind you!'

'And may this one bung your mouth up!' retorted Jeanbernat, who wasnow quite calm again. 'Is he cracked, the silly fellow, with all thosestories of his?. . . Shall I have to break your head for you, before I canget on my way? Is it your catechism that has turned your brain?'

'Catechism, indeed! Do you know what catechism is taught to accursedones like you? Ah! I will show you how to make the sign of thecross. --This stone is for the Father, and this for the Son, and thisfor the Holy Ghost. Ah! you are still standing. Wait a bit, wait abit. Amen!' Then he threw a handful of small pebbles like a volley ofgrape-shot. Jeanbernat, who was struck upon the shoulder, dropped thestones he was holding, and quietly stepped forwards, while BrotherArchangias picked two fresh handfuls from the heap, blurting out:

I am going to exterminate you. It is God who wills it. God is actingthrough my arm. '

'Will you be quiet!' said the old man, grasping him by the nape of theneck. 

Then came a short struggle amidst the dust of the road, all bluish withmoonlight. The Brother, finding himself the weaker of the two, triedto bite. But Jeanbernat's sinewy limbs were like coils of rope whichpinioned him so tightly that he could almost feel them cutting intohis flesh. He panted and ceased to struggle, meditating some act oftreachery. 

The old man, having got the other under him, scoffingly exclaimed: 'Ihave a good mind to break one of your arms. You see that it isn't youwho are the stronger, but that it is I who am exterminating you. . . . NowI'm going to cut your ears off. You have tried my endurance too far. '

Jeanbernat calmly drew his knife from his pocket. But Abbe Mouret, whohad several times attempted to part the combatants, now raised suchstrenuous opposition to the old man's design that he consented to deferthe operation till another time. 

'You are acting foolishly, Cure, ' said he. 'It would do this scoundrelgood to be well bled; but, since it seems to displease you, I'll wait alittle longer; I shall be meeting him again in some quiet corner. '

And as the Brother broke out into a growl, Jeanbernat criedthreateningly: 'If you don't keep still I will cut your ears off atonce!'

'But you are sitting on his chest, ' said the priest, 'get up and let himbreathe. '

'No, no; he would begin his tomfoolery again. I will give him hisliberty when I go away, but not before. . . . Well, I was telling you, Cure, when this good-for-nothing interrupted us, that you would be verywelcome yonder. The little one is mistress, you know; I don't attemptto interfere with her any more than I do with my salad-plants. There areonly fools like this croaker here who see any harm in it. Where did yousee anything wrong, scoundrel? It was yourself who imagined it, villainthat you are!'

And thereupon he gave the Brother another shaking. 'Let him get up, 'begged Abbe Mouret. 

'By-and-by. The little one has not been well for a long time. I did notnotice anything myself, but she told me; and now I am on my way to tellyour uncle Pascal, at Plassans. I like the night for walking; it isquiet, and, as a rule, one isn't delayed by meeting people. . . . Yes, yes, the little one is quite ailing. '

The priest could not find a word to say. He staggered, and his headsank. 

'It made her so happy to look after you, ' continued the old man. 'WhileI smoked my pipe I used to hear her laugh. That was quite sufficient forme. Girls are like the hawthorns; when they break out into blossom, theydo all they can. Well, now, you will come, if your heart prompts you toit. I am sure it would please the little one. Good night, Cure. '

He got up slowly, keeping a firm grasp of the Brother's wrists, toguard against any treacherous attack. Then he proceeded on his way, withswinging strides, without once turning his head. The Brother silentlycrept to the heap of stones, and waited till the old man was somedistance off. Then, with both hands, and with mad violence, he againbegan flinging stones, but they fell harmlessly upon the dusty road. Jeanbernat did not condescend to notice them, but went his way, uprightlike a tree, through the clear night. 

'The accursed one!--Satan carries him on!' shrieked Brother Archangias, as he hurled his last stone. 'An old scoundrel, that the least touchought to upset! But he is baked in hell's fire. I smelt his claws. '

The Brother stamped with impotent rage on the scattered flints. Then hesuddenly attacked Abbe Mouret. 'It was all your fault, ' he cried; 'youought to have helped me, and, between us, we could have strangled him. '

Meantime, at the other end of the village, the uproar in the Bambousses'house had become greater than ever. The rhythmic tapping of glasses ona table could be distinctly heard. The priest resumed his walk withoutraising his head, making his way towards the flood of bright light thatstreamed out of the window like the flare of a fire of vine-cuttings. The Brother followed him gloomily; his cassock soiled with dust, and oneof his cheeks bleeding from a stone-cut. And, after a short interval ofsilence, he asked, in his harsh voice: 'Shall you go?'

Then as Abbe Mouret did not answer, he went on: 'Take care! You arelapsing into sin again. It was sufficient for that man to pass by tosend a thrill through your whole body. I saw you by the light of themoon looking as pale as a girl. Take care! take care! Do you hear me?Another time God will not pardon you--you will sink into the lowestabyss! Ah! wretched piece of clay that you are, filth is mastering you!'

Thereupon, the priest at last raised his head. Big tears were streamingfrom his eyes, and it was in gentle heartbroken accents that he spoke:'Why do you speak to me like that?--You are always with me, and you knowmy ceaseless struggles. Do not doubt me, leave me strength to mastermyself. '

Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night airwith such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even BrotherArchangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched. He made noreply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek. Whenthey reached the Bambousses' house, he refused to go inside. He seatedhimself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned cart, where hewaited for the Abbe with dog-like patience. 

'Ah! here is Monsieur le Cure!' cried all the company of Bambousses andBrichets as Serge entered. 

They filled their glasses once more. Abbe Mouret was compelled to takeone, too. There had been no regular wedding-feast; but, in the evening, after dinner, a ten-gallon 'Dame Jane' had been placed upon the table, and they were making it their business to empty it before going to bed. There were ten of them, and old Bambousse was already with one handtilting over the jar whence only a thread of red liquor now flowed. Rosalie, in a very sportive frame of mind, was dipping her baby's chininto her glass, while big Fortune showed off his strength by liftingup the chairs with his teeth. All the company passed into the bedroom. Custom required that the priest should there drink the glass of winewhich had been poured out for him. It brought good luck, and preventedquarrels in the household. In Monsieur Coffin's time, it had alwaysbeen a very merry ceremony, for the old priest loved a joke. He hadeven gained a reputation for the skilful way in which he could drain hisglass, without leaving a single drop at the bottom of it; and the Artaudwomen pretended that every drop undrunk meant a year's less love for thenewly married pair. But with Abbe Mouret they dare not joke so freely. However, he drank his wine at one gulp, which seemed to greatly pleaseold Bambousse. Mother Brichet looked at the bottom of the glass andsaw but a drop or two of the liquid remaining there. Then, after a fewjokes, they all returned to the living room, where Vincent and Catherinehad remained by themselves. Vincent, standing upon a chair, was claspingthe huge jar in his arms, and draining the last drops of wine intoCatherine's open mouth. 

'We are much obliged to you, Monsieur le Cure, ' said old Bambousse, ashe escorted the priest to the door. 'Well, they're married now, so Isuppose you are satisfied. And they are not likely to complain, I'msure. . . . Good night, sleep well, your reverence. '

Brother Archangias had slowly risen from his seat on the old cart. 

'May the devil pile hot coals over them, and roast them!' he murmured. 

Then without again opening his lips he accompanied Abbe Mouret to theparsonage. And he waited outside till the door was closed. Even then hedid not go off without twice looking round to make sure that theAbbe was not coming out again. As for the priest, when he reached hisbedroom, he threw himself in his clothes upon his bed, clasping hishands to his ears, and pressing his face to the pillow, in order that hemight shut out all sound and sight. And thus stilling his senses he fellinto death-like slumber. 

VI

The next day was Sunday. As the Feast of the Exaltation of the HolyCross fell on a high mass day, Abbe Mouret desired to celebrate thefestival with especial solemnity. He was now full of extraordinarydevotion for the Cross, and had replaced the image of the ImmaculateConception in his bedroom by a large crucifix of black wood, beforewhich he spent long hours in worship. To exalt the Cross, to plant itbefore him, above all else, in a halo of glory, as the one object ofhis life, gave him the strength he needed to suffer and to struggle. Hesometimes dreamed of hanging there himself, in Jesus's place, his headcrowned with thorns, nails driven through his hands and feet, andhis side rent by spears. What a coward he must be to complain of animaginary wound, when God bled there from His whole body, and yetpreserved on His lips the blessed smile of the Redemption! And howeverunworthy it might be, he offered up his wound as a sacrifice, ended byfalling into ecstasy, and believing that blood did really stream fromhis brow and side and limbs. Those were hours of relief, for he fanciedthat all the impurity within him flowed forth from his wounds. And hethen usually drew himself up with the heroism of a martyr, and longed tobe called upon to suffer the most frightful tortures, in order that hemight bear them without a quiver of the flesh. 

At early dawn that day he knelt before the crucifix, and grace came uponhim abundantly as dew. He made no effort, he simply fell upon his knees, to receive it in his heart, to be permeated with it to the marrow of hisbones in sweetest and most refreshing fulness. On the previous day hehad prayed for grace in agony, and it had not come. At times it longremained deaf to his entreaties, and then, when he simply clasped hishands, in quite childlike fashion, it flowed down to succour him. It came upon him that morning like a benediction, bringing perfectserenity, absolute trusting faith. He forgot his anguish of the previousdays, and surrendered himself wholly to the triumphant joy of the Cross. He seemed to be cased in such impenetrable armour that the world's mostdeadly blows would glide off from it harmlessly. When he came down fromhis bedroom, he stepped along with an air of serenity and victory. LaTeuse was astonished, and went to find Desiree, that he might kiss her;and both of them clapped their hands, and said that they had not seenhim looking so well for the last six months. 

But it was in the church, at high mass, that the priest felt that hehad really recovered divine grace. It was a long time since he hadapproached the altar with such loving emotion; and he had to make agreat effort to restrain himself from weeping whilst he remained withhis lips pressed to the altar-cloth. It was a solemn high mass. Thelocal rural guard, an uncle of Rosalie, chanted in a deep bass voicewhich rumbled through the low nave like a hoarse organ. Vincent, robedin a surplice much too large for him, which had formerly belonged toAbbe Caffin, carried an old silver censer, and was vastly amused by thetinkling of its chains; he swung it to a great height, so as to producecopious clouds of smoke, and glanced behind him every now and then tosee if he had succeeded in making any one cough. The church was almostfull, for everybody wanted to see his reverence's painting. Peasantwomen laughed with pleasure because the place smelt so nice, while themen, standing under the gallery, jerked their heads approvingly at eachdeeper and deeper note that came from the rural guard. Filtering throughthe paper window panes the full morning sun lighted up the brightlypainted walls, on which the women's caps cast shadows resembling hugebutterflies. The artificial flowers, with which the altar was decorated, almost seemed to possess the moist freshness of natural ones newlygathered; and when the priest turned round to bless the congregation, hefelt even stronger emotion than before, as he saw his church so clean, so full, and so steeped in music and incense and light. 

After the offertory, however, a buzzing murmur sped through the peasantwomen. Vincent inquisitively turned his head, and in doing so, almostlet the charcoal in his censer fall upon the priest's chasuble. And, wishing to excuse himself, as he saw the Abbe looking at him with anexpression of reproof, he murmured: 'It is your reverence's uncle, whohas just come in. '

At the end of the church, standing beside one of the slender woodenpillars that supported the gallery, Abbe Mouret then perceived DoctorPascal. The doctor was not wearing his usual cheerful and slightlyscoffing expression. Hat in hand, he stood there looking very grave, andfollowed the service with evident impatience. The sight of the priestat the altar, his solemn demeanour, his slow gestures, and the perfectserenity of his countenance, appeared to gradually increase hisirritation. He could not stay there till the end of the mass, but leftthe church, and walked up and down beside his horse and gig, which hehad secured to one of the parsonage shutters. 

'Will that nephew of mine never have finished censing himself?' he askedof La Teuse, who was just coming out of the vestry. 

'It is all over, ' she replied. 'Won't you come into the drawing-room?His reverence is unrobing. He knows you are here. '

'Well, unless he were blind, he couldn't very well help it, ' growled thedoctor, as he followed La Teuse into the cold-looking, stiffly furnishedchamber, which she pompously called the drawing-room. Here for a fewminutes he paced up and down. The gloomy coldness of his surroundingsseemed to increase his irritation. As he strode about, flourishinga stick he carried, he kept on striking the well-worn chair-seats ofhorsehair which sounded hard and dead as stone. Then, tired of walking, he took his stand in front of the mantelpiece, in the centre of which agaudily painted image of Saint Joseph occupied the place of a clock. 

'Ah! here he comes at last, ' he said, as he heard the door opening. And stepping towards the Abbe he went on: 'Do you know that you made melisten to half a mass? It is a very long time since that happened to me. But I was bent on seeing you to-day. I have something to say to you. '

Then he stopped, and looked at the priest with an expression ofsurprise. Silence fell. 'You at all events are quite well, ' he resumed, in a different voice. 

'Yes, I am very much better than I was, ' replied Abbe Mouret, with asmile. 'I did not expect you before Thursday. Sunday isn't your day forcoming. Is there something you want to tell me?'

Uncle Pascal did not give an immediate answer. He went on looking at theAbbe. The latter was still fresh from the influence of the church andthe mass. His hair was fragrant with the perfume of the incense, and inhis eyes shone all the joy of the Cross. His uncle jogged his head, ashe noticed that expression of triumphant peace. 

'I have come from the Paradou, ' he said, abruptly. 'Jeanbernat came tofetch me there. I have seen Albine, and she disquiets me. She needs muchcareful treatment. '

He kept his eyes fixed upon the priest as he spoke, but he did notdetect so much as a quiver of Serge's eyelids. 

'She took great care of you, you know, ' he added, more roughly. 'Withouther, my boy, you might now be in one of the cells at Les Tulettes, witha strait waistcoat on. . . . Well, I promised that you would go to see her. I will take you with me. It will be a farewell meeting. She is anxiousto go away. '

'I can do nothing more than pray for the person of whom you speak, ' saidAbbe Mouret, softly. 

And as the doctor, losing his temper, brought his stick down heavilyupon the couch, he added calmly, but in a firm voice:

'I am a priest, and can only help with prayers. '

'Ah, well! Yes, you are right, ' said Uncle Pascal, dropping down intoan armchair, 'it is I who am an old fool. Yes, I wept like a child, asI came here alone in my gig. That is what comes of living amongst books. One learns a lot from them, but one makes a fool of oneself in theworld. How could I guess that it would all turn out so badly?'

He rose from his chair and began to walk about again, lookingexceedingly troubled. 

'But yes, but yes, I ought to have guessed. It was all quite natural. Though with one in your position, it was bound to be abominable! Youare not as other men. But listen to me, I assure you that otherwise youwould never have recovered. It was she alone, with the atmosphere sheset round you, who saved you from madness. There is no need for me totell you what a state you were in. It is one of my most wonderful cures. But I can't take any pride, any pleasure in it, for now the poor girl isdying of it!'

Abbe Mouret remained there erect, perfectly calm, his face reflectingall the quiet serenity of a martyr whom nothing that man might do coulddisturb. 

'God will take mercy upon her, ' he said. 

'God! God!' muttered the doctor below his breath. 'Ah! He would dobetter not to interfere. We might manage matters if we were leftto ourselves. ' Then, raising his voice, he added: 'I thought I hadconsidered everything carefully, that is the most wonderful part of it. Oh! what a fool I was! You would stay there, I thought, for a month torecover your strength. The shade of the trees, the cheerful chatter ofthe girl, all the youthfulness about you would quickly bring you round. And then you, on your side, it seemed to me, would do something toreclaim the poor child from her wild ways; you would civilise her, and, between us, we should turn her into a young lady, for whom we should, by-and-by, find a suitable husband. It seemed such a perfect scheme. Andthen how was I to guess that old philosophising Jeanbernat would neverstir an inch from his lettuce-beds? Well! well! I myself never leftmy own laboratory. I had such pressing work there. . . . And it is all myfault! Ah! I am a stupid bungler!'

He was choking, and wished to go off. And he began to look about him forhis hat, though, all the while, he had it on his head. 

'Good-bye!' he stammered; 'I am going. So you won't come? Do, now--formy sake! You see how miserable, how upset I am. I swear to you that sheshall go away immediately afterwards. That is all settled. My gig ishere; you might be back in an hour. Come, do come, I beg you. '

The priest made a sweeping gesture; such a gesture as the doctor hadseen him make before the altar. 

'No, ' he said, 'I cannot. '

Then, as he accompanied his uncle out of the room, he added:

'Tell her to fall on her knees and pray to God. God will hear her as Heheard me, and He will comfort her as He has comforted me. There is noother means of salvation. '

The doctor looked him full in the face, and shrugged his shoulders. 

'Good-bye, then, ' he repeated. 'You are quite well now, and have nofurther need of me. '

But, as he was unfastening his horse, Desiree, who had heard his voice, came running up. She was extremely attached to her uncle. When she hadbeen younger he had been wont to listen to her childish prattle forhours without showing the least sign of weariness. And, even now, hedid his best to spoil her, and manifested the greatest interest in herfarmyard, often spending a whole afternoon with her amongst her fowlsand ducks, and smiling at her with his bright eyes. He seemed toconsider her superior to other girls. And so she now flung herself roundhis neck, in an impulse of affection, and cried:

'Aren't you going to stay and have some lunch with us?'

But having kissed her, he said he could not remain, and unfastened herarms from his neck with a somewhat pettish air. She laughed however, andagain clasped her arms round him. 

'Oh! but you must, ' she persisted. 'I have some eggs that have only justbeen laid. I have been looking in the nests, and there are fourteen eggsthis morning. And, if you will stay, we can have a fowl, the whiteone, that is always quarrelling with the others. When you were here onThursday, you know, it pecked the big spotted hen's eye out. '

But her uncle persisted in his refusal. He was irritated to find that hecould not unfasten the knot in which he had tied his reins. And then shebegan to skip round him, clapping her hands and repeating in a sing-songvoice: 'Yes! yes! you'll stay, and we will eat it up, we'll eat it up!'

Her uncle could no longer resist her blandishments; he raised his headand smiled at her. She seemed so full of life and health and sincerity;her gaiety was as frank and natural as the sheet of sunlight which wasgilding her bare arms. 

'You big silly!' he said; and clasping her by the wrists as shecontinued skipping gleefully about him, he went on: 'No, dear; notto-day. I have to go to see a poor girl who is ill. But I will come someother morning. I promise you faithfully. '

'When? when?' she persisted. 'On Thursday? The cow is in calf, you know, and she hasn't seemed at all well these last two days. You are a doctor, and you ought to be able to give her something to do her good. '

Abbe Mouret, who had calmly remained there, could not restrain a slightlaugh. 

The doctor gaily got into his gig and exclaimed: 'All right, my dear, I will attend to your cow. Come and let me kiss you. Ah! how niceand healthy you are! And you are worth more than all the others puttogether. Ah! if every one was like my big silly, this earth would betoo beautiful!'

He set his horse off with a cluck of his tongue, and continued talkingto himself as the gig rattled down the hill. 

'Yes, yes! there should be nothing but animals. Ah! if they were mereanimals, how happy and gay and strong they would all be! It has gonewell with the girl, who is as happy as her cow; but it has gone badlywith the lad, who is in torture beneath his cassock. A drop too muchblood, a little too much nerve, and one's whole life is wrecked! . . . They are true Rougons and true Macquarts those children there! Thetail-end of the stock--its final degeneracy. '

Then, urging on his horse, he drove at a trot up the hill that led tothe Paradou. 

VII

Sunday was a busy day for Abbe Mouret. He had to think of vespers, whichhe generally said to empty seats, for even mother Brichet did not carryher piety so far as to go back to church in the afternoon. Then, at fouro'clock, Brother Archangias brought the little rogues from his schoolto repeat their catechism to his reverence. This lesson sometimes lasteduntil late. When the children showed themselves quite intractable, LaTeuse was summoned to frighten them with her broom. 

On that particular Sunday, about four o'clock, Desiree found herselfquite alone in the parsonage. As she felt a little bored, she went togather some food for her rabbits in the churchyard, where there weresome magnificent poppies, of which rabbits are extremely fond. Draggingherself about on her knees between the grave-stones, she gatheredapronfuls of juicy verdure on which her pets fell greedily. 

'Oh! what lovely plantains!' she muttered, stooping before Abbe Caffin'stombstone, and delighted with the discovery she had made. 

There were, indeed, some magnificent plantains spreading out their broadleaves beside the stone. Desiree had just finished filling her apronwith them when she fancied she heard a strange noise behind her. Arustling of branches and a rolling of small pebbles came from the ravinewhich skirted one side of the graveyard, and at the bottom of whichflowed the Mascle, a stream which descended from the high lands ofthe Paradou. But the ascent here was so rough, so impracticable, thatDesiree imagined that the noise could only have been made by some lostdog or straying goat. She stepped quickly to the edge, and, as shelooked over, she was amazed to see amidst the brambles a girl who wasclimbing up the rocks with extraordinary agility. 

'I will give you a hand, ' she said. 'You might easily break your neckthere. '

The girl, directly she saw she was discovered, started back, as thoughshe would rather go down again, but after a moment's hesitation sheventured to take the hand that was held out to her. 

'Oh! I know who you are, ' said Desiree, with a beaming smile, andletting her apron fall that she might grasp the girl by the waist. 'Youonce gave me some blackbirds, but they all died, poor little dears. Iwas so sorry about it. --Wait a bit, I know your name, I have heard itbefore. La Teuse often mentions it when Serge isn't there; but shetold me that I was not to repeat it. Wait a moment, I shall remember itdirectly!'

She tried to recall the name, and grew quite grave in the attempt. Then, having succeeded in remembering it, she became gay again, and seeminglyfound great pleasure in dwelling upon its musical sound. 

'Albine! Albine!---- What a sweet name it is! At first I used to thinkyou must be a tomtit, because I once had a tomtit with a name very likeyours, though I don't remember exactly what it was. '

Albine did not smile. Her face was very pale, and there was a feverishgleam in her eyes. A few drops of blood trickled from her hands. Whenshe had recovered her breath, she hastily exclaimed:

No! no! leave it alone. You will only stain your handkerchief. It isnothing but a scratch. I didn't want to come by the road, as I shouldhave been seen--so I preferred coming along the bed of the torrent----Is Serge there?'

Desiree did not feel at all shocked at hearing the girl pronounceher brother's name thus familiarly and with an expression of subduedpassion. She simply replied that he was in the church hearing thechildren say their catechism. 

'You must not speak at all loudly, ' she added, raising her finger toher lips. 'Serge forbade me to talk loudly when he is catechising thechildren, and we shall get into trouble if we don't keep quiet. Let usgo into the stable--shall we? We can talk better there. '

'I want to see Serge, ' said Albine, simply. 

Desiree cast a hasty glance at the church, and then whispered, 'Yes, yes; Serge will be finely caught. Come with me. We will hide ourselves, and keep quite quiet. We shall have some fine fun!'

She had picked up the herbage which had fallen from her apron, andquitting the graveyard she stole back to the parsonage, telling Albineto hide herself behind her and make herself as little as possible. Asthey stealthily glided through the farmyard, they caught sight of LaTeuse, who was crossing over to the vestry, but she did not appear tonotice them. 

'There! There!' said Desiree, quite delighted, as they stowed themselvesaway in the stable; 'keep quiet, and no one will know that we are here. There is some straw there for you to lie down upon. '

Albine seated herself on a truss of straw. 

'And Serge?' she asked, persisting in her one fixed idea. 

'Listen! You can hear his voice. When he claps his hands, it will be allover, and the children will go away--Listen! he is telling them a tale. '

They could indeed just hear Abbe Mouret's voice, which was wafted tothem through the vestry doorway which La Teuse had doubtless left open. It came to them like a solemn murmur, in which they could distinguishthe name of Jesus thrice repeated. Albine trembled. She sprang up asthough to hasten to that beloved voice whose caressing accents she knewso well, but all sound of it suddenly died away, shut off by theclosing of the door. Then she sat down again, to wait, her hands tightlyclasped, and her clear eyes gleaming with the intensity of her thoughts. Desiree, who was lying at her feet, gazed up at her with innocentadmiration. 

'How beautiful you are!' she whispered. 'You are like an image thatSerge used to have in his bedroom. It was quite white like you are, withgreat curls floating about the neck; and the heart was quite bare anduncovered, just in the place where I can feel yours beating---- Butyou are not listening to me. You are looking quite sad. Let us play atsomething? Will you?'

Then she stopped short, holding her breath and saying between her teeth:'Ah! the wretches! they will get us caught!' She still had her apronfull of herbage with her, and her pets were taking it by assault. Atroop of fowls had surrounded her, clucking and calling each other, andpecking at the hanging green stuff. The goat pushed its head slyly underher arm, and began to eat the longer leaves. Even the cow, which wastethered to the wall, strained at its cord and poked out its nose, kissing her with its warm breath. 

'Oh! you thieves!' cried Desiree. 'But this is for the rabbits, not foryou! Leave me alone, won't you! You, there, will get your ears boxed, ifyou don't go away! And you too will have your tail pulled if I catch youat it again. The wretches! they will be eating my hands soon!'

She drove the goat off, dispersed the fowls with her feet, and tappedthe cow's nose with her fists. But the creatures just shook themselves, and then came back more greedily than ever, surrounding her, jumpingon her, and tearing open her apron. At this she whispered to Albine, asthough she were afraid the animals might hear her. 

'Aren't they amusing, the dears? Watch them eat. '

Albine looked on with a grave expression. 

'Now, now, be good, ' resumed Desiree; 'you shall all have some, but youmust wait your turns. Now, big Lisa, you first. Eh! how fond you are ofplantain, aren't you?'

Big Lisa was the cow. She slowly munched a handful of the juicy leaveswhich had grown beside Abbe Caffin's tomb. A thread of saliva hung downfrom her mouth, and her great brown eyes shone with quiet enjoyment. 

'There! now it's your turn, ' continued Desiree, turning towards thegoat. 'You are fond of poppies, I know; and you like the flowers best, don't you? The buds that shine in your teeth like red-hot butterflies!See, here are some splendid ones; they came from the left-hand corner, where there was a burial last year. '

As she spoke, she gave the goat a bunch of scarlet flowers, which theanimal ate from her hand. When there was nothing left in her graspbut the stalks, she pushed these between its teeth. Behind her, in themeanwhile, the fowls were desperately pecking away at her petticoats. She threw them some wild chicory and dandelions which she had gatheredamongst the old slabs that were ranged alongside the church walls. It was particularly over the dandelions that the fowls quarrelled, sovoraciously indeed, with such scratchings and flapping of wings, that the other fowls in the yard heard them. And then came a generalinvasion. The big yellow cock, Alexander, was the first to appear;having seized a dandelion and torn it in halves, without attempting toeat it, he called to the hens who were still outside to come and peck. Then a white hen strutted in, then a black one, and then a whole crowdof hens, who hustled one another, and trod on one another's tails, andended by forming a wild flood of feathers. Behind the fowls came thepigeons, and the ducks, and the geese, and, last of all, the turkeys. Desiree laughed at seeing herself thus surrounded by this noisy, squabbling mob. 

'This is what always happens, ' said she, 'every time that I bring anygreen stuff from the graveyard. They nearly kill each other to get atit; they must find it very nice. '

Then she made a fight to keep a few handfuls of the leaves from thegreedy beaks which rose all round her, saying that something must reallybe saved for the rabbits. She would surely get angry with them ifthey went on like that, and give them nothing but dry bread in future. However, she was obliged to give way. The geese tugged at her apronso violently that she was almost pulled down upon her knees; the ducksgobbled away at her ankles; two of the pigeons flew upon her head, andsome of the fowls fluttered about her shoulders. It was the ferocity ofcreatures who smell flesh: the fat plantains, the crimson poppies, the milky dandelions, in which remained some of the life of the dead. Desiree laughed loudly, and felt that she was on the point of slippingdown, and letting go of her last two handfuls, when the fowls werepanic-stricken by a terrible grunting. 

'Ah! it's you, my fatty, ' she exclaimed, quite delighted; 'eat them up, and set me at liberty. '

The pig waddled in; he was no longer the little pig of former days--pinkas a newly painted toy, with a tiny little tail, like a bit of string;but a fat wobbling creature, fit to be killed, with a belly as roundas a monk's, and a back all bristling with rough hairs, that reeked offatness. His stomach had grown quite yellow from his habit of sleepingon the manure heap. Waddling along on his shaky feet, he charged withlowered snout at the scared fowls, and so left Desiree at liberty toescape, and take the rabbits the few scraps of green stuff which she hadso strenuously defended. When she came back, all was peace again. Thestupid, ecstatic-looking geese were lazily swaying their long necksabout, the ducks and turkeys were waddling in ungainly fashion alongsidethe wall; the fowls were quietly clucking and peaking at invisiblegrains on the hard ground of the stable; while the pig, the goat, andthe big cow, were drowsily blinking their eyes, as though they werefalling asleep. Outside it had just begun to rain. 

'Ah! well, there's a shower coming on!' cried Desiree, throwing herselfdown on the straw. 'You had better stay where you are, my dears, if youdon't want to get soaked. '

Then she turned to Albine and added: 'How stupid they all look, don'tthey? They only wake up just to eat!'

Albine still remained silent. The merry laughter of that buxom girlas she struggled amidst those greedy necks and gluttonous beaks, whichtickled and kissed her, and seemed bent on devouring her very flesh, hadrendered the unhappy daughter of the Paradou yet paler than she had beenbefore. So much gaiety, so much vitality, so much boisterous health madeher despair. She strained her feverish arms to her desolate bosom, whichdesertion had parched. 

'And Serge?' she asked again, in the same clear, stubborn voice. 

'Hush!' said Desiree. 'I heard him just now. He hasn't finished yet----We have been making a pretty disturbance; La Teuse must surely havegrown deaf this afternoon---- Let us keep quiet now. I like to hear therain fall. '

The shower beat in at the open doorway, casting big drops upon thethreshold. The restless fowls, after venturing out for a moment, hadquickly retreated to the far end of the stable; where, indeed, with theexception of three ducks who remained quietly walking in the rain, allthe pets had now taken refuge, clustering round the girl's skirts. Itwas growing very warm amongst the straw. Desiree pulled two big trussestogether, made a bed of them, and lay down at full length. She feltextremely comfortable there. 

'It is so nice, ' she murmured. 'Come and lie down like me. It is sospringy and soft, all this straw; and it tickles one so funnily in theneck. Do you roll about in the straw at home? There is nothing I amfonder of---- Sometimes I tickle the soles of my feet with it. That isvery funny, too----'

But at that moment, the big yellow cock, who had been gravely stalkingtowards her, jumped upon her breast. 

'Get away with you, Alexander! get away!' she cried. 'What a tiresomecreature he is! The idea of his perching himself on me---- You are toorough, sir, and you scratch me with your claws. Do you hear me? I don'twant you to go away, but you must be good, and mustn't peck at my hair. '

Then she troubled herself no further about him. The cock stillmaintained his position, every now and then glancing inquisitively atthe girl's chin with his gleaming eye. The other birds all began tocluster round her. After rolling amongst the straw, she was now lyinglazily on her back with her arms stretched out. 

'Ah! how pleasant it is, ' she said; 'but then it makes me feel sosleepy. Straw always makes one drowsy, doesn't it? Serge doesn't likeit. Perhaps you don't either. What do you like? Tell me, so that I mayknow. '

She was gradually dozing off. For a moment she opened her eyes widely, as though she were looking for something, and then her eyelids fell witha tranquil smile of content. She seemed to be asleep, but after a fewminutes she opened her eyes again, and said:

'The cow is going to have a calf---- That will be so nice, and willplease me more than anything. '

Then she sank into deep slumber. The fowls had ended by perching onher body; she was buried beneath a wave of living plumage. Hens werebrooding over her feet; geese stretched their soft downy necks over herlegs. The pig lay against her left side, while on the right, the goatpoked its bearded head under her arm. The pigeons were roosting andnestling all over her, on her hands, her waist, and her shoulders. Andthere she lay asleep, in all her rosy freshness, caressed by the cow'swarm breath, while the big cock still squatted just below her bosom withgleaming comb and quivering wings. 

Outside, the rain was falling less heavily. A sunbeam, escaping frombeneath a cloud, gilded the fine drops of water. Albine, who hadremained perfectly still, watched the slumber of Desiree, that big, plump girl who found her great delight in rolling about in the straw. She wished that she, too, could slumber away so peacefully, and feelsuch pleasure, because a few straws had tickled her neck. And she feltjealous of those strong arms, that firm bosom, all that vitality, allthat purely animal development which made the other like a tranquileasy-minded sister of the big red and white cow. 

However, the rain had now quite ceased. The three cats of the parsonagefiled out into the yard one after the other, keeping close to the wall, and taking the greatest precautions to avoid wetting their paws. Theypeeped into the stable, and then stalked up to the sleeping girl, andlay down, purring, close by her. Moumou, the big black cat, curleditself up close to her cheek, and gently licked her chin. 

'And Serge?' murmured Albine, quite mechanically. 

What was it that kept them apart? Who was it that prevented them frombeing happy together? Why might she not love him, and why might shenot be loved, freely and in the broad sunlight, as the trees lived andloved? She knew not, but she felt that she had been forsaken, and hadreceived a mortal wound. Yet she was possessed by a stubborn, determinedlonging, a very necessity, indeed, of once more clasping her love inher arms, of concealing him somewhere, that he might be hers in allfelicity. She rose to her feet. The vestry door had just been openedagain. A clapping of hands sounded, followed by the uproar of a swarmof children clattering in wooden shoes over the stone flags. Thecatechising was over. Then Albine gently glided out of the stable, whereshe had been waiting for an hour amidst the reeking warmth that emanatedfrom Desiree's pets. 

As she quietly slipped through the passage that led to the vestry, she caught sight of La Teuse, who was going to her kitchen, and whofortunately did not turn her head. Certain, now, of not being seen andstopped, Albine softly pushed the door which was before her, keepinghold of it in order that it might make no noise as it closed again. 

And she found herself in the church. 

VIII

At first she could see nobody. Outside, the rain had again begun to fallin fine close drops. The church looked very grey and gloomy. She passedbehind the high altar, and walked on towards the pulpit. In the middleof the nave, there were only a number of empty benches, left there indisorder by the urchins of the catechism class. Amidst all this voidcame a low tic-tac from the swaying pendulum. She went down the churchto knock at the confessional-box, which she saw standing at the otherend. But, just as she passed the Chapel of the Dead, she caught sightof Abbe Mouret prostrated before the great bleeding Christ. He did notstir; he must have thought that it was only La Teuse putting the seatsin order behind him. 

But Albine laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

'Serge, ' she said, 'I have come for you. '

The priest raised his head with a start. His face was very pale. Heremained on his knees and crossed himself, while his lips still quiveredwith the words of his prayer. 

'I have been waiting for you, ' she continued. 'Every morning and everyevening I looked to see if you were not coming. I have counted the daystill I could keep the reckoning no longer. Ah! for weeks and weeks----Then, when I grew sure that you were not coming, I set out myself, andcame here. I said to myself: "I will fetch him away with me. " Give meyour hand and let us go. '

She stretched out her hands, as though to help him to rise. But he onlycrossed himself, afresh. He still continued his prayers as he looked ather. He had succeeded in calming the first quiver of his flesh. Fromthe Divine grace which had been streaming around him since the earlymorning, like a celestial bath, he derived a superhuman strength. 

'It is not right for you to be here, ' he said, gravely. 'Go away. Youare aggravating your sufferings. '

'I suffer no longer, ' she said, with a smile. 'I am well again; I amcured, now that I see you once more---- Listen! I made myself outworse than I really was, to induce them to go and fetch you. I am quitewilling to confess it now. And that promise of going away, of leavingthe neighbourhood, you didn't suppose I should have kept it, did you?No, indeed, unless I had carried you away with me on my shoulders. Theothers don't know it, but you must know that I cannot now live anywherebut at your side. '

She grew quite cheerful again, and drew close to the priest with thecaressing ways of a child of nature, never noticing his cold and rigiddemeanour. And she became impatient, clapped her hands, and exclaimed:

'Come, Serge; make up your mind and come. We are only losing time. Thereis no necessity to think so much about it. It is quite simple; I amgoing to take you with me. If you don't want any one to see you, we willgo along by the Mascle. It is not very easy walking, but I managed itall by myself; and, when we are together, we can help each other. Youknow the way, don't you? We cross the churchyard, we descend to thetorrent, and then we shall only have to follow its course right up tothe garden. And one is quite at home down there. Nobody can see us, there is nothing but brambles and big round stones. The bed of thestream is nearly dry. As I came along, I thought: "By-and-by, when he iswith me, we will walk along gently together and kiss one another. " Come, Serge, be quick; I am waiting for you. '

The priest no longer appeared to hear her. He had betaken himself tohis prayers again, and was asking Heaven to grant him the courage of thesaints. Before entering upon the supreme struggle, he was arming himselfwith the flaming sword of faith. For a moment he had feared he waswavering. He had required all a martyr's courage and endurance to remainfirmly kneeling there on the flagstones, while Albine was callinghim: his heart had leapt out towards her, all his blood had surgedpassionately through his veins, filling him with an intense yearning toclasp her in his arms and kiss her hair. Her mere breath had awakenedall the memory of their love; the vast garden, their saunters beneaththe trees, and all the joy of their companionship. 

But Divine grace was poured down upon him more abundantly, and thetorturing strife, during which all his blood seemed to quit his veins, lasted but a moment. Nothing human then remained within him. He hadbecome wholly God's. 

Albine, however, again touched him on the shoulder. She was growinguneasy and angry. 

'Why do you not speak to me?' she asked. 'You can't refuse; you willcome with me? Remember that I shall die if you refuse. But no! youcan't; it is impossible. We lived together once; it was vowed that weshould never separate. Twenty times, at least, did you give yourself tome. You bade me take you wholly, your limbs, your breath, your very lifeitself. I did not dream it all. There is nothing of you that you havenot given to me; not a hair in your head which is not mine. Your handsare mine. For days and days have I held them clasped in mine. Your face, your lips, your eyes, your brow, all, all are mine, and I have lavishedmy love upon them. Do you hear me, Serge?'

She stood erect before him, full of proud assertion, with outstretchedarms. And, in a louder voice, she repeated:

'Do you hear me, Serge? You belong to me. '

Then Abbe Mouret slowly rose to his feet. He leant against the altar, and replied:

'No. You are mistaken. I belong to God. '

He was full of serenity. His shorn face seemed like that of some stonesaint, whom no impulse of the flesh can disturb. His cassock fell aroundhim in straight folds like a black winding-sheet, concealing all theoutlines of his body. Albine dropped back at the sight of that sombrephantom of her former love. She missed his freely flowing beard, hisfreely flowing curls. And in the midst of his shorn locks she saw thepallid circle of his tonsure, which disquieted her as if it had beensome mysterious evil, some malignant sore which had grown there, andwould eat away all memory of the happy days they had spent together. Shecould recognise neither his hands, once so warm with caresses, nor hislissom neck, once so sonorous with laughter; nor his agile feet, whichhad carried her into the recesses of the woodlands. Could this, indeed, be the strong youth with whom she had lived one whole season--the youthwith soft down gleaming on his bare breast, with skin browned by thesun's rays, with every limb full of vibrating life? At this presenthour he seemed fleshless; his hair had fallen away from him, and all hisvirility had withered within that womanish gown, which left him sexless. 

'Oh! you frighten me, ' she murmured. 'Did you think then that I wasdead, that you put on mourning? Take off that black thing; put on ablouse. You can tuck up the sleeves, and we will catch crayfishes again. Your arms used to be as white as mine. '

She laid her hand on his cassock, as though to tear it off him; but herepulsed her with a gesture, without touching her. He looked at her nowand strengthened himself against temptation by never allowing his eyesto leave her. She seemed to him to have grown taller. She was no longerthe playful damsel adorned with bunches of wild-flowers, and casting tothe winds gay, gipsy laughter, nor was she the amorosa in white skirts, gracefully bending her slender form as she sauntered lingeringly besidethe hedges. Now, there was a velvety bloom upon her lips; her hips weregracefully rounded; her bosom was in full bloom. She had become a woman, with a long oval face that seemed expressive of fruitfulness. Lifeslumbered within her. And her cheeks glowed with luscious maturity. 

The priest, bathed in the voluptuous atmosphere that seemed to emanatefrom all that feminine ripeness, took a bitter pleasure in defying thecaresses of her coral lips, the tempting smile of her eyes, the witchingcharm of her bosom, and all the intoxication which seemed to pour fromher at every movement. He even carried his temerity so far as to searchwith his gaze for the spots that he had once so hotly kissed, thecorners of her eyes and lips, her narrow temples, soft as satin, and theambery nape of her neck, which was like velvet. And never, even inher embrace, had he tasted such felicity as he now felt in martyringhimself, by boldly looking in the face the love that he refused. Atlast, fearing lest he might there yield to some new allurement of theflesh, he dropped his eyes, and said, very gently:

'I cannot hear you here. Let us go out, if you, indeed, persist inadding to the pain of both of us. Our presence in this place is ascandal. We are in God's house. '

'God!' cried Albine, excitedly, suddenly becoming a child of natureonce more. 'God! Who is He? I know nothing of your God! I want to knownothing of Him if He has stolen you away from me, who have never harmedHim. My uncle Jeanbernat was right then when he said that your God wasonly an invention to frighten people, and make them weep! You are lying;you love me no longer, and that God of yours does not exist. '

'You are in His house now, ' said Abbe Mouret, sternly. 'You blaspheme. With a breath He might turn you into dust. '

She laughed with proud disdain, and raised her hands as if to defyHeaven. 

'Ah! then, ' said she, 'you prefer your God to me. You think He isstronger than I am, and you imagine that He will love you better thanI did. Oh! but you are a child, a foolish child. Come, leave all thisfolly. We will return to the garden together, and love each other, andbe happy and free. That, that is life!'

This time she succeeded in throwing an arm round his waist, and shetried to drag him away. But he, quivering all over, freed himself fromher embrace, and again took his stand against the altar. 

'Go away!' he faltered. 'If you still love me, go away. . . . O Lord, pardon her, and pardon me too, for thus defiling this Thy house. ShouldI go with her beyond the door, I might, perhaps, follow her. Here, inThy presence, I am strong. Suffer that I may remain here, to protectThee from insult. '

Albine remained silent for a moment. Then, in a calm voice, she said:

'Well, let us stay here, then. I wish to speak to you. You cannot, surely, be cruel. You will understand me. You will not let me go awayalone. Oh! do not begin to excuse yourself. I will not lay my hands uponyou again, since it distresses you. I am quite calm now as you can see. We will talk quietly, as we used to do in the old days when we lost ourway, and did not hurry to find it again, that we might have the moretime to talk together. '

She smiled at that memory, and continued:

'I don't know about these things myself. My uncle Jeanbernat used toforbid me to go to church. "Silly girl, " he'd say to me, "why do youwant to go to a stuffy building when you have got a garden to run aboutin?" I grew up quite happy and contented. I used to look in the birds'nests without even taking the eggs. I did not even pluck the flowers, for fear of hurting the plants; and you know that I could never torturean insect. Why, then, should God be angry with me?'

'You should learn to know Him, pray to Him, and render Him the constantworship which is His due, ' answered the priest. 

'Ah! it would please you if I did, would it not?' she said. 'You wouldforgive me, and love me again? Well, I will do all that you wish me. Tell me about God, and I will believe in Him, and worship Him. All thatyou tell me shall be a truth to which I will listen on my knees. Have Iever had a thought that was not your own? We will begin our long walksagain; and you shall teach me, and make of me whatever you will. Say"yes, " I beg of you. '

Abbe Mouret pointed to his cassock. 

'I cannot, ' he simply said. 'I am a priest. '

'A priest!' she repeated after him, the smile dying out of her eyes. 'Myuncle says that priests have neither wife, nor sister, nor mother. Sothat is true, then. But why did you ever come? It was you who took mefor your sister, for your wife. Were you then lying?'

The priest raised his pale face, moist with the sweat of agony. 'I havesinned, ' he murmured. 

'When I saw you so free, ' the girl went on, 'I thought that you wereno longer a priest. I believed that all that was over, that you wouldalways remain there with me, and for my sake. ---- And now, what wouldyou have me do, if you rob me of my whole life?'

'What I do, ' he answered; 'kneel down, suffer on your knees, and neverrise until God pardons you. '

'Are you a coward, then?' she exclaimed, her anger roused once more, herlips curving scornfully. 

He staggered, and kept silence. Agony held him by the throat; but heproved stronger than pain. He held his head erect, and a smile almostplayed about his trembling lips. Albine for a moment defied him withher fixed glance; then, carried away by a fresh burst of passion, sheexclaimed:

'Well, answer me. Accuse me! Say it was I who came to tempt you! Thatwill be the climax! Speak, and say what you can for yourself. Strike meif you like. I should prefer your blows to that corpse-like stiffnessyou put on. Is there no blood left in your veins? Have you no spirit?Don't you hear me calling you a coward? Yes, indeed, you are a coward. You should never have loved me, since you may not be a man. Is it thatblack robe of yours which holds you back? Tear it off! When you arenaked, perhaps you will remember yourself again. '

The priest slowly repeated his former words:

'I have sinned. I had no excuse for my sin. I do penitence for my sinwithout hope of pardon. If I tore off my cassock, I should tear away myvery flesh, for I have given myself wholly to God, soul and body. I am apriest. '

'And I! what is to become of me?' cried Albine. 

He looked unflinchingly at her. 

'May your sufferings be reckoned against me as so many crimes! May I beeternally punished for the desertion in which I am forced to leave you!That will be only just. All unworthy though I be, I pray for you eachnight. '

She shrugged her shoulders with an air of great discouragement. Heranger was subsiding. She almost felt inclined to pity him. 

'You are mad, ' she murmured. 'Keep your prayers. It is you yourself thatI want. But you will never understand me. There were so many thingsI wanted to tell you! Yet you stand there and irritate me with yourchatter of another world. Come, let us try to talk sensibly. Let us waitfor a moment till we are calmer. You cannot dismiss me in this way, I cannot leave you here. It is because you are here that you are socorpse-like, so cold that I dare not touch you. We won't talk any morejust now. We will wait a little. '

She ceased speaking, and took a few steps, examining the little church. The rain was still gently pattering against the windows; and the colddamp light seemed to moisten the walls. Not a sound came from outsidesave the monotonous plashing of the rain. The sparrows were doubtlesscrouching for shelter under the tiles, and the rowan-tree's desertedbranches showed but indistinctly in the veiling, drenching downpour. Five o'clock struck, grated out, stroke by stroke, from the wheezy chestof the old clock; and then the silence fell again, seeming to grow yetdeeper, dimmer, and more despairing. The priest's painting work, as yetscarcely dry, gave to the high altar and the wainscoting an appearanceof gloomy cleanliness, like that of some convent chapel where the sunnever shines. Grievous anguish seemed to fill the nave, splashed withthe blood that flowed from the limbs of the huge Christ; while, alongthe walls, the fourteen scenes of the Passion displayed their awfulstory in red and yellow daubs, reeking with horror. It was life that wassuffering the last agonies there, amidst that deathlike quiver of theatmosphere, upon those altars which resembled tombs, in that bare vaultwhich looked like a sepulchre. The surroundings all spoke of slaughterand gloom, terror and anguish and nothingness. A faint scent of incensestill lingered there, like the last expiring breath of some dead girl, who had been hurriedly stifled beneath the flagstones. 

'Ah, ' said Albine at last, 'how sweet it used to be in the sunshine!Don't you remember? One morning we walked past a hedge of tall rosebushes, to the left of the flower-garden. I recollect the very colour ofthe grass; it was almost blue, shot with green. When we reached the endof the hedge we turned and walked back again, so sweet was the perfumeof the sunny air. And we did nothing else, that morning; we took justtwenty paces forward and then twenty paces back. It was so sweet a spotyou would not leave it. The bees buzzed all around; and there was atomtit that never left us, but skipped along by our side from branch tobranch. You whispered to me, "How delightful is life!" Ah! life! it wasthe green grass, the trees, the running waters, the sky, and the sun, amongst which we seemed all fair and golden. '

She mused for another moment and then continued: 'Life 'twas theParadou. How vast it used to seem to us! Never were we able to find theend of it. The sea of foliage rolled freely with rustling waves as faras the eye could reach. And all that glorious blue overhead! we werefree to grow, and soar, and roam, like the clouds without meeting moreobstacles than they. The very air was ours!'

She stopped and pointed to the low walls of the church. 

'But, here, you are in a grave. You cannot stretch out your hand withouthurting it against the stones. The roof hides the sky from you and blotsout the sun. It is all so small and confined that your limbs grow stiffand cramped as though you were buried alive. '

'No, ' answered the priest. 'The church is wide as the world. '

But she waved her hands towards the crosses, and the dying Christ, andthe pictures of the Passion. 

'And you live in the very midst of death. The grass, the trees, thesprings, the sun, the sky, all are in the death throes around you. '

'No, no; all revives, all grows purified and reascends to the source oflight. '

He had now drawn himself quite erect, with flashing eyes. And feelingthat he was now invincible, so permeated with faith as to disdaintemptation, he quitted the altar, took Albine's hand, and led her, asthough she had been his sister, to the ghastly pictures of the Stationsof the Cross. 

'See, ' he said, 'this is what God suffered! Jesus is cruelly scourged. Look! His shoulders are naked; His flesh is torn; His blood flows downHis back. . . . And Jesus is crowned with thorns. Tears of blood trickledown His gashed brow. On His temple is a jagged wound. . . . Again Jesus isinsulted by the soldiers. His murderers have scoffingly thrown a purplerobe around His shoulders, and they spit upon His face and strike Him, and press the thorny crown deep into His flesh. '

Albine turned away her head, that she might not see the crudely paintedpictures, in which the ochreous flesh of Christ had been plentifullybedaubed with carmine wounds. The purple robe round His shoulders seemedlike a shred of His skin torn away. 

'Why suffer? why die?' she said. 'O Serge, if you would onlyremember!. . . You told me, that morning, that you were tired. But I knewthat you were only pretending, for the air was quite cool and we hadonly been walking for a quarter of an hour. But you wanted to sit downthat you might hold me in your arms. Right down in the orchard, bythe edge of a stream, there was a cherry tree--you remember it, don'tyou?--which you never could pass without wishing to kiss my hands. Andyour kisses ran all up my arms and shoulders to my lips. Cherry time wasover, and so you devoured my lips. . . . It used to make us feel so sad tosee the flowers fading, and one day, when you found a dead bird in thegrass, you turned quite pale, and caught me to your breast, as if toforbid the earth to take me. '

But the priest drew her towards the other Stations of the Cross. 

'Hush! hush!' he cried, 'look here, and here! Bow down in grief andpity---- Jesus falls beneath the weight of His cross. The ascent ofCalvary is very tiring. He has dropped down on His knees. But He doesnot stay to wipe even the sweat from His brow, He rises up again andcontinues His journey. . . . And again Jesus falls beneath the weight ofHis cross. At each step He staggers. This time He has fallen on Hisside, so heavily that for a moment He lies there quite breathless. Hislacerated hands have relaxed their hold upon the cross. His bruised andaching feet leave blood-stained prints behind them. Agonising wearinessoverwhelms Him, for He carries upon His shoulders the sins of the wholeworld. '

Albine gazed at the pictured Jesus, lying in a blue shirt prostratebeneath the cross, the blackness of which bedimmed the gold of Hisaureole. Then, with her glance wandering far away, she said:

'Oh! those meadow-paths! Have you no memory left, Serge? Have youforgotten those soft grassy walks through the meadows, amidst very seasof greenery? On the afternoon I am telling you of, we had only meantto stay out of doors an hour; but we went wandering on and were stillwandering when the stars came out above us. Ah! how velvety it was, thatendless carpet, soft as finest silk! It was just like a green sea whosegentle waters lapped us round. And well we knew whither those beguilingpaths that led nowhere, were taking us! They were taking us to our love, to the joy of living together, to the certainty of happiness. '

With his hands trembling with anguish, Abbe Mouret pointed to theremaining pictures. 

'Jesus, ' he stammered, 'Jesus is nailed to the cross. The nails arehammered through His outspread hands. A single nail suffices for hisfeet, whose bones split asunder. He, Himself, while His flesh quiverswith pain, fixes His eyes upon heaven and smiles. . . . Jesus is crucifiedbetween two thieves. The weight of His body terribly aggravates Hiswounds. From His brow, from His limbs, does a bloody sweat stream down. The two thieves insult Him, the passers-by mock at Him, the soldierscast lots for His raiment. And the shadowy darkness grows deeper and thesun hides himself. . . . Jesus dies upon the cross. He utters a piercingcry and gives up the ghost. Oh! most terrible of deaths! The veil of thetemple is rent in twain from top to bottom. The earth quakes, the stonesare broken, and the very graves open. '

The priest had fallen on his knees, his voice choked by sobs, his eyesfixed upon the three crosses of Calvary, where writhed the gaunt pallidbodies of the crucified. Albine placed herself in front of the paintingsin order that he might no longer see them. 

'One evening, ' she said, 'I lay through the long gloaming with my headupon your lap. It was in the forest, at the end of that great avenue ofchestnut-trees, through which the setting sun shot a parting ray. Ah!what a caressing farewell He bade us! He lingered awhile by our feetwith a kindly smile, as if saying "Till to-morrow. " The sky slowly grewpaler. I told you merrily that it was taking off its blue gown, anddonning its gold-flowered robe of black to go out for the evening. And it was not night that fell, but a soft dimness, a veil of love andmystery, reminding us of those dusky paths, where the foliage archesoverhead, one of those paths in which one hides for a moment with thecertainty of finding the joyousness of daylight at the other end. 

'That evening the calm clearness of the twilight gave promise of asplendid morrow. When I saw that it did not grow dark as quickly as youwished, I pretended to fall asleep. I may confess it to you now, butI was not really sleeping while you kissed me on the eyes. I felt yourkisses and tried to keep from laughing. And then, when the darknessreally came, it was like one long caress. The trees slept no more thanI did. At night, don't you remember, the flowers always breathed astronger perfume. '

Then, as he still remained on his knees, while tears streamed down hisface, she caught him by the wrists, and pulled him to his feet, resumingpassionately:

'Oh! if you knew you would bid me carry you off; you would fasten yourarms about my neck, lest I should go away without you. . . . Yesterday Ihad a longing to see the garden once more. It seems larger, deeper, more unfathomable than ever. I discovered there new scents, so sweetlyaromatic that they brought tears into my eyes. In the avenues I found arain of sunbeams that thrilled me with desire. The roses spoke to meof you. The bullfinches were amazed at seeing me alone. All the gardenbroke out into sighs. Oh! come! Never has the grass spread itself outmore softly. I have marked with a flower the hidden nook whither Ilong to take you. It is a nest of greenery in the midst of a tangle ofbrushwood. And there one can hear all the teeming life of the garden, ofthe trees and the streams and the sky. The earth's very breathingwill softly lull us to rest there. Oh! come! come! and let us love oneanother amidst that universal loving!'

But he pushed her from him. He had returned to the Chapel of theDead and stood in front of the painted papier-mache Christ, big as aten-year-old boy, that writhed in such horridly realistic agony. Therewere real iron nails driven into the figure's limbs, and the woundsgaped in the torn and bleeding flesh. 

'O Jesus, Who hast died for us!' cried the priest, 'convince her of ournothingness! Tell her that we are but dust, rottenness, and damnation!Ah! suffer that I may hide my head in a hair-cloth and rest it againstThy feet and stay there, motionless, until I rot away in death. Theearth will no longer exist for me. The sun will no longer shine. Ishall see nothing more, feel nothing, hear nothing. Nought of all thiswretched world will come to turn my soul from its adoration of Thee. '

He was gradually becoming more and more excited, and he stepped towardsAlbine with upraised hands. 

'You said rightly. It is Death that is present here; Death that isbefore my eyes; Death that delivers and saves one from all rottenness. Hear me! I renounce, I deny life, I wholly refuse it, I spit upon it. Those flowers of yours stink; your sun dazzles and blinds; yourgrass makes lepers of those that lie upon it; your garden is buta charnel-place where all rots and putrefies. The earth reeks withabomination. You lie when you talk of love and light and gladsome lifein the depths of your palace of greenery. There is nought but darknessthere. Those trees of yours exhale a poison which transforms men intobeasts; your thickets are charged with the venom of vipers; your streamscarry pestilence in their blue waters. If I could snatch away from thatworld of nature, which you extol, its kirtle of sunshine and its girdleof greenery, you would see it hideous like a very fury, a skeleton, rotting away with disease and vice. 

'And even if you spoke the truth, even if your hands were really filledwith pleasures, even if you should carry me to a couch of roses andoffer me the dreams of Paradise, I would defend myself yet the moredesperately from your embraces. There is war between us; war eternal andimplacable. See! the church is very small; it is poverty-stricken; it isugly; its confessional-box and pulpit are made of common deal, its fontis merely of plaster, its altars are formed of four boards which I havepainted myself. But what of that? It is yet vaster than your garden, greater than the valley, greater, even, than the whole earth. It is animpregnable fortress which nothing can ever break down. The winds, thesun, the forests, the ocean, all that is, may combine to assault it; yetit will stand erect and unshaken for ever!

'Yes, let all the jungles tower aloft and assail the walls with theirthorny arms, let all the legions of insects swarm out of their holesin the ground and gnaw at the walls; the church, ruinous though it mayseem, will never fall before the invasion of life. It is Death, Deaththe inexpugnable!. . . And do you know what will one day happen? Thetiny church will grow and spread to such a colossal size, and will castaround such a mighty shadow, that all that nature, you speak of, willgive up the ghost. Ah! Death, the Death of everything, with the skiesgaping to receive our souls, above the curse-stricken ruins of theworld!'

As he shouted those last words, he pushed Albine forcibly towards thedoor. She, extremely pale, retreated step by step. When he had finishedin a gasping voice she very gravely answered:

'It is all over, then? You drive me away? Yet, I am your wife. It is youwho made me so. And God, since He permitted it, cannot punish us to sucha point as this. '

She was now on the threshold, and she added:

'Listen! Every day, at sunset, I go to the end of the garden, to thespot where the wall has fallen in. I shall wait for you there. '

And then she disappeared. The vestry door fell back with a sound like adeep sigh. 

IX

The church was perfectly silent, except for the murmuring sound of therain, which was falling heavily once more. In that sudden change toquietude the priest's anger subsided, and he even felt moved. It waswith his face streaming with tears, his frame shaken by sobs, that hewent back to throw himself on his knees before the great crucifix. Atorrent of ardent thanksgiving burst from his lips. 

'Thanks be to Thee, O God, for the help which Thou hast graciouslybestowed upon me. Without Thy grace I should have hearkened unto thepromptings of my flesh, and should have miserably returned to my sin. Itwas Thy grace that girded my loins as with armour for battle; Thy gracewas indeed my armour, my courage, the support of my soul, that kept meerect, beyond weakness. Oh! my God, Thou wert in me; it was Thy voicethat spoke in me, for I no longer felt the cowardice of the flesh, Icould have cut asunder my very heart-strings. And now, O God, I offerThee my bleeding heart. It no longer belongs to any creature of thisworld; it is Thine alone. To give it to Thee I have wrenched it from allworldly affection. But think not, O God, that I take any pride to myselffor this victory. I know that without Thee I am nothing; and I humblycast myself at Thy feet. '

He sank down upon the altar steps, unable to utter another word, whilehis breath panted incense-like from his parted lips. The divine gracebathed him in ineffable ecstasy. He sought Jesus in the recesses of hisbeing, in that sanctuary of love which he was ever preparing for Hisworthy reception. And Jesus was now present there. The Abbe knew it bythe sweet influences which permeated him. And thereupon he joined withJesus in that spiritual converse which at times bore him away from earthto companionship with God. He sighed out the verse from the 'Song ofSolomon, ' 'My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth his flockamong the lilies, until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away. ' Hepondered over the words of the 'Imitation:' 'It is a great art to knowhow to talk with Jesus, and it requires much prudence to keep Him nearone. ' And then, with adorable condescension, Jesus came down to him, and spoke with him for hours of his needs, his happiness, and his hopes. Their confidences were not less affectionate and touching than thoseof two friends, who meet after long separation and quietly retire toconverse on the bank of some lonely stream; for during those hours ofdivine condescension Jesus deigned to be his friend, his best, mostfaithful friend, one who never forsook him, and who in return for alittle love gave him all the treasures of eternal life. That day thepriest was eager to prolong the sweet converse, and indeed, when sixo'clock sounded through the quiet church, he was still listening to thewords which echoed through his soul. 

On his side there was unreserved confession, unimpeded by the restraintsof language, natural effusion of the heart which spoke even more quicklythan the mind. Abbe Mouret told everything to Jesus, as to a God whohad come down in all the intimacy of the most loving tenderness, and whowould listen to everything. He confessed that he still loved Albine; andhe was surprised that he had been able to speak sternly to her and driveher away, without his whole being breaking out into revolt. He marvelledat it, and smiled as though it were some wonderful miracle performed byanother. And Jesus told him that he must not be astonished, and that thegreatest saints were often but unconscious instruments in the hands ofGod. Then the Abbe gave expression to a doubt. Had he not lost merit inseeking refuge in the Cross and even in the Passion of his Saviour? Hadhe not shown that he possessed as yet but little courage, since he hadnot dared to fight unaided? But Jesus evinced kindly tolerance, andanswered that man's weakness was God's continual care, and that Heespecially loved those suffering souls, to whose assistance He went, like a friend to the bedside of a sick companion. 

But was it a sin to love Albine, a sin for which he, Serge, wouldbe damned? No; if his love was clean of all fleshly taint, and addedanother hope to his desire for eternal life. But, then, how was he tolove her? In silence; without speaking a word to her, without taking astep towards her; simply allowing his pure affection to breathe forth, like a sweet perfume, pleasing unto heaven. And Jesus smiled withincreasing kindliness, drawing nearer as if to encourage confession, insuch wise that the priest grew bolder and began to recapitulate Albine'scharms. She had hair that was fair and golden as an angel's; she wasvery white, with big soft eyes, like those of the aureoled saints. Jesusseemed to listen to this in silence, though a smile still played uponHis face. And the priest continued: She had grown much taller. She wasnow like a queen, with rounded form and splendid shoulders. Oh! to claspher waist, were it only for a second, and to feel her shoulders drawnclose by his embrace! But the smile on the divine countenance thenpaled and died away, as a star sinks and falls beneath the horizon. Abbe Mouret now spoke all alone. Ah! had he not shown himself toohard-hearted? Why had he driven her away without one single word ofaffection, since Heaven allowed him to love her?

'I do love her! I do love her!' he cried aloud, in a distracted voice, that rang through the church. 

He thought he saw her still standing there. She was stretching out herarms to him; she was beautiful enough to make him break all his vows. Hethrew himself upon her bosom without thought of the reverence due tohis surroundings, he clasped her and rained kisses upon her face. It wasbefore her that he now knelt, imploring her mercy, and beseeching her toforgive him his unkindness. He told her that, at times a voice which wasnot his own spoke through his lips. Could he himself ever have treatedher harshly? It was the strange voice that had repulsed her. It couldnot, surely, be he himself, for he would have been unable to touch ahair of her head without loving emotion. And yet he had driven her away. The church was really empty! Whither should he hasten to find her again, to bring her back, and wipe her tears away with kisses? The rain wasstreaming down more violently than ever. The roads must be riversof mud. He pictured her to himself lashed by the downpour, totteringalongside the ditches, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin. No!no! it could not have been himself; it was that other voice, the jealousvoice that had so cruelly sought to slay his love. 

'O Jesus!' he cried in desperation, 'be merciful and give her back tome!'

But his Lord was no longer there. Then Abbe Mouret, awaking with astart, turned horribly pale. He understood it all. He had not knownhow to keep Jesus with him. He had lost his friend, and had been leftdefenceless against the powers of evil. Instead of that inward light, which had shone so brightly within him as he received his God, he nowfound utter darkness, a foul vapour that irritated his senses. Jesus hadwithdrawn His grace on leaving him; and he, who since early morninghad been so strong with heaven-sent help, now felt utterly miserable, forsaken, weak and helpless as an infant. How frightful was his fall!How galling its bitterness! To have straggled so heroically, to haveremained unshaken, invincible, implacable, while the temptress actuallystood before him, with all her warm life, her swelling bosom andsuperb shoulders, her perfume of love and passion; and then to fallso shamefully, to throb with desire, when she had disappeared, leavingbehind her but the echo of her skirts, and the fragrance diffused fromher white neck! Now, these mere recollections sufficed to make her allpowerful, her influence permeated the church. 

'Jesus! Jesus!' cried the priest, once more, 'return, come back to me;speak to me once again!'

But Jesus remained deaf to his cry. For a moment Abbe Mouret raised hisarms to heaven in desperate entreaty. His shoulders cracked and strainedbeneath the wild violence of his supplications. But soon his hands felldown again in discouragement. Heaven preserved that hopeless silencewhich suppliants at times encounter. Then he once more sat down on thealtar steps, heart-crushed and with ashen face, pressing his elbows tohis sides, as though he were trying to reduce his flesh to the smallestproportions possible. 

'My God! Thou deserted me!' he murmured. 'Nevertheless, Thy will bedone!'

He spoke not another word, but sat there, panting breathlessly, like ahunted beast that cowers motionless in fear of the hounds. Ever sincehis sin, he had thus seemed to be the sport of the divine grace. Itdenied itself to his most ardent prayers; it poured down upon him, unexpectedly and refreshingly, when he had lost all hope of winning itfor long years to come. 

At first he had been inclined to rebel against this dispensation ofHeaven, complaining like a betrayed lover, and demanding the immediatereturn of that consoling grace, whose kiss made him so strong. Butafterwards, after unavailing outbursts of anger, he had learned tounderstand that humility profited him most and could alone enable him toendure the withdrawal of the divine assistance. Then, for hours and fordays, he would humble himself and wait for comfort which came not. Invain he cast himself unreservedly into the hands of God, annihilatedhimself before the Divinity, wearied himself with the incessantrepetition of prayers. He could not perceive God's presence with him;and his flesh, breaking free from all restraint, rose up in rebelliousdesire. It was a slow agony of temptation, in which the weapons of faithfell, one by one, from his faltering hands, in which he lay inert inthe clutch of passion, in which he beheld with horror his own ignominy, without having the courage to raise his little finger to free himselffrom the thraldom of sin. 

Such was now his life. He had felt sin's attacks in every form. Nota day passed that he was not tried. Sin assumed a thousand guises, assailed him through his eyes and ears, flew boldly at his throat, leaped treacherously upon his shoulders, or stole torturingly intohis bones. His transgression was ever present, he almost always beheldAlbine dazzling as the sunshine, lighting up the greenery of theParadou. He only ceased to see her in those rare moments when the divinegrace deigned to close his eyes with its cool caresses. And he strove tohide his sufferings as one hides those of some disgraceful disease. Hewrapped himself in the endless silence, which no one knew how to makehim break, filling the parsonage with his martyrdom and resignation, andexasperating La Teuse, who, at times, when his back was turned, wouldshake her fist at heaven. 

This time he was alone now, and need take no care to hide his torment. Sin had just struck him such an overwhelming blow, that he had notstrength left to move from the altar steps, where he had fallen. Heremained there, sighing, and groaning, parched with agony, incapable ofa single tear. And he thought of the calm unruffled life that had oncebeen his. Ah! the perfect peace, the full confidence of his first daysat Les Artaud! The path of salvation had seemed so straight and easythen! He had smiled at the very mention of temptation. He had lived inthe midst of wickedness, without knowledge of it, without fear of it, certain of being able to withstand it. He had been a model priest, sopure and chaste, so inexperienced and innocent in God's sight, that Godhad led him by the hand like a little child. 

But now, all that childlike innocence was dead, God visited him in themorning, and forthwith tried him. A state of temptation became his lifeon earth. Now that full manhood and sin had come upon him, he enteredinto the everlasting struggle. Could it be that God really loved himmore now than before? The great saints have all left fragments of theirtorn flesh upon the thorns of the way of sorrow. He tried to gather someconsolation from this circumstance. At each laceration of his flesh, each racking of his bones, he tried to assure himself of some exceedinggreat reward. And then, no infliction that Heaven might now cast uponhim could be too heavy. He even looked back with scorn on his formerserenity, his easy fervour, which had set him on his knees with meregirlish enthusiasm, and left him unconscious even of the bruising of thehard stones. He strove also to discover pleasure in pain, in plunginginto it, annihilating himself in it. But, even while he poured outthanks to God, his teeth chattered with growing terror, and the voice ofhis rebellious blood cried out to him that this was all falsehood, andthat the only happiness worth desiring was in Albine's arms, amongst theflowers of the Paradou. 

Yet he had put aside Mary for Jesus, sacrificing his heart that he mightsubdue his flesh, and hoping to implant some virility in his faith. Mary disquieted him too much, with her smoothly braided hair, heroutstretched hands, and her womanly smile. He could never kneel beforeher without dropping his eyes, for fear of catching sight of the hem ofher dress. Then, too, he accused her of having treated him too tenderlyin former times. She had kept him sheltered so long within the folds ofher robe, that he had let himself slip from her arms to those of a humancreature without being conscious even of the change of his affection. He thought of all the roughness of Brother Archangias, of his refusalto worship Mary, of the distrustful glances with which he had seemedto watch her. He himself despaired of ever rising to such a height ofroughness, and so he simply left her, hiding her images and desertingher altar. Yet she remained in his heart, like some love which, thoughunavowed, is ever present. Sin, with sacrilege whose very horror madehim shudder, made use of her to tempt him. 

Whenever he still invoked her, as he did at times of irrepressibleemotion, it was Albine who showed herself beneath the white veil, withthe blue scarf knotted round her waist and the golden roses blooming onher bare feet. All the representations of the Virgin, the Virgin withthe royal mantle of cloth-of-gold, the Virgin crowned with stars, theVirgin visited by the Angel of the Annunciation, the peaceful Virginpoised between a lily and a distaff, all brought him some memory ofAlbine, her smiling eyes or her delicately curved mouth or her softlyrounded cheeks. 

Thereupon, by a supreme effort, he drove the female element from hisworship, and sought refuge in Jesus, though even His gentle mildnesssometimes proved a source of disquietude to him. What he needed was ajealous God, an implacable God, the Jehovah of the Old Testament, girdedwith thunder and manifesting Himself only to chastise the terrifiedworld. He had done with the saints and the angels and the Divine Mother;he bowed down before God Himself alone, the omnipotent Master, whodemanded from him his every breath. And he felt the hand of this Godlaid heavily upon him, holding him helpless at His mercy through spaceand time, like a guilty atom. Ah! to be nothing, to be damned, to dreamof hell, to wrestle vainly against hideous temptations, all that wassurely good. 

From Jesus he took but the cross. He was seized with that passion forthe cross which has made so many lips press themselves again and againto the crucifix till they were worn away with kissing. He took up thecross and followed Jesus. He sought to make it heavier, the mightiest ofburdens; it was great joy to him to fall beneath its weight, to drag iton his knees, his back half broken. In it he beheld the only sourceof strength for the soul, of joy for the mind, of the consummation ofvirtue and the perfection of holiness. In it lay all that was good; allended in death upon it. To suffer and to die, those words ever soundedin his ears, as the end and goal of mortal wisdom. And, when he hadfastened himself to the cross, he enjoyed the boundless consolation ofGod's love. It was no longer, now, upon Mary that he lavished filialtenderness or lover's passion. He loved for love's mere sake, with anabsolute abstract love. He loved God with a love that lifted him out ofhimself, out of all else, and wrapped him round with a dazzling radianceof glory. He was like a torch that burns away with blazing light. Anddeath seemed to him to be only a great impulse of love. 

But what had he omitted to do that he was thus so sorely tried? Withhis hand he wiped away the perspiration that streamed down his brow, and reflected that, that very morning, he had made his usualself-examination without finding any great guilt within him. Was he notleading a life of great austerity and mortification of the flesh? Did henot love God solely and blindly? Ah! how he would have blessed His HolyName had He only restored him his peace, deeming him now sufficientlypunished for his transgression! But, perhaps, that sin of his couldnever be expiated. And then, in spite of himself, his mind reverted toAlbine and the Paradou, and all their memories. 

At first he tried to make excuses for himself. He had fallen, oneevening, senseless upon the tiled floor of his bedroom, stricken withbrain fever. For three weeks he had remained unconscious. His bloodsurged furiously through his veins and raged within him like a torrentthat had burst its banks. His whole body, from the crown of his head tothe soles of his feet, was so scoured and renewed and wrought afreshby the mighty labouring of his ailment, that in his delirium he hadsometimes thought he could hear the very hammer blows of workmen thatnailed his bones together again. Then, one morning, he had awakened, feeling like a new being. He was born a second time, freed of all thathis five-and-twenty years of life had successively implanted in him. Hischildish piety, his education at the seminary, the faith of his earlypriesthood, had all vanished, had been carried off, and their place wasbare and empty. In truth, it could be hell alone that had thus preparedhim for the reception of evil, disarming him of all his former weapons, and reducing his body to languor and softness, through which sin mightreadily enter. 

He, perfectly unconscious of it all, unknowingly surrendered himselfto the gradual approach of evil. When he had reopened his eyes in theParadou, he had felt himself an infant once more, with no memory of thepast, no knowledge of his priesthood. He experienced a gentle pleasure, a glad feeling of surprise at thus beginning life afresh, as though itwere all new and strange to him and would be delightful to learn. Oh!the sweet apprenticeship, the charming observations, the deliciousdiscoveries! That Paradou was a vast abode of felicity; and hell, inplacing him there, had known full well that he would be defenceless. Never, in his first youth, had he known such enjoyment in growing. Thatfirst youth of his, when he now thought of it, seemed quite black andgloomy, graceless, wan and inactive, as if it had been spent far awayfrom the sunlight. 

But at the Paradou, how joyfully had he hailed the sun! How admiringlyhad he gazed at the first tree, at the first flower, at the tiniestinsect he had seen, at the most insignificant pebble he had picked up!The very stones charmed him. The horizon was a source of never-endingamazement. One clear morning, the memory of which still filled his eyes, bringing back a perfume of jasmine, a lark's clear song, he had been soaffected by emotion that he felt all power desert his limbs. He had longfound pleasure in learning the sensations of life. And, ah! the morningwhen Albine had been born beside him amidst the roses! As he thought ofit, an ecstatic smile broke out upon his face. She rose up like astar that was necessary to the very sun's existence. She illuminedeverything, she made everything clear. She made his life complete. 

Then in fancy he once again walked with her through the Paradou. Heremembered the little curls that waved behind her neck as she ran onbefore him. She exhaled delicious scent, and the touch of her warmswaying skirts seemed like a caress. And when she clasped him with hersupple curving arms, he half expected to see her, so slight and slendershe was, twine herself around him. It was she who went foremost. She ledhim through winding paths, where they loitered, that their walk mightlast the longer. It was she who instilled into him love for nature; andit was by watching the loves of the plants that he had learned to loveher, with a love that was long, indeed, in bursting into life, but whosesweetness had been theirs at last. Beneath the shade of the giant treethey had reached their journey's goal. Oh! to clasp her once again--yetonce again!

A low groan suddenly came from the priest. He hastily sprang up and thenflung himself down again. Temptation had just assailed him afresh. Intowhat paths were his recollections leading him? Did he not know, onlytoo well, that Satan avails himself of every wile to insinuatehis serpent-head into the soul, even when it is absorbed inself-examination? No! no! he had no excuse. His illness had in no wiseauthorised him to sin. He should have set strict guard upon himself, and have sought God anew upon recovering from his fever. And what afrightful proof he now had of his vileness: he was not even able tomake calm confession of his sin. Would he never be able to silence hisnature? He wildly thought of scooping his brains out of his skull thathe might be able to think no more, and of opening his veins that hisblood might no longer torment him. For a moment he buried his facewithin his hands, shuddering as though the beasts that he felt prowlingaround him might infect him with the hot breath of temptation. 

But his thoughts strayed on in spite of himself, and his blood throbbedwildly in his very heart. Though he held his clenched fists to his eyes, he still saw Albine, dazzling like a sun. Every effort that he made topress the vision from his sight only made her shine out before him withincreased brilliancy. Was God, then, utterly forsaking him, that hecould find no refuge from temptation? And, in spite of all his effortsto control his thoughts, he espied every tiny blade of grass that thrustitself up by Albine's skirts; he saw a little thistle-flower fastened inher hair, against which he remembered that he had pricked his lips. Even the perfumed atmosphere of the Paradou floated round him, andwell-remembered sounds came back, the repeated call of a bird, then aninterval of hushed silence, then a sigh floating through the trees. 

Why did not Heaven at once strike him dead with its lightning? Thatwould have been less cruel. It was with a voluptuous pang, like thepangs which assail the damned, that he recalled his transgression. Heshuddered when he again heard in his heart the abominable words that hehad spoken at Albine's feet. Their echoes were now accusing him beforethe throne of God. He had acknowledged Woman as his sovereign. He hadyielded to her as a slave, kissing her feet, longing to be the water shedrank and the bread she ate. He began to understand now why he couldno longer recover self-control. God had given him over to Woman. But hewould chastise her, scourge her, break her very limbs to force her tolet him go! It was she who was the slave; she, the creature of impurity, to whom the Church should have denied a soul. Then he braced himself, and shook his fists at the vision of Albine; but his fists opened andhis hands glided along her shoulders in a loving caress, while his lips, just now breathing out anger and insult, pressed themselves to her hair, stammering forth words of adoration. 

Abbe Mouret opened his eyes again. The burning apparition of Albinevanished. It was sudden and unexpected solace. He was able to weep. Tears flowed slowly and refreshingly down his cheeks, and he drew a longbreath, still fearing to move, lest the Evil One should again griphim by the neck, for he yet thought that he heard the snarl of a beastbehind him. And then he found such pleasure in the cessation of hissufferings that his one thought was to prolong the enjoyment of it. 

Outside the rain had ceased falling. The sun was setting in a vastcrimson glow, which spread across the windows like curtains ofrose-coloured satin. The church was quite warm and bright in the partingbreath of the sinking luminary. The priest thanked God for the respiteHe had been pleased to vouchsafe to him. A broad ray of light, like abeam of gold-dust, streamed through the nave and illumined the far endof the building, the clock, the pulpit, and the high altar. Perhaps theDivine grace was returning to him from heaven along that radiant path. He watched with interest the atoms that came and went with prodigiousspeed through the ray, like a swarm of busy messengers ever hasteningwith news from the sun to the earth. A thousand lighted candleswould not have filled the church with such splendour. Curtains ofcloth-of-gold seemed to hang behind the high altar; treasures of thegoldsmith's art covered all the ledges; candle-holders arose in dazzlingsheaves; censers glowed full of burning gems; sacred vases gleamedlike fiery comets; and around all there seemed to be a rain of luminousflowers amidst waving lacework--beds, bouquets, and garlands of roses, from whose expanding petals dropped showers of stars. 

Never had Abbe Mouret desired such magnificence for his poor church. Hesmiled, and dreamt of how he might retain all that splendour there, andthen arrange it most effectively. He would have preferred to see thecurtains of cloth-of-gold hung rather higher; the vases, too, neededmore careful arrangement; and he thought that the bouquets of flowersmight be tied up more neatly, and the garlands be more regularly shaped. Yet how wondrously magnificent it all was! He was the pontiff of achurch of gold. Bishops, princes, princesses, arrayed in royal mantles, multitudes of believers, bending to the ground, were coming to visit it, encamping in the valley, waiting for weeks at the door until they shouldbe able to enter. They kissed his feet, for even his feet had turnedto gold, and worked miracles. The bath of gold mounted to his knees. A golden heart was beating within his golden breast, with so clear amusical pulsation that the waiting crowds could hear it from outside. Then a feeling of overweening pride seized upon him. He was an idol. The golden beam mounted still higher, the high altar was all ablazewith glory, and the priest grew certain that the Divine grace must bereturning to him, such was his inward satisfaction. The fierce snarlbehind him had now grown gentle and coaxing, and he only felt on hisshoulder a soft velvety pressure, as though some giant cat were lightlycaressing him. 

He still pursued his reverie. Never before had he seen things under sucha favourable light. Everything seemed quite easy to him now that he oncemore felt full of strength. Since Albine was waiting for him, he wouldgo and join her. It was only natural. On the previous morning he hadmarried Fortune and Rosalie. The Church did not forbid marriages. He sawthat young couple again as they knelt before him, smiling and nudgingeach other while his hands were held over them in benediction. Then, inthe evening, they had shown him their room. Each word that he had spokento them echoed loudly in his ear. He had told Fortune that God had senthim a companion, because He did not wish man to live alone; and he hadtold Rosalie that she must cleave to her husband, never leaving him, but always acting as his obedient helpmate. But he had said these thingsalso for Albine and himself. Was she not his companion, his obedienthelpmate, whom God had sent to him that his manhood might not wither upin solitude? Besides, they had been joined the one to the other. He feltsurprised that he had not understood and recognised it at once; that hehad not gone away with her, as his duty plainly required that he shouldhave done. But he had quite made up his mind now; he would certainlyjoin her in the morning. He could be with her in half an hour. He wouldgo through the village, and take the road up the hill; it was much theshortest way. He could do what he pleased; he was the master, and no onewould presume to say anything to him. If any one looked at him, a waveof his hand would force them to bend their heads. He would live withAlbine. He would call her his wife. They would be very happy together. 

The golden stream mounted still higher, and played amongst his fingers. Again did he seem to be immersed in a bath of gold. He would takethe altar-vases away to ornament his house, he would keep up a fineestablishment, he would pay his servants with fragments of chaliceswhich he could easily break with his fingers. He would hang hisbridal-bed with the cloth-of-gold that draped the altar; and he wouldgive his wife for jewels the golden hearts and chaplets and crosses thathung from the necks of the Virgin and the saints. The church itself, ifanother storey were added to it, would supply them with a palace. Godwould have no objection to make since He had allowed them to love eachother. And, besides, was it not he who was now God, with the peoplekissing his golden miracle-working feet?

Abbe Mouret rose. He made that sweeping gesture of Jeanbernat's, thatwide gesture of negation, that took in everything as far as the horizon. 

'There is nothing, nothing, nothing!' he said. 'God does not exist. '

A mighty shudder seemed to sweep through the church. The terrifiedpriest turned deadly pale and listened. Who had spoken? Who was it thathad blasphemed? Suddenly the velvety caress, whose gentle pressurehe had felt upon his shoulder, turned fierce and savage: sharp talonsseemed to be rending his flesh, and once more he felt his bloodstreaming forth. Yet he remained on his feet, struggling against thesudden attack. He cursed and reviled the triumphant sin that sniggeredand grinned round his temples, whilst all the hammers of the Evil Onebattered at them. Why had he not been on his guard against Satan'swiles? Did he not know full well that it was his habit to glide upsoftly with gentle paws that he might drive them like blades into thevery vitals of his victim?

His anger increased as he thought how he had been entrapped, like a merechild. Was he destined, then, to be ever hurled to the ground, with sincrouching victoriously on his breast? This time he had actually deniedhis God. It was all one fatal descent. His transgression had destroyedhis faith, and then dogma had tottered. One single doubt of theflesh, pleading abomination, sufficed to sweep heaven away. The divineordinances irritated one; the divine mysteries made one smile. Then cameother temptations and allurements; gold, power, unrestrained liberty, an irresistible longing for enjoyment, culminating in luxuriousness, sprawling on a bed of wealth and pride. And then God was robbed. Hisvessels were broken to adorn woman's impurity. Ah! well, then, he wasdamned. Nothing could make any difference to him now. Sin might speakaloud. It was useless to struggle further. The monsters who had hoveredabout his neck were battening on his vitals now. He yielded to them withhideous satisfaction. He shook his fists at the church. No; he believedno longer in the divinity of Christ; he believed no longer in the HolyTrinity; he believed in naught but himself, and his muscles and theappetites of his body. He wanted to live. He felt the necessity of beinga man. Oh! to speed along through the open air, to be lusty and strong, to owe obedience to no jealous master, to fell one's enemies withstones, to carry off the fair maidens that passed upon one's shoulders. He would break out from that living tomb where cruel hands had thrusthim. He would awaken his manhood, which had only been slumbering. Andmight he die of shame if he should find that it were really dead! Andmight the Divinity be accursed if, by the touch of His finger, He hadmade him different from the rest of mankind. 

The priest stood erect, his mind all dazed and scared. He fancied that, at this fresh outburst of blasphemy, the church was falling down uponhim. The sunlight, which had poured over the high altar, had graduallyspread and mounted the walls like ruddy fire. Flames soared and lickedthe rafters, then died away in a sanguineous, ember-like glow. And allat once the church became quite black. It was as though the fires of thesetting sun had burst the roof asunder, pierced the walls, thrown openwide breaches on every side to some exterior foe. The gloomy frameworkseemed to shake beneath some violent assault. Night was coming onquickly. 

Then, in the far distance, the priest heard a gentle murmur rising fromthe valley of Les Artaud. The time had been when he had not understoodthe impassioned language of those burning lands, where writhed butknotted vine-stocks, withered almond-trees, and decrepit olivessprawling with crippled limbs. Protected by his ignorance, he had passedundisturbed through all that world of passion. But, to-day, his eardetected the slightest sigh of the leaves that lay panting in the heat. Afar off, on the edge of the horizon, the hills, still hot with thesinking luminary's farewell, seemed to set themselves in motion with thetramp of an army on the march. Nearer at hand, the scattered rocks, the stones along the road, all the pebbles in the valley, throbbed androlled as if possessed by a craving for motion. Then the tracts of ruddysoil, the few fields that had been reduced to cultivation, seemed toheave and growl like rivers that had burst their banks, bearing along ina blood-like flood the engenderings of seeds, the births of roots, theembraces of plants. Soon everything was in motion. The vine-branchesappeared to crawl along like huge insects; the parched corn and the drygrass formed into dense, lance-waving battalions; the trees stretchedout their boughs like wrestlers making ready for a contest; the fallenleaves skipped forward; the very dust on the road rolled on. It was amoving multitude reinforced by fresh recruits at every step; a legion, the sound of whose coming went on in front of it; an outburst ofpassionate life, sweeping everything along in a mighty whirlwind offruitfulness. And all at once the assault began. From the limits ofthe horizon, the whole countryside, the hills and stones and fields andtrees, rushed upon the church. At the first shock, the building quiveredand cracked. The walls were pierced and the tiles on the roof werethrown down. But the great Christ, although shaken, did not fall. 

A short respite followed. Outside, the voices sounded more angrily, andthe priest could now distinguish human ones amongst them. The Artauds, those bastards who sprang up out of the rocky soil with the persistenceof brambles, were now in their turn blowing a blast that reeked ofteeming life. They had planted everywhere forests of humanity thatswallowed up all around them. They came up to the church, they shatteredthe door with a push, and threatened to block up the very nave with theinvading scions of their race. Behind them came the beasts; the oxenthat tried to batter down the walls with their horns, the flocks ofasses, goats, and sheep, that dashed against the ruined church likeliving waves, while swarms of wood-lice and crickets attacked thefoundations and reduced them to dust with their sawlike teeth. Yetagain, on the other side, there was Desiree's poultry-yard, where thedunghill reeked with suffocating fumes. Here the big cock, Alexander, sounded the assault, and the hens loosened the stones with their beaks, and the rabbits burrowed under the very altars; whilst the pig, toofat to stir, grunted and waited till all the sacred ornaments should bereduced to warm ashes in which he might wallow at his ease. 

A great roar ascended, and a second assault was delivered. Thevillagers, the animals, all that overflowing sea of life assailed thechurch with such impetuosity that the rafters bent and curved. Thistime a part of the walls tottered and fell down, the ceiling shook, the woodwork of the windows was carried away, and the grey mist of theevening streamed in through the frightful gaping breaches. The greatChrist now only clung to His cross by the nail that pierced His lefthand. 

A mighty shout hailed the downfall of the block of wall. Yet the churchstill stood there firmly, in spite of the injuries it had received. Itoffered a stern, silent, unflinching resistance, clutching desperatelyto the tiniest stones of its foundations. It seemed as though, to keepitself from falling, it required only the support of its slenderestpillar, which, by some miracle of equilibration, held up the gapingroof. Then Abbe Mouret beheld the rude plants of the plateau, thedreadful-looking growths that had become hard as iron amidst thearid rocks, that were knotted like snakes and bossy with muscles, setthemselves to work. The rust-hued lichens gnawed away at the roughplasterwork like fiery leprosy. Then the thyme-plants thrust their rootsbetween the bricks like so many iron wedges. The lavenders insinuatedhooked fingers into the loosened stonework, and by slow persistentefforts tore the blocks asunder. The junipers, the rosemaries, theprickly holly bushes, climbed higher and battered the walls withirresistible blows; and even the grass, the grass whose dry bladesslipped beneath the great door, stiffened itself into steel-like spearsand made its way down the nave, where it forced up the flagstones withpowerful levers. It was a victorious revolt, it was revolutionary natureconstructing barricades out of the overturned altars, and wrecking thechurch which had for centuries cast too deep a shadow over it. Theother combatants had fallen back, and let the plants, the thyme and thelavender and the lichens, complete the overthrow of the building withtheir ceaseless little blows, their constant gnawing, which proved moredestructive than the heavier onslaught of the stronger assailants. 

Then, suddenly, the end came. The rowan-tree, whose topmost branches hadalready forced their way through the broken windows under the vaultedroof, rushed in violently with its formidable stream of greenery. Itplanted itself in the centre of the nave and grew there monstrously. Its trunk expanded till its girth became so colossal that it seemed asthough it would burst the church asunder like a girdle spanning it tooclosely. Its branches shot out in knotted arms, each one of which brokedown a piece of the wall or thrust off a strip of the roof, and theywent on multiplying without cessation, each branch ramifying, till afresh tree sprang out of each single knot, with such impetuosity ofgrowth that the ruins of the church, pierced through and through like asieve, flew into fragments, scattering a fine dust to the four quartersof the heavens. 

Now the giant tree seemed to reach the stars; its forest of branches wasa forest of legs, arms, and breasts full of sap; the long locks of womenstreamed down from it; men's heads burst out from the bark; and up aloftpairs of lovers, lying languid by the edges of their nests, filled theair with the music of their delights. 

A final blast of the storm which had broken over the church swept awaythe dust of its remains: the pulpit and the confessional-box, whichhad been ground into powder, the lacerated holy pictures, the shatteredsacred vessels, all the litter at which the legion of sparrows that hadonce dwelt amongst the tiles was eagerly pecking. The great Christ, torn from the cross, hung for a moment from one of the streaming women'scurls, and then was whirled away into the black darkness, in the depthsof which it sank with a loud crash. The Tree of Life had pierced theheavens; it overtopped the stars. 

Abbe Mouret was filled with the mad joy of an accursed spirit at thesight before him. The church was vanquished; God no longer had a house. And thenceforward God could no longer trouble him. He was free to rejoinAlbine, since it was she who triumphed. He laughed at himself for havingdeclared, an hour previously, that the church would swallow up thewhole earth with its shadow. The earth, indeed, had avenged itselfby consuming the church. The mad laughter into which he broke hadthe effect of suddenly awakening him from his hallucination. Hegazed stupidly round the nave, which the evening shadows were slowlydarkening. Through the windows he could see patches of star-spangledsky; and he was about to stretch out his arms to feel the walls, when heheard Desiree calling to him from the vestry-passage:

'Serge! Serge! Are you there? Why don't you answer? I have been lookingfor you for this last half-hour. '

She came in; she was holding a lighted lamp; and the priest then sawthat the church was still standing. He could no longer understandanything, but remained in a horrible state of doubt betwixt theunconquerable church, springing up again from its ashes, and Albine, theall-powerful, who could shake the very throne of God by a single breath. 

X

Desiree came up to him, full of merry chatter. 

'Are you there? Are you there?' she cried. 'Why are you playing athide-and-seek? I called out to you at the top of my voice at least adozen times. I thought you must have gone out. '

She pried into all the gloomy corners with an inquisitive glance, andeven stepped up to the confessional-box, as though she had expectedto surprise some one hiding there. Then she came back to Serge, disappointed, and continued:

'So you are quite alone? Have you been asleep? What amusement do youfind in shutting yourself up all alone in the dark? Come along; it istime we went to dinner. '

The Abbe drew his feverish hands across his brow to wipe away the tracesof the thoughts which he feared were plain for all the world to read. Hefumbled mechanically at the buttons of his cassock, which seemed to himall disarranged. Then he followed his sister with stern-set face andnever a sign of emotion, stiffened by that priestly energy which throwsthe dignity of sacerdotalism like a veil over the agonies of the flesh. Desiree did not even suspect that there was anything the matter withhim. She simply said as they entered the dining-room:

'I have had such a good sleep; but you have been talking too much, andhave made yourself quite pale. '

In the evening, after dinner, Brother Archangias came in to have hisgame of cards with La Teuse. He was in a very merry mood that night;and, when the Brother was merry, it was his habit to prod La Teusein the sides with his big fists, an attention which she returned byheartily boxing his ears. This skirmishing made them both laugh, with alaughter that shook the very ceiling. The Brother, too, when he was inthese gay humours, would devise all kinds of pranks. He would try tosmash plates with his nose, and would offer to wager that he could breakthrough the dining-room door in battering-ram fashion. He would alsoempty the snuff out of his box into the old servant's coffee, or wouldthrust a handful of pebbles down her neck. The merest trifle would giverise to these noisy outbursts of gaiety in the very midst of his wontedsurliness. Some little incident, at which nobody else laughed, oftensufficed to throw him into a state of wild hilarity, make him stamp hisfeet, twirl himself round like a top, and hold in his splitting sides. 

'What is it that makes you so gay to-night?' La Teuse inquired. 

He made no reply, bestriding a chair and galloping round the table onit. 

'Well! well! go on making a baby of yourself!' said the old woman; 'and, my gracious, what a big baby you are! If the Lord is looking at you, Hemust be very well pleased with you!'

The Brother had just slipped off the chair and was lying on the floor, with his legs in the air. 

'He does see me, and is pleased to see me as I am. It is His wish that Ishould be gay. When He wishes me to be merry for a time, He rings a bellin my body, and then I begin to roll about; and all Paradise smiles asit watches me. '

He dragged himself on his back to the wall, and then, supporting himselfon the nape of his neck, he hoisted up his body as high as he could andbegan drumming on the wall with his heels. His cassock slipped down andexposed to view his black breeches, which were patched at the knees withgreen cloth. 

'Look, Monsieur le Cure, ' he said, 'you see how high I can reach withmy heels. I dare bet that you couldn't do as much. Come! look amused andlaugh a little. It is better to drag oneself along on one's back than tothink about a hussy as you are always doing. You know what I mean. Formy part, when I take to scratching myself I imagine myself to be God'sdog, and that's what makes me say that all Paradise looks out of thewindows to smile at me. You might just as well laugh too, Monsieur leCure. It's all done for the saints and you. See! here's a turn-over forSaint Joseph; here's another for Saint Michael, and another for SaintJohn, and another for Saint Mark, and another for Saint Matthew----'

So he went on, enumerating a whole string of saints, and turningsomersaults all round the room. 

Abbe Mouret, who had been sitting in perfect silence, with his handsresting on the edge of the table, was at last constrained to smile. Asa rule, the Brother's sportiveness only disquieted him. La Teuse, asArchangias rolled within her reach, kicked at him with her foot. 

'Come!' she said, 'are we to have our game to-night?'

His only reply was a grunt. Then, upon all fours, he sprang towards LaTeuse as if he meant to bite her. But in lieu thereof he spat upon herpetticoats. 

'Let me alone! will you?' she cried. 'What are you up to now? I beginto think you have gone crazy. What it is that amuses you so much I can'tconceive. '

'What makes me gay is my own affair, ' he replied, rising to his feet andshaking himself. 'It is not necessary to explain it to you, La Teuse. However, as you want a game of cards, let us have it. '

Then the game began. It was a terrible struggle. The Brother hurledhis cards upon the table. Whenever he cried out the windows shooksonorously. La Teuse at last seemed to be winning. She had secured threeaces for some time already, and was casting longing eyes at the fourth. But Brother Archangias began to indulge in fresh outbursts of gaiety. He pushed up the table, at the risk of breaking the lamp. He cheatedoutrageously, and defended himself by means of the most abominablelies, 'Just for a joke, ' said he. Then he suddenly began to sing the'Vespers, ' beating time on the palm of his left hand with his cards. When his gaiety reached a climax, and he could find no adequate meansof expressing it, he always took to chanting the 'Vespers, ' which herepeated for hours at a time. La Teuse, who well knew his habits, criedout to him, amidst the bellowing with which he shook the room:

'Make a little less noise, do! It is quite distracting. You are much toolively to-night. '

But he set to work on the 'Complines. ' Abbe Mouret had now seatedhimself by the window. He appeared to pay no attention to what went onaround him, apparently neither hearing nor seeing anything of it. Atdinner he had eaten with his ordinary appetite and had even managed toreply to Desiree's everlasting rattle of questions. But now he had givenup the struggle, his strength at an end, racked, exhausted as he wasby the internal tempest that still raged within him. He even lacked thecourage to rise from his seat and go upstairs to his own room. Moreover, he was afraid that if he turned his face towards the lamplight, thetears, which he could no longer keep from his eyes, would be noticed. Sohe pressed his face close to the window and gazed out into the darkness, growing gradually more drowsy, sinking into a kind of nightmare stupor. 

Brother Archangias, still busy at his psalm-singing, winked and noddedin the direction of the dozing priest. 

'What's the matter?' asked La Teuse. 

The Brother replied by a yet more significant wink. 

'Well, what do you mean? Can't you speak? Ah! there's a king. That'scapital!--so I take your queen. '

The Brother laid down his cards, bent over the table, and whisperedclose to La Teuse's face: 'That hussy has been here. '

'I know that well enough, ' answered La Teuse. 'I saw her go withmademoiselle into the poultry-yard. '

At this he gave her a terrible look, and shook his fist in her face. 

'You saw her, and you let her come in! You ought to have called me, andwe would have hung her up by the feet to a nail in your kitchen. '

But at this the old woman lost her temper, and, lowering her voicesolely in order that she might not awaken Abbe Mouret, she replied:'Don't you go talking about hanging people up in my kitchen! I certainlysaw her, and I even kept my back turned when she went to join hisreverence in the church when the catechising was over. But all thatwas no business of mine. I had my cooking to attend to! As for the girlherself, I detest her. But if his reverence wishes to see her--why, sheis welcome to come whenever she pleases. I'd let her in myself!'

'If you were to do that, La Teuse, ' retorted the Brother ragefully, 'Iwould strangle you, that I would. '

But she laughed at him. 

'Don't talk any of your nonsense to me, my man! Don't you know that itis forbidden you to lay your hands upon a woman, just as it's forbiddenfor a donkey to have anything to do with the _Pater Noster_? Just youtry to strangle me and you'll see what I'll do! But do be quiet now, andlet us finish the game. See, here's another king. '

But the Brother, holding up a card, went on growling:

'She must have come by some road that the devil alone knows for me tohave missed her to-day. Every afternoon I go and keep guard up yonderby the Paradou. If ever I find them together again, I will acquaintthe hussy with a stout dogwood stick which I have cut expressly for herbenefit. And I shall keep a watch in the church as well now. '

He played his card, which La Teuse took with a knave. Then he threwhimself back in his chair and again burst into one of his loud laughs. He did not seem to be able to work himself up into a genuine rage thatevening. 

'Well, well, ' he grumbled, 'never mind, even if she did see him, she hada smacking fall on her nose. I'll tell you all about it, La Teuse. Itwas raining, you know. I was standing by the school-door when I caughtsight of her coming down from the church. She was walking along quitestraight and upright, in her stuck-up fashion, in spite of the pouringrain. But when she got into the road, she tumbled down full length, nodoubt because the ground was so slippery. Oh! how I did laugh! How I didlaugh! I clapped my hands, too. When she picked herself up again, I sawshe was bleeding at the wrist. I shall feel happy over it for a week. I cannot think of her lying there on the ground without feeling thegreatest delight. '

Then, turning his attention to the game, he puffed out his cheeks andbegan to chant the _De profundis_. When he had got to the end of it, hebegan it all over again. The game came to a conclusion in the midst ofthis dirge. It was he who was beaten, but his defeat did not seem to vexhim in the least. 

When La Teuse had locked the door behind him, after first awakening AbbeMouret, his voice could still be heard, as he went his way throughthe black night, singing the last verse of the psalm, _Et ipse redimetIsrael ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus_, with extraordinary jubilation. 

XI

That night Abbe Mouret slept very heavily. When he opened his eyes inthe morning, later than usual, his face and hands were wet with tears. He had been weeping all through the night while he slept. He did not sayhis mass that day. In spite of his long rest, he had not recovered fromhis excessive weariness of the previous evening, and he remained inhis bedroom till noon, sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. Thecondition of stupor into which he more and more deeply sank, took allsensation of suffering away from him. He was conscious only of a greatvoid and blank as he sat there overpowered and benumbed. Even toread his breviary cost him a great effort. Its Latin seemed to him abarbarous language, which he would never again be able to pronounce. 

Having tossed the book upon his bed he gazed for hours through his openwindow at the surrounding country. In the far distance he saw the longwall of the Paradou, creeping like a thin white line amongst the gloomypatches of the pine plantations to the crest of the hills. On the left, hidden by one of those plantations, was the breach. He could not see it, but he knew it was there. He remembered every bit of bramble scatteredamong the stones. On the previous night he would not have thus dared togaze upon that dreaded scene. But now with impunity he allowed himselfto trace the whole line of the wall, as it emerged again and againfrom the clumps of verdure which here and there concealed it. Hisblood pulsed none the faster for this scrutiny. Temptation, as thoughdisdaining his present weakness, left him free from attack. Forsaken bythe Divine grace, he was incapable of entering upon any struggle, thethought of sin could no longer even impassion him; it was sheer stuporalone that now rendered him willing to accept that which he had the daybefore so strenuously refused. 

At one moment he caught himself talking aloud and saying that, sincethe breach in the wall was still open, he would go and join Albine atsunset. This decision brought him a slight feeling of worry, but he didnot think that he could do otherwise. She was expecting him to go, and she was his wife. When he tried to picture her face, he could onlyimagine her as very pale and a long way off. Then he felt a littleuneasy as to their future manner of life together. It would be difficultfor them to remain in the neighbourhood; they would have to go awaysomewhere, without any one knowing anything about it. And then, whenthey had managed to conceal themselves, they would need a deal of moneyin order to live happily and comfortably. He tried a score of times tohit upon some scheme by which they could get away and live together likehappy lovers, but he could devise nothing satisfactory. Now that he wasno longer wild with passion, the practical side of the situationalarmed him. He found himself, in all his weakness, face to face with acomplicated problem with which he was incompetent to grapple. 

Where could they get horses for their escape? And if they went awayon foot, would they not be stopped and detained as vagabonds? Was hecapable of securing any employment by which he could earn bread for hiswife? He had never been taught any kind of trade. He was quite ignorantof actual life. He ransacked his memory, and he could remember nothingbut strings of prayers, details of ceremonies, and pages of Bouvier's'Instruction Theologique, ' which he had learned by heart at theseminary. He worried too over matters of no real concern. He askedhimself whether he would dare to give his arm to his wife in the street. He certainly could not walk with a woman clinging to his arm. He wouldsurely appear so strange and awkward that every one would turn roundto stare at him. They would guess that he was a priest and would insultAlbine. It would be vain for him to try to obliterate the traces ofhis priesthood. He would always wear that mournful pallor and carry theodour of incense about with him. And what if he should have childrensome day? As this thought suddenly occurred to him, he quite started. Hefelt a strange repugnance at the very idea. He felt sure that he shouldnot care for any children that might be born to him. Suppose there weretwo of them, a little boy and a little girl. He could never let them geton his knees; it would distress him to feel their hands clutching at hisclothes. The thought of the little girl troubled him the most; hecould already see womanly tenderness shining in the depths of her big, childish eyes. No! no! he would have no children. 

Nevertheless he resolved that he would flee with Albine that evening. But when the evening came, he felt too weary. So he deferred his flighttill the next morning. And the next morning he made a fresh pretextfor delay. He could not leave his sister alone with La Teuse. He wouldprepare a letter, directing that she should be taken to her unclePascal's. For three days he was ever on the point of writing thatletter, and the paper and pen and ink were lying ready on the tablein his room. Then, on the third day, he went off, leaving the letterunwritten. He took up his hat quite suddenly and set off for theParadou in a state of mingled stupor and resignation, as though he wereunwillingly performing some compulsory task which he saw no means ofavoiding. Albine's image was now effaced from his memory; he no longerbeheld her, but he was driven on by old resolves whose lingeringinfluence, though they themselves were dead, still worked upon him inhis silence and loneliness. 

He took no pains to escape notice when he set foot out of doors. Hestopped at the end of the village to talk for a moment to Rosalie. Shetold him that her baby was suffering from convulsions; but she laughed, as she spoke, with the laugh that was natural to her. Then he struckout through the rocks, and walked straight on towards the breach in thewall. By force of habit he had brought his breviary with him. Findingthe way long, he opened the book and read the regulation prayers. Whenhe put it back again under his arm, he had forgotten the Paradou. Hewent on walking steadily, thinking about a new chasuble that he wishedto purchase to replace the old gold-broidered one, which was certainlyfalling into shreds. For some time past he had been saving uptwenty-sous pieces, and he calculated that by the end of seven monthshe would have got the necessary amount of money together. He had reachedthe hills when the song of a peasant in the distance reminded him ofa canticle which had been familiar to him at the seminary. He tried torecall the first lines of it, but his recollection failed him. It vexedhim to find that his memory was so poor. And when, at last, he succeededin remembering the words, he found a soothing pleasure in humming theverses, which came back to his mind one by one. It was a hymn of homageto Mary. He smiled as though some soft breath from the days of hischildhood were playing upon his face. Ah! how happy he had then been!Why shouldn't he be as happy again? He had not grown any bigger, hewanted nothing more than the same old happiness, unruffled peace, a nookin the chapel, where his knees marked his place, a life of seclusion, enlivened by the delightful puerilities of childhood. Little by littlehe raised his voice, singing the canticle in flutelike tones, when hesuddenly became aware of the breach immediately in front of him. 

For a moment he seemed surprised. Then, the smile dying from his face, he murmured quietly:

'Albine must be expecting me. The sun is already setting. '

But just as he was about to push some stones aside to make himself apassage, he was startled by a snore. He sprang down again: he had onlyjust missed setting his foot upon the very face of Brother Archangias, who was lying on the ground there sleeping soundly. Slumber hadovertaken him while he kept guard over the entrance to the Paradou. Hebarred the approach to it, lying at full length before its threshold, with arms and legs spread out. His right hand, thrown back behind hishead, still clutched his dogwood staff, which he seemed to brandish likea fiery sword. And he snored loudly in the midst of the brambles, hisface exposed to the sun, without a quiver on his tanned skin. A swarm ofbig flies was hovering over his open mouth. 

Abbe Mouret looked at him for a moment. He envied the slumber of thatdust-wallowing saint. He wished to drive the flies away, but theypersistently returned, and clung around the purple lips of the Brother, who was quite unconscious of their presence. Then the Abbe strode overhis big body and entered the Paradou. 

XII

Albine was seated on a patch of grass a few paces away from the wall. She sprang up as she caught sight of Serge. 

'Ah! you have come!' she cried, trembling from head to foot. 

'Yes, ' he answered calmly, 'I have come. '

She flung herself upon his neck, but she did not kiss him. To her barearms the beads of his neckband seemed very cold. She scrutinised him, already feeling uneasy, and resuming:

'What is the matter with you? Why don't you kiss my cheeks as you usedto do? Oh! if you are ill, I will cure you once again. Now that youare here, all our old happiness will return. There will be no morewretchedness. . . . See! I am smiling. You must smile, too, Serge. '

But his face remained grave. 

'I have been troubled, too, ' she went on. 'I am still quite pale, am Inot? For a whole week I have been living on that patch of grass, whereyou found me. I wanted one thing only, to see you coming back throughthe breach in the wall. At every sound I sprang up and rushed to meetyou. But, alas! it was not you I heard. It was only the leaves rustlingin the wind. But I was sure that you would come. I should have waitedfor you for years. '

Then she asked him:

'Do you still love me?'

'Yes, ' he answered, 'I love you still. '

They stood looking at each other, feeling rather ill at ease. And deepsilence fell between them. Serge, who evinced perfect calmness, did notattempt to break it. Albine twice opened her mouth to speak, but closedit immediately, surprised at the words that rose to her lips. She couldsummon up nothing but expressions tinged with bitterness. She felt tearswelling into her eyes. What could be the matter with her that she didnot feel happy now that her love had come back?

'Listen to me, ' she said at last. 'We must not stay here. It is thathole that freezes us! Let us go back to our old home. Give me yourhand. '

They plunged into the depths of the Paradou. Autumn was fastapproaching, and the trees seemed anxious as they stood there with theiryellowing crests from which the leaves were falling one by one. Thepaths were already littered with dead foliage soaked with moisture, which gave out a sound as of sighing beneath one's tread. And awaybeyond the lawns misty vapour ascended, throwing a mourning veil overthe blue distance. And the whole garden was wrapped in silence, brokenonly by some sorrowful moans that sounded quiveringly. 

Serge began to shiver beneath the avenue of tall trees, along which theywere walking. 

'How cold it is here!' said he in an undertone. 

'You are cold indeed, ' murmured Albine, sadly. 'My hand is no longerable to warm you. Shall I wrap you round with part of my dress? Come, all our love will now be born afresh. '

She led him to the parterre, the flower-garden. The great thicket-likerosary was still fragrant with perfume, but there was a tinge ofbitterness in the scent of the surviving blossoms, and their foliage, which had expanded in wild profusion, lay strewn upon the ground. Sergedisplayed such unwillingness to enter the tangled jungle, that theylingered on its borders, trying to detect in the distance the pathsalong which they had passed in the spring-time. Albine recollectedevery little nook. She pointed to the grotto where the marble woman laysleeping; to the hanging screens of honeysuckle and clematis; the fieldsof violets; the fountain that spurted out crimson carnations; the stepsdown which flowed golden gilliflowers; the ruined colonnade, in themidst of which the lilies were rearing a snowy pavilion. It wasthere that they had been born again beneath the sunlight. And sherecapitulated every detail of that first day together, how they hadwalked, and how fragrant had been the air beneath the cool shade. Sergeseemed to be listening, but he suddenly asked a question which showedthat he had not understood her. The slight shiver which made his faceturn pale never left him. 

Then she led him towards the orchard, but they could not reach it. Thestream was too much swollen. Serge no longer thought of taking Albineupon his back and lightly bounding across with her to the other side. Yet there the apple-trees and the pear-trees were still laden withfruit, and the vines, now with scantier foliage, bent beneath the weightof their gleaming clusters, each grape freckled by the sun's caress. Ah! how they had gambolled beneath the appetising shade of those ancienttrees! What merry children had they then been! Albine smiled as shethought of how she had clambered up into the cherry-tree that had brokendown beneath her. He, Serge, must at least remember what a quantity ofplums they had eaten. He only answered by a nod. He already seemed quiteweary. The orchard, with its green depths and chaos of mossy trunks, disquieted him and suggested to his mind some dark, dank spot, teemingwith snakes and nettles. 

Then she led him to the meadow-lands, where he had to take a few stepsamongst the grass. It reached to his shoulders now, and seemed to himlike a swarm of clinging arms that tried to bind his limbs and pull himdown and drown him beneath an endless sea of greenery. He begged Albineto go no further. She was walking on in front, and at first she did notstop; but when she saw how distressed he appeared, she halted andcame back and stood beside him. She also was growing gradually morelow-spirited, and at last she shuddered like himself. Still she went ontalking. With a sweeping gesture she pointed out to him the streams, the rows of willows, the grassy expanse stretching far away towardsthe horizon. All that had formerly been theirs. For whole days they hadlived there. Over yonder, between those three willows by the water'sedge, they had played at being lovers. And they would then have beendelighted if the grass had been taller than themselves so that theymight have lost themselves in its depths, and have been the moresecluded, like larks nesting at the bottom of a field of corn. Why, then, did he tremble so to-day, when the tip of his foot just sank intothe grass?

Then she led him to the forest. But the huge trees seemed to inspireSerge with still greater dread. He did not know them again, so sternlysolemn seemed their bare black trunks. Here, more than anywhere else, amidst those austere columns, through which the light now freelystreamed, the past seemed quite dead. The first rains had washed thetraces of their footsteps from the sandy paths, the winds had sweptevery other lingering memorial into the underbrush. But Albine, withgrief at her throat, shot out a protesting glance. She could stillplainly see their lightest footprints on the sandy gravel, and, as theypassed each bush, the warmth with which they had once brushed against itsurged to her cheeks. With eyes full of soft entreaty, she still stroveto awaken Serge's memory. It was along that path that they had walkedin silence, full of emotion, but as yet not daring to confess that theyloved one another. It was in that clearing that they had lingered oneevening till very late watching the stars, which had rained uponthem like golden drops of warmth. Farther, beneath that oak they hadexchanged their first kiss. Its fragrance still clung to the tree, andthe very moss still remembered it. It was false to say that the foresthad become voiceless and bare. 

Serge, however, turned away his head, that he might escape the gaze ofAlbine's eyes, which oppressed him. 

Then she led him to the great rocks. There, perhaps, he would no longershudder with that appearance of debility which so distressed her. Atthat hour the rocks were still warm with the red glow of the settingsun. They still wore an aspect of tragic passion, with their hot ledgesof stone whereon the fleshy plants writhed monstrously. Without speakinga word, without even turning her head, Albine led Serge up the roughascent, wishing to take him ever higher and higher, far up beyond thesprings, till they should emerge into the full light on the summit. Theywould there see the cedar, beneath whose shade they had first feltthe thrill of desire, and there amidst the glowing stones they wouldassuredly find passion once more. But Serge soon began to stumblepitiably. He could walk no further. He fell a first time on his knees. Albine, by a mighty effort, raised him and for a moment carried himalong, but afterwards he fell again, and remained, quite overcome, onthe ground. In front of him, beneath him, spread the vast Paradou. 

'You have lied!' cried Albine. 'You love me no longer!'

She burst into tears as she stood there by his side, feeling that shecould not carry him any higher. There was no sign of anger in hernow. She was simply weeping over their dying love. Serge lay dazed andstupefied. 

'The garden is all dead. I feel so very cold, ' he murmured. But she tookhis head between her hands, and showed him the Paradou. 

'Look at it! Ah! it is your eyes that are dead; your ears and your limbsand your whole body. You have passed by all the scenes of our happinesswithout seeing them or hearing them or feeling their presence. You havedone nothing but slip and stumble, and now you have fallen down here insheer weariness and boredom. . . . You love me no more. '

He protested, but in a gentle, quiet fashion. Then, for the first time, she spoke out passionately. 

'Be quiet! As if the garden could ever die! It will sleep for thewinter, but it will wake up again in May, and will restore to us allthe love we have entrusted to its keeping. Our kisses will blossom againamongst the flower-beds, and our vows will bud again with the trees andplants. If you could only see it and understand it, you would know thatit throbs with even deeper passion, and loves even more absorbingly atthis autumn-time, when it falls asleep in its fruitfulness. . . . But youlove me no more, and so you can no longer understand. '

He raised his eyes to her as if begging her not to be angry. His facewas pinched and pale with an expression of childish fear. The sound ofher voice made him tremble. He ended by persuading her to rest a littlewhile by his side. They could talk quietly and discuss matters. Then, with the Paradou spreading out in front of them, they began to speak oftheir love, but without even touching one another's fingers. 

'I love you; indeed I love you, ' said Serge, in his calm, quiet voice. 'If I did not love you, I should not be here: I should not have come. I am very weary, it is true. I don't know why. I thought I should findthat pleasant warmth again, of which the mere memory was so delightful. But I am cold, the garden seems quite black. I cannot see anything ofwhat I left here. But it is not my fault. I am trying hard to be as youwould wish me and to please you. '

'You love me no longer!' Albine repeated once more. 

'Yes, I do love you. I suffered grievously the other day after I haddriven you away. . . . Oh! I loved you with such passion that, had you comeback and thrown yourself in my arms, I should almost have crushed youto death. . . . And for hours your image remained present before me. WhenI shut my eyes, you gleamed out with all the brightness of the sun andthrew a flame around me. . . . Then I trampled down every obstacle, andcame here. '

He remained silent for a moment, as if in thought. Then he spoke again:

'And now my arms feel as though they were broken. If I tried to claspyou, I could not hold you; I should let you fall. . . . Wait till thisshudder has passed away. Give me your hands, and let me kiss them again. Be gentle and do not look at me with such angry eyes. Help me to find myheart again. '

He spoke with such genuine sadness, such evident longing to beginthe past anew, that Albine was touched. For a moment all her wontedgentleness returned to her, and she questioned him anxiously:

'What is the matter with you? What makes you so ill?'

'I do not know. It is as though all my blood had left my veins. Justnow, as I was coming here, I felt as if some one had flung a robe of icearound my shoulders, which turned me into stone from head to foot. . . . Ihave felt it before, but where I don't remember. '

She interrupted him with a kindly laugh. 

'You are a child. You have caught cold, that's all. At any rate, it isnot I that you are afraid of, is it? We won't stop in the garden duringthe winter, like a couple of wild things. We will go wherever you like, to some big town. We can love each other there, amongst all the people, as quietly as amongst the trees. You will see that I can be somethingelse than a wilding, for ever bird's-nesting and tramping about forhours. When I was a little girl, I used to wear embroidered skirts andfine stockings and laces and all kinds of finery. I dare say you neverheard of that. '

He was not listening to her. He suddenly gave vent to a little cry, andsaid: 'Ah! now I recollect!'

She asked him what he meant, but he would not answer her. He had justremembered the feeling he had long ago experienced in the chapel of theseminary. That was the icy robe enwrapping his shoulders and turning himto stone. And then his life as a priest took complete possession of histhoughts. The vague recollections which had haunted him as he walkedfrom Les Artaud to the Paradou became more and more distinct and assumedcomplete mastery over him. While Albine talked on of the happy life thatthey would lead together, he heard the tinkling of the sanctuary bellthat signalled the elevation of the Host, and he saw the monstrancetrace gleaming crosses over the heads of kneeling multitudes. 

'And for your sake, ' Albine was saying, 'I will put on my broideredskirts again. . . . I want you to be bright and gay. We will try to findsomething to make you lively. Perhaps you will love me better when yousee me looking beautiful and prettily dressed, like a fine lady. I willwear my comb properly and won't let my hair fall wildly about my neckany more. And I won't roll my sleeves up over my elbows; I will fastenmy dress so as to hide my shoulders. I still know how to bow and how towalk along quite properly. Yes, I will make you a nice little wife, as Iwalk through the streets leaning on your arm. '

'Did you ever go to church when you were a little girl?' he asked her inan undertone, as if, in spite of himself, he were continuing aloud thereverie which prevented him from hearing her. 'I could never pass achurch without entering it. As soon as the door closed silentlybehind me, I felt as though I were in Paradise itself, with the angelswhispering stories of love in my ears and the saints caressing me withtheir breath. Ah! I would have liked to live there for ever, in thatabsorbing beatitude. '

She looked at him with steady eyes, a passing blaze kindling in herloving glance. Nevertheless, submissive still, she answered:

'I will do as you may fancy. I learned music once. I was quite a cleveryoung lady and was taught all the accomplishments. I will go back toschool and start music again. If there is any tune you would like tohear me play, you will only have to tell me, and I will practise it formonths and months, so as to play it to you some evening in our own homewhen we are by ourselves in some snug little room, with the curtainsclosely drawn. And you will pay me with just one kiss, won't you? A kissright on the lips, which will awaken all your love again!'

'Yes, yes, ' he murmured, answering his own thoughts only; 'my greatpleasure at first was to light the candles, prepare the cruets, andcarry the missal. Then, afterwards, I was filled with bliss at theapproach of God, and felt as though I could die of sheer love. Those aremy only recollections. I know of nothing else. When I raise my hand, itis to give a benediction. When my lips protrude it is to kiss the altar. If I look for my heart, I can no longer find it. I have offered it toGod, and He has taken it. '

Albine grew very pale and her eyes gleamed like fire. In a quiveringvoice she resumed:

'I should not like my little girl to leave me. You can send the boy tocollege, if you wish, but the little girl must always keep with me. Imyself will teach her to read. Oh! I shall remember everything, andif indeed there be anything that I find I have forgotten, I will havemasters to teach me. . . . Yes, we will keep our dear little ones alwaysabout our knees. You will be happy so, won't you? Speak to me; tell methat you will then feel warm again, and will smile, and feel no regretsfor anything you have left behind. '

But Serge continued:

'I have often thought of the stone-saints that have been censed in theirniches for centuries past. They must have become quite saturated withincense; and I am like one of them. I have the fragrance of incensein the inmost parts of my being. It is that embalmment that gives meserenity, deathlike tranquillity of body, and the peace which I enjoy inno longer living. . . . Ah! may nothing ever disturb my quiescence! May Iever remain cold and rigid, with a ceaseless smile on my granite lips, incapable of descending among men! That is my one, my only desire!'

At this Albine sprang to her feet, exasperated, threatening. She shookSerge and cried:

'What are you saying? What is it you are dreaming aloud? Am I not yourwife? Haven't you come here to be my husband?'

He recoiled, trembling yet more violently. 

'No! Leave me! I am afraid!' he faltered. 

'But our life together, our happiness, the children we shall have?'

'No, no; I am afraid. ' And he broke out into a supreme cry: 'I cannot! Icannot!'

For a moment Albine remained silent, gazing at the unhappy man who layshivering at her feet. Her face flared. She opened her arms as if toseize him and strain him to her breast with wild angry passion. Butanother idea came to her, and she merely took him by the hand and raisedhim to his feet. 

'Come!' said she. 

She led him away to that giant tree, to the very spot where their lovehad reigned supreme. There was the same bliss-inspiring shade, there wasthe same trunk as of yore, the same branches spreading far around, likesheltering and protecting arms. The tree still towered aloft, kindly, robust, powerful, and fertile. As on the day of their nuptials, languorous warmth, the glimmer of a summer's night fading on the bareshoulder of some fair girl, a sob of love dying away into passionatesilence, lingered about the clearing as it lay there bathed in dim greenlight. And, in the distance, the Paradou, in spite of the firstchills of autumn, sighed once more with passion, again becoming love'saccomplice. From the parterre, from the orchard, from the meadow-lands, from the forest, from the great rocks, from the spreading heavens, came back a ripple of voluptuous joy. Never had the garden, even on thewarmest evenings of spring-time, shown such deep tenderness as now, onthis fair autumn evening, when the plants and trees seemed to be biddingone another goodnight ere they sank to sleep. And the scent of ripenedgerms wafted the intoxication of desire athwart the scanty leaves. 

'Do you hear? Do you hear?' faltered Albine in Serge's ear, when she hadlet him slip upon the grass at the foot of the tree. 

Serge was weeping. 

'You see that the Paradou is not dead, ' she added. 'It is crying outto us to love each other. It still desires our union. Oh, do remember!Clasp me to your heart!'

Serge still wept. 

Albine said nothing more. She flung her arms around him; she pressed herwarm lips to his corpse-like face; but tears were still his only answer. 

Then, after a long silence, Albine spoke. She stood erect, full ofcontempt and determination. 

'Away with you! Go!' she said, in a low voice. 

Serge rose with difficulty. He picked up his breviary, which had fallenupon the grass. And he walked away. 

'Away with you! Go!' repeated Albine, in louder tones, as she followedand drove him before her. 

Thus she urged him on from bush to bush till she had driven him backto the breach in the wall, in the midst of the stern-looking trees. And there, as she saw Serge hesitate, with lowered head she cried outviolently:

'Away with you Go!'

And slowly she herself went back into the Paradou, without even turningher head. Night was fast falling, and the garden was but a huge bier ofshadows. 

XIII

Brother Archangias, aroused from his slumber, stood erect in the breach, striking the stones with his stick and swearing abominably. 

'May the devil break their legs for them! May he drag them to hell bytheir feet, with their noses trailing in their abomination!'

But when he saw Albine driving away the priest, he stopped for a momentin surprise. Then he struck the stones yet more vigorously, and burstinto a roar of laughter. 

'Good-bye, you hussy! A pleasant journey to you! Go back to your matesthe wolves! A priest is no fit companion for such as you. '

Then, looking at Abbe Mouret, he growled:

'I knew you were in there. I saw that the stones had been disturbed. . . . Listen to me, Monsieur le Cure. Your sin has made me your superior, andGod tells you, through my mouth, that hell has no torments severe enoughfor a priest who lets himself succumb to the lusts of the flesh. If Hewere to pardon you now, He would be too indulgent, it would be contraryto His own justice. '

They slowly walked down the hill towards Les Artaud. The priest hadnot opened his lips; but gradually he raised his head erect: he was nolonger trembling. As in the distance he caught sight of the Solitairelooming blackly against the purplish sky, and the ruddy glow of thetiles on the church, a faint smile came to his lips, while to his calmeyes there rose an expression of perfect serenity. 

Meantime the Brother was every now and then giving a vicious kick at thestones that came in his way. Presently he turned to his companion:

'Is it all over this time?' he asked. 'When I was your age I waspossessed too. A demon was ever gnawing at me. But, after a time, hegrew weary of it, and took himself off. Now that he has gone I livequietly enough. . . . Oh! I knew very well that you would go. For threeweeks past I have been keeping watch upon you. I used to look into thegarden through the breach in the wall. I should have liked to cut thetrees down. I have often hurled stones at them; it was delightful tobreak the branches. Tell me, now, is it so very nice to be there?'

He made Abbe Mouret stop in the middle of the road, and glared at himwith a terrible expression of jealousy. The thought of the priest'slife in the Paradou tortured him. But the Abbe kept perfect silence, soArchangias set off again, jeering as he went. Then, in a louder voice, he said:

'You see, when a priest behaves as you have done, he scandalises everyother priest. I myself felt sullied by your conduct. However, youare now behaving more sensibly. There is no need for you to make anyconfession. I know what has happened well enough. Heaven has broken yourback for you, as it has done for so many others. So much the better! Somuch the better!'

He clapped his hands triumphantly. But Abbe Mouret, immersed in deepreverie, with a smile spreading over his whole face, did not even hearhim. When the Brother quitted him at the parsonage door, he went roundand entered the church. It was grey and gloomy, as on that terriblerainy evening when temptation had racked him so violently. And it stillremained poverty-stricken and meditative, bare of all that gleaminggold and sighing passion that had seemed to him to sweep in from thecountryside. It preserved solemn silence. But a breath of mercy seemedto fill it. 

Kneeling before the great Christ and bursting into tears, which he letflow down his cheeks as though they were so many blessings, the priestmurmured:

'O God, it is not true that Thou art pitiless. I know it, I feel it:Thou hast already pardoned me. I feel it in the outpouring of Thy grace, which, for hours now, has been flowing through me in a sweet stream, bringing me back, slowly but surely, perfect peace and spiritual health. O God, it was at the very moment when I was about to forsake Thee thatThou didst protect me most effectually. Thou didst hide Thyself from me, the better to rescue me from evil. Thou didst allow my flesh to run itscourse, that I might be convinced of its nothingness. And now, O God, I see that Thou hast for ever marked me with Thy seal, that awful seal, pregnant with blessings, which sets a man apart from other men, andwhose mark is so ineffaceable that, sooner or later, it makes itselfmanifest even upon those who sin. Thou hast broken me with sin andtemptation. Thou hast ravaged me with Thy flames. Thou hast willedthat there should be nought left of me save ruins wherein Thou mightestsafely descend. I am an empty tabernacle wherein Thou may'st dwell. Blessed art Thou, O God!'

He prostrated himself and continued stammering in the dust. The churchtriumphed. It remained firm and unshaken over the priest's head, withits altars and its confessional, its pulpit, its crosses, and its holyimages. The world had ceased to exist. Temptation was extinguished likea fire that was henceforth unnecessary for the Abbe's purification. Hewas entering into supernatural peace. And he raised this supreme cry:

'To the exclusion of life and its creatures and of everything that be init, I belong to Thee, O God; to Thee, Thee alone, through all eternity!'

XIV

At that moment Albine was still wandering about the Paradou with allthe mute agony of a wounded animal. She had ceased to weep. Her face wasvery white and a deep crease showed upon her brow. Why did she have tosuffer that deathlike agony? Of what fault had she been guilty, thatthe garden no longer kept the promises it had held out to her sinceher childhood's days? She questioned herself as she walked along, neverheeding the avenues through which the gloom was slowly stealing. Shehad always obeyed the voices of the trees. She could not remember havinginjured a single flower. She had ever been the beloved daughter of thegreenery, hearkening to it submissively, yielding to it with full beliefin the happiness which it promised to her. And when, on that supremeday, the Paradou had cried to her to cast herself beneath thegiant-tree, she had done so in compliance with its voice. If she thenhad nothing to reproach herself with, it must be the garden which hadbetrayed her; the garden which was torturing her for the mere sake ofseeing her suffer. 

She halted and looked around her. The great gloomy masses of foliagepreserved deep silence. The paths were blocked with black walls ofdarkness. The distant lawns were lulling to sleep the breezes thatkissed them. And she thrust out her hands with a gesture of hopelessnessand raised a cry of protest. It could not all end thus. But her voicechoked beneath the silent trees. Thrice did she implore the Paradou toanswer her, but never an explanation fell from its lofty branches, nota leaf seemed to be moved with pity for her. Then she resumed her wearywandering, and felt that she was entering into the fatal sternness ofwinter. Now that she had ceased to rebelliously question the earth, shecaught sound of a gentle murmur speeding along the ground. It was thefarewell of the plants, wishing one another a happy death. To have drunkin the sunshine for a whole season, to have lived ever blossoming, to have breathed continual perfume, and then, at the first blast, todepart, with the hope of springing up again elsewhere, was not thatsufficiently long and full a life which obstinate craving for furtherexistence would mar? Ah! how sweet death must be; how sweet to have anendless night before one, wherein to dream of the short days of life andto recall eternally its fugitive joys!

She stayed her steps once more; but she no longer protested as she stoodthere amidst the deep stillness of the Paradou. She now believed thatshe understood everything. The garden doubtless had death in store forher as a supreme culminating happiness. It was to death that it had allalong been leading her in its tender fashion. After love, there could benought but death. And never had the garden loved her so much as it didnow; she had shown herself ungrateful in accusing it, for all the timeshe had remained its best beloved child. The motionless boughs, thepaths blocked up with darkness, the lawns where the breezes fell asleep, had only become mute in order that they might lure her on to taste thejoys of long silence. They wished her to be with them in their winterrest, they dreamt of carrying her off, swathed in their dry leaves withher eyes frozen like the waters of the springs, her limbs stiffened likethe bare branches, and her blood sleeping the sleep of the sap. And, yes, she would live their life to the very end, and die their death. Perhaps they had already willed that she should spring up next summer asa rose in the flower-garden, or a pale willow in the meadow-lands, or atender birch in the forest. Yes, it was the great law of life; she wasabout to die. 

Then, for the last time, she resumed her walk through the Paradou inquest of death. What fragrant plant might need her sweet-scented tressesto increase the perfume of its leaves? What flower might wish the giftof her satinlike skin, the snowy whiteness of her arms, the tender pinkof her bosom? To what weakly tree should she offer her young blood? Shewould have liked to be of service to the weeds vegetating beside thepaths, to slay herself there so that from her flesh some huge greenerymight spring, lofty and sapful, laden with birds at May-time, andpassionately caressed by the sun. But for a long while the Paradou stillmaintained silence as if it had not yet made up its mind to confide toher in what last kiss it would spirit away her life. She had to wanderall over it again, seeking, pilgrim-like, for her favourite spots. Nightwas now more swiftly approaching, and it seemed to her as if she werebeing gradually sucked into the earth. She climbed to the great rocksand questioned them, asking whether it was upon their stony beds thatshe must breathe her last breath. She crossed the forest with lingeringsteps, hoping that some oak would topple down and bury her beneath themajesty of its fall. She skirted the streams that flowed through themeadows, bending down at almost every step she took so as to peep intothe depths and see whether a couch had not been prepared for her amongstthe water lilies. But nowhere did Death call her; nowhere did he offerher his cold hands. Yet, she was not mistaken. It was, indeed, theParadou that was about to teach her to die, as, indeed, it had taughther to love. She again began to scour the bushes, more eagerly even thanon those warm mornings of the past when she had gone searching for love. And, suddenly, just as she was reaching the parterre, she came upondeath, amidst all the evening fragrance. She ran forward, breaking outinto a rapturous laugh. She was to die amongst the flowers. 

First she hastened to the thicket-like rosary. There, in the lastflickering of the gloaming, she searched the beds and gathered all theroses that hung languishing at the approach of winter. She plucked themfrom down below, quite heedless of their thorns; she plucked them infront of her, with both hands; she plucked them from above, rising upontip-toes and pulling down the boughs. So eager was she, so desperatewas her haste, that she even broke the branches, she, who had ever shownherself tender to the tiniest blades of grass. Soon her arms were fullof roses, she tottered beneath her burden of flowers. And having quitestripped the rose trees, carrying away even the fallen petals, sheturned her steps to the pavilion; and when she had let her load ofblossoms slip upon the floor of the room with the blue ceiling, sheagain went down to the garden. 

This time she sought the violets. She made huge bunches of them, which she pressed one by one against her breast. Then she sought thecarnations, plucking them all, even to the buds; massing them togetherin big sheaves of white blossoms that suggested bowls of milk, and bigsheaves of the red ones, that seemed like bowls of blood. Then, too, she sought the stocks, the patches of mirabilis, the heliotropes andthe lilies. She tore the last blossoming stocks off by the handful, pitilessly crumpling their satin ruches; she devastated the beds ofmirabilis, whose flowers were scarcely opening to the evening air; shemowed down the field of heliotropes, piling her harvest of blooms intoa heap; and she thrust bundles of lilies under her arms like handlesof reeds. When she was again laden with as much as she could carry, she returned to the pavilion to cast the violets, the carnations, thelilies, the stocks, the heliotrope, and the mirabilis by the side ofthe roses. And then, without stopping to draw breath, she went down yetagain. 

This time she repaired to that gloomy corner which seemed like thegraveyard of the flower-garden. A warm autumn had there brought on asecond crop of spring flowers. She raided the borders of tuberoses andhyacinths; going down upon her knees, and gathering her harvest withall a miser's care, lest she should miss a single blossom. The tuberosesseemed to her to be extremely precious flowers, which would distil dropsof gold and wealth and wondrous sweetness. The hyacinths, beaded withpearly blooms, were like necklets, whose every pearl would pour forthjoys unknown to man. And although she almost buried herself beneath themass of tuberoses and hyacinths which she plucked, she next stripped afield of poppies, and even found means to crop an expanse of marigoldsfarther on. All these she heaped over the tuberoses and hyacinths, andthen ran back to the room with the blue ceiling, taking the greatestcare as she went that the breeze should not rob her of a single pistil. And once more did she come downstairs. 

But what was she to gather now? She had stripped the parterre bare. Asshe rose upon the tips of her shoes in the dim gloom, she could only seethe garden lying there naked and dead, deprived of the tender eyes ofits roses, the crimson smile of its carnations, and the perfumed locksof its heliotropes. Nevertheless, she could not return with empty arms. So she laid hands upon the herbs and leafy plants. She crawled over theground, as though she would have carried off the very soil itself ina clutch of supreme passion. She filled her skirt with a harvest ofaromatic plants, southernwood, mint, verbenas. She came across a borderof balm, and left not a leaf of it unplucked. She even broke off two bigfennels which she threw over her shoulders like a couple of trees. Hadshe been able, she would have carried all the greenery of the gardenaway with her between her teeth. When she reached the threshold of thepavilion, she turned round and gave a last look at the Paradou. It wasquite dark now. The night had fully come and cast a black veil overeverything. Then for the last time she went up the stairs, never more tostep down them. 

The spacious room was quickly decked. She had placed a lighted lamp uponthe table. She sorted out the flowers heaped upon the floor and arrangedthem in big bunches, which she distributed about the room. First sheplaced some lilies behind the lamp on the table, forming with them alofty lacelike screen which softened the light with its snowy purity. Then she threw handfuls of carnations and stocks over the old sofa, which was already strewn with red bouquets that had faded a centuryago, till all these were hidden, and the sofa looked like a huge bed ofstocks bristling with carnations. Next she placed the four armchairs infront of the alcove. On the first one she piled marigolds, on the secondpoppies, on the third mirabilis, and on the fourth heliotrope. Thechairs were completely buried in bloom, with nothing but the tips oftheir arms visible. At last she thought of the bed. She pushed a littletable near the head of it, and reared thereon a huge pile of violets. Then she covered the whole bed with the hyacinths and tuberoses shehad plucked. They were so abundant that they formed a thick couchoverflowing all around, so that the bed now looked like one colossalbloom. 

The roses still remained. And these she scattered chancewise all overthe room, without even looking to see where they fell. Some of themdropped upon the table, the sofa, and the chairs; and a corner of thebed was inundated with them. For some minutes there was a rain of roses, a real downpour of heavy blossoms, which settled in flowery pools in thehollows of the floor. But as the heap seemed scarcely diminished, shefinished by weaving garlands of roses which she hung upon the walls. She twined wreaths around the necks and arms and waists of the plastercupids that sported over the alcove. The blue ceiling, the oval panels, edged with flesh-coloured ribbon, the voluptuous paintings, preyed uponby time, were all hung with a mantle, a drapery of roses. The big roomwas fully decked at last. Now she could die there. 

For a moment she remained standing, glancing around her. She was lookingto see if death was there. And she gathered up the aromatic greenery, the southernwood, the mint, the verbenas, the balm, and the fennel. Shebroke them and twisted them and made wedges of them with which to stopup every little chink and cranny about the windows and the door. Thenshe drew the white coarsely sewn calico curtains and, without even asigh, laid herself upon the bed, on all the florescence of hyacinths andtuberoses. 

And then a final rapture was granted her. With her eyes wide open shesmiled at the room. Ah! how she had loved there! And how happily she wasthere going to die! At that supreme moment the plaster cupids suggestednothing impure to her; the amorous paintings disturbed her no more. Shewas conscious of nothing beneath that blue ceiling save the intoxicatingperfume of the flowers. And it seemed to her as if this perfume was noneother than the old love-fragrance which had always warmed the room, nowincreased a hundredfold, till it had become so strong and penetratingthat it would surely suffocate her. Perchance it was the breath of thelady who had died there a century ago. In perfect stillness, with herhands clasped over her heart, she continued smiling, while she listenedto the whispers of the perfumes in her buzzing head. They were singingto her a soft strange melody of fragrance, which slowly and very gentlylulled her to sleep. 

At first there was a prelude, bright and childlike; her hands, that hadjust now twisted and twined the aromatic greenery, exhaled the pungencyof crushed herbage, and recalled her old girlish ramblings through thewildness of the Paradou. Then there came a flutelike song, a song ofshort musky notes, rising from the violets that lay upon the table nearthe head of the bed; and this flutelike strain, trilling melodiously tothe soft accompaniment of the lilies on the other table, sang to her ofthe first joys of love, its first confession, and first kiss beneath thetrees of the forest. But she began to stifle as passion drew nigh withthe clove-like breath of the carnations, which burst upon her in brazennotes that seemed to drown all others. She thought that death was nighwhen the poppies and the marigolds broke into a wailing strain, whichrecalled the torment of desire. But suddenly all grew quieter; she feltthat she could breathe more freely; she glided into greater serenity, lulled by a descending scale that came from the throats of the stocks, and died away amidst a delightful hymn from the heliotropes, which, withtheir vanilla-like breath, proclaimed the approach of nuptial bliss. Here and there the mirabilis gently trilled. Then came a hush. Andafterwards the roses languidly made their entry. Their voices streamedfrom the ceiling, like the strains of a distant choir. It was a chorusof great breadth, to which she at first listened with a slight quiver. Then the volume of the strain increased, and soon her whole framevibrated with the mighty sounds that burst in waves around her. Thenuptials were at hand, the trumpet blasts of the roses announcedthem. She pressed her hands more closely to her heart as she lay therepanting, gasping, dying. When she opened her lips for the kiss which wasto stifle her, the hyacinths and tuberoses shot out their perfume andenveloped her with so deep, so great a sigh that the chorus of the rosescould be heard no more. 

And then, amidst the final gasp of the flowers, Albine died. 

XV

About three o'clock the next afternoon, La Teuse and Brother Archangias, who were chatting on the parsonage-steps, saw Doctor Pascal's gigcome at full gallop through the village. The whip was being vigorouslybrandished from beneath the lowered hood. 

'Where can he be off to at that rate?' murmured the old servant. 'Hewill break his neck. '

The gig had just reached the rising ground on which the church wasbuilt. Suddenly, the horse reared and stopped, and the doctor's head, with its long white hair all dishevelled appeared from under the hood. 

'Is Serge there?' he cried, in a voice full of indignant excitement. 

La Teuse had stepped to the edge of the hill. 'Monsieur le Cure is inhis room, ' she said. 'He must be reading his breviary. Do you want tospeak to him? Shall I call him?'

Uncle Pascal, who seemed almost distracted, made an angry gesture withhis whip hand. Bending still further forward, at the risk of fallingout, he replied:

'Ah! he's reading his breviary, is he? No! no! don't call him. I shouldstrangle him, and that would do no good. I wanted to tell him thatAlbine was dead. Dead! do you hear me? Tell him, from me, that she isdead!'

And he drove off, lashing his horse so fiercely that it almost bolted. But, twenty paces away, he pulled up again, and once more stretching outhis head, cried loudly:

'Tell him, too, from me, that she was _enceinte_! It will please him toknow that. '

Then the gig rolled on wildly again, jolting dangerously as it ascendedthe stony hill that led to the Paradou. La Teuse was quite dumbfounded. But Brother Archangias sniggered and looked at her with savage delightglittering in his eyes. She noticed this at last, and thrust him awayfrom her, almost making him fall down the steps. 

'Be off with you!' she stammered, full of anger, seeking to relieve herfeelings by abusing him. 'I shall grow to hate you. Is it possible torejoice at any one's death? I wasn't fond of the girl, myself; but it isvery sad to die at her age. Be off with you, and don't go on sniggeringlike that, or I will throw my scissors in your face!'

It was only about one o'clock that a peasant, who had gone to Plassansto sell vegetables, had told Doctor Pascal of Albine's death, and hadadded that Jeanbernat wished to see him. The doctor now was feeling alittle relieved by what he had just shouted as he passed the parsonage. He had gone out of his way expressly to give himself that satisfaction. He reproached himself for the death of the girl as for a crime in whichhe had participated. All along the road he had never ceased overwhelminghimself with insults, and though he wiped the tears from his eyes thathe might see where to guide his horse, he ever angrily drove his gigover heaps of stones, as if hoping that he would overturn himself andbreak one of his limbs. However, when he reached the long lane thatskirted the endless wall of the park, a glimmer of hope broke upon him. Perhaps Albine was only in a dead faint. The peasant had told him thatshe had suffocated herself with flowers. Ah! if he could only get therein time, if he could only save her! And he lashed his horse ferociouslyas though he were lashing himself. 

It was a lovely day. The pavilion was all bathed in sunlight, just asit had been in the fair spring-time. But the leaves of the ivy whichmounted to the roof were spotted and patched with rust, and beesno longer buzzed round the tall gilliflowers. Doctor Pascal hastilytethered his horse and pushed open the gate of the little garden. Allaround still prevailed that perfect silence amidst which Jeanbernathad been wont to smoke his pipe; but, to-day, the old man was no longerseated on his bench watching his lettuces. 

'Jeanbernat!' called the doctor. 

No one answered. Then, on entering the vestibule, he saw something thathe had never seen before. At the end of the passage, below the darkstaircase, was a door opening into the Paradou, and he could see thevast garden spreading there beneath the pale sunlight, with all itsautumn melancholy, its sere and yellow foliage. The doctor hurriedthrough the doorway and took a few steps over the damp grass. 

'Ah! it is you, doctor!' said Jeanbernat in a calm voice. 

The old man was digging a hole at the foot of a mulberry-tree. He hadstraightened his tall figure on hearing the approach of footsteps. But he promptly betook himself to his task again, throwing out at eacheffort a huge mass of rich soil. 

'What are you doing there?' asked Doctor Pascal. 

Jeanbernat straightened himself again and wiped the sweat off hisface with the sleeve of his jacket. 'I am digging a hole, ' he answeredsimply. 'She always loved the garden, and it will please her to sleephere. '

The doctor nearly choked with emotion. For a moment he stood by theedge of the grave, incapable of speaking, but watching Jeanbernat as theother sturdily dug on. 

'Where is she?' he asked at last. 

'Up there, in her room. I left her on the bed. I should like you togo and listen to her heart before she is put away in here. I listenedmyself, but I couldn't hear anything at all. '

The doctor went upstairs. The room had not been disturbed. Only awindow had been opened. There the withered flowers, stifled by their ownperfumes, exhaled but the faint odour of dead beauty. Within the alcove, however, there still hung an asphyxiating warmth, which seemed totrickle into the room and gradually disperse in tiny puffs. Albine, snowy-pale, with her hands upon her heart and a smile playing over herface, lay sleeping on her couch of hyacinths and tuberoses. And shewas quite happy, since she was quite dead. Standing by the bedside, the doctor gazed at her for a long time, with a keen expression such ascomes into the eyes of scientists who attempt to work resurrections. Buthe did not even disturb her clasped hands. He kissed her brow, on thespot where her latent maternity had already set a slight shadow. Below, in the garden, Jeanbernat was still driving his spade into the ground inheavy, regular fashion. 

A quarter of an hour later, however, the old man came upstairs. He hadcompleted his work. He found the doctor seated by the bedside, buriedin such a deep reverie that he did not seem conscious of the heavy tearsthat were trickling down his cheeks. 

The two men only glanced at each other. Then, after an interval ofsilence, Jeanbernat slowly said:

'Well, was I not right? There is nothing, nothing, nothing. It is allmere nonsense. '

He remained standing and began to pick up the roses that had fallen fromthe bed, throwing them, one by one, upon Albine's skirts. 

'The flowers, ' he said, 'live only for a day, while the rough nettles, like me, wear out the very stones amidst which they spring. . . . Now it'sall over; I can kick the bucket; I am nearly distracted. My last ray ofsunlight has been snuffed out. It's all nonsense, as I said before. '

He threw himself upon one of the chairs in his turn. He did not sheda tear; he bore himself with rigid despair, like some automaton whosemechanism is broken. Mechanically he reached out his hand and took abook that lay on the little table strewn with violets. It was one of thebooks stored away in the loft, an odd volume of Holbach, * which he hadbeen reading since the morning, while watching by Albine's body. As thedoctor still remained silent, buried in distressful thought, he began toturn its pages over. But a sadden idea occurred to him. 

 * Doubtless Holbach's now forgotten _Catechism of Nature_, into which M. Zola himself may well have peeped whilst writing this story. --ED. 

'If you will help me, ' he said to the doctor, 'we will carry herdownstairs, and bury her with all her flowers. '

Uncle Pascal shuddered. Then he explained to the old man that it was notallowed for one to keep the dead in that fashion. 

'What! it isn't allowed!' cried Jeanbernat. 'Well, then, I will allowit myself! Doesn't she belong to me? Isn't she mine? Do you think I amgoing to let the priests walk off with her? Let them try, if they wantto get a shot from my gun!'

He sprang to his feet and waved his book about with a terrible gesture. But the doctor caught hold of his hands and clasped them within his own, beseeching him to be calm. And for a long time he talked to him, sayingall that he had upon his mind. He blamed himself, made fragmentaryconfessions of his fault, and vaguely hinted at those who had killedAlbine. 

'Listen, ' he said in conclusion, 'she is yours no longer; you must giveher up. '

But Jeanbernat shook his head, and again waved his hand in token ofrefusal. However, his obstinate resolution was shaken; and at last hesaid:

'Well, well, let them take her, and may she break their arms for them!I only wish that she could rise up out of the ground and kill them allwith fright. . . . By the way. I have a little business to settle overthere. I will go to-morrow. . . . Good-bye, then, doctor. The hole will dofor me. '

And, when the doctor had left, he again sat down by the dead girl'sside, and gravely resumed the perusal of his book. 

XVI

That morning there was great commotion in the yard at the parsonage. The Artaud butcher had just slaughtered Matthew, the pig, in the shed. Desiree, quite enthusiastic about it all, had held Matthew's feet, whilehe was being bled, kissing him on the back that he might feel the painof the knife less, and telling him that it was absolutely necessary thathe should be killed, now that he had got so fat. No one could cut off agoose's neck with a single stroke of the hatchet more unconcernedly thanshe could, or gash open a fowl's throat with a pair of scissors. Howevermuch she loved her charges, she looked upon their slaughter with greatequanimity. It was quite necessary, she would say. It made room for theyoung ones who were growing up. And that morning she was very gay. 

'Mademoiselle, ' grumbled La Teuse every minute, 'you will end by makingyourself ill. There is no sense in working yourself up into such astate, just because a pig has been slaughtered. You are as red as if youhad been dancing a whole night. '

But Desiree only clapped her hands and turned away and bustled aboutagain. La Teuse, for her part, complained that her legs were sinkingunder her. Since six o'clock in the morning her big carcass had beenperpetually rolling between the kitchen and the yard, for she had blackpuddings to make. It was she who had whisked the blood in two largeearthenware pans, and she had thought that she would never get finished, since mademoiselle was for ever calling her away for mere nothings. 

It must be admitted that, at the very moment when the butcher wasbleeding Matthew, Desiree had been thrilled with wild excitement, forLisa, the cow, was about to calve. And the girl's delight at this hadquite turned her head. 

'One goes and another comes!' she cried, skipping and twirling round. 'Come here, La Teuse! come here!'

It was eleven o'clock. Every now and then the sound of chanting waswafted from the church. A confused murmur of doleful voices, a mutteringof prayers could be heard amidst scraps of Latin pronounced in louderand clearer tones. 

'Come! oh, do come!' repeated Desiree for the twentieth time. 

'I must go and toll the bell, now, ' muttered the old servant. 'I shallnever get finished really. What is it that you want now, mademoiselle?'

But she did not wait for an answer. She threw herself upon a swarm offowls, who were greedily drinking the blood from the pans. And havingangrily kicked them away, and then covered up the pans, she called toDesiree:

'It would be a great deal better if, instead of tormenting me, you onlycame to look after these wretched birds. If you let them do as they likethere will be no black-pudding for you. Do you hear?'

Desiree only laughed. What of it, if the fowls did drink a few drops ofthe blood? It would fatten them. Then she again tried to drag La Teuseoff to the cow, but the old servant refused to go. 

'I must go and toll the bell. The procession will be coming out ofchurch directly. You know that quite well. '

At this moment the voices in the church rose yet more loudly, and asound of steps could be distinctly heard. 

'No! no!' insisted Desiree, dragging La Teuse towards the stable. 'Justcome and look at her, and tell me what ought to be done. '

La Teuse shrugged her shoulders. All that the cow wanted was to be leftalone and not bothered. Then she set off towards the vestry, but, as shepassed the shed, she raised a fresh cry:

'There! there!' she shrieked, shaking her fist. 'Ah! the little wretch!'

Matthew was lying at full length on his back, with his feet in the air, under the shed, waiting to be singed. * The gash which the knife had madein his neck was still quite fresh, and was beaded with drops of blood. And a little white hen was very delicately picking off these drops ofblood one by one. 

 * In some parts of France pigs, when killed, are singed, not scalded, as is, I think, the usual practice in England. --ED. 

'Why, of course, ' quietly remarked Desiree, 'she's regaling herself. 'And the girl stooped and patted the pig's plump belly, saying: 'Eh! myfat fellow, you have stolen their food too often to grudge them a weebit of your neck now!'

La Teuse hastily doffed her apron and threw it round Matthew's neck. Then she hurried away and disappeared within the church. The great doorhad just creaked on its rusty hinges, and a burst of chanting rose inthe open air amidst the quiet sunshine. Suddenly the bell began to tollwith slow and regular strokes. Desiree, who had remained kneelingbeside the pig patting his belly, raised her head to listen, while stillcontinuing to smile. When she saw that she was alone, having glancedcautiously around, she glided away into the cow's stable and closed thedoor behind her. 

The little iron gate of the graveyard, which had been opened quite wideto let the body pass, hung against the wall, half torn from its hinges. The sunshine slept upon the herbage of the empty expanse, into which thefuneral procession passed, chanting the last verse of the _Miserere_. Then silence fell. 

'_Requiem oeternam dona ei, Domine_, ' resumed Abbe Mouret, in solemntones. 

'_Et lux perpetua luceat ei_, ' Brother Archangias bellowed. 

At the head walked Vincent, wearing a surplice and bearing the cross, a large copper cross, half the silver plating of which had come off. Helifted it aloft with both his hands. Then followed Abbe Mouret, lookingvery pale in his black chasuble, but with his head erect, and withouta quiver on his lips as he chanted the office, gazing into the distancewith fixed eyes. The flame of the lighted candle which he was carryingscarcely showed in the daylight. And behind him, almost touching him, came Albine's coffin, borne by four peasants on a sort of litter, painted black. The coffin was clumsily covered with too short a pall, and at the lower end of it the fresh deal of which it was made could beseen, with the heads of the nails sparkling with a steely glitter. Uponthe pall lay flowers: handfuls of white roses, hyacinths, and tuberoses, taken from the dead girl's very bed. 

'Just be careful!' cried Brother Archangias to the peasants, as theyslightly tilted the litter in order to get it through the gateway. 'Youwill be upsetting everything on to the ground!'

He kept the coffin in its place with one of his fat hands. With theother--as there was no second clerk--he was carrying the holy-watervessel, and he likewise represented the choirman, the rural guard, whohad been unable to come. 

'Come in, too, you others, ' he exclaimed, turning round. 

There was a second funeral, that of Rosalie's baby, who had died theprevious day from an attack of convulsions. The mother, the father, oldmother Brichet, Catherine, and two big girls, La Rousse and Lisa, werethere. The two last were carrying the baby's coffin, one supporting eachend. 

Suddenly all voices were hushed again, and there came another intervalwhilst the bell continued tolling in slow and desolate accents. Thefuneral procession crossed the entire burial-ground, going towardsthe corner which was formed by the church and the wall of Desiree'spoultry-yard. Swarms of grasshoppers leaped away at the approachingfootsteps, and lizards hurried into their holes. A heavy warmth hungover this corner of the loamy cemetery. The crackling of the dry grassbeneath the tramp of the mourners sounded like choking sobs. 

'There! stop where you are!' cried the Brother, barring the way beforethe two big girls who were carrying the baby's coffin. 'Wait for yourturn. Don't be getting in our legs here. '

The two girls laid the baby on the ground. Rosalie, Fortune, and oldmother Brichet were lingering in the middle of the graveyard, whileCatherine slyly followed Brother Archangias. Albine's grave was onthe left hand of Abbe Caffin's tomb, whose white stone seemed in thesunshine to be flecked with silvery spangles. The deep cavity, freshlydug that morning, yawned amidst thick tufts of grass. Big weeds, almostuprooted, drooped over the edges, and a fallen flower lay at the bottom, staining the dark soil with its crimson petals. When Abbe Mouret cameforward, the soft earth crumbled and gave way beneath his feet; he wasobliged to step back to keep himself from slipping into the grave. 

'_Ego sum_--' he began in a full voice, which rose above the mournfultolling of the bell. 

During the anthem, those who were present instinctively cast furtiveglances towards the bottom of the empty grave. Vincent, who had plantedthe cross at the foot of the cavity opposite the priest, pushed theloose earth with his foot, and amused himself by watching it fall. Thisdrew a laugh from Catherine, who was leaning forward from behind him toget a better view. The peasants had set the litter on the grass and werestretching their arms, while Brother Archangias prepared the sprinkler. 

'Come here, Voriau!' called Fortune. 

The big black dog, who had gone to sniff at the coffin, came backsulkily. 

'Why has the dog been brought?' exclaimed Rosalie. 

'Oh! he followed us, ' said Lisa, smiling quietly. 

They were all chatting together in subdued tones round the baby'scoffin. The father and mother occasionally forgot all about it, buton catching sight of it again, lying between them at their feet, theyrelapsed into silence. 

'And so old Bambousse wouldn't come?' said La Rousse. Mother Brichetraised her eyes to heaven. 

'He threatened to break everything to pieces yesterday when the littleone died, ' said she. 'No, no, I must say that he is not a good man. Didn't he nearly strangle me, crying out that he had been robbed, andthat he would have given one of his cornfields for the little one tohave died three days before the wedding?'

'One can never tell what will happen, ' remarked Fortune with a knowinglook. 

'What's the good of the old man putting himself out about it? We aremarried, all the same, now, ' added Rosalie. 

Then they exchanged a smile across the little coffin while Lisa andLa Rousse nudged each other with their elbows. But afterwards they allbecame very serious again. Fortune picked up a clod of earth to throw atVoriau, who was now prowling about amongst the old tombstones. 

'Ah! they've nearly finished over there, now!' La Rousse whispered verysoftly. 

Abbe Mouret was just concluding the _De profundis_ in front of Albine'sgrave. Then, with slow steps, he approached the coffin, drew himself uperect, and gazed at it for a moment without a quiver in his glance. Helooked taller, his face shone with a serenity that seemed to transfigurehim. He stooped and picked up a handful of earth, and scattered it overthe coffin crosswise. Then, in a voice so steady and clear that not asyllable was lost, he said:

'_Revertitur in terrain suam unde erat, et spiritus redit ad Deum quidedit illum_. '

A shudder ran through those who were present. Lisa seemed to reflect fora moment, and then remarked with an expression of worry: 'It is not verycheerful, eh, when one thinks that one's own turn will come some day orother. '

But Brother Archangias had now handed the sprinkler to the priest, whotook it and shook it several times over the corpse. 

'_Requiescat in pace_, ' he murmured. 

'_Amen_, ' responded Vincent and the Brother together, in tones sorespectively shrill and deep that Catherine had to cram her fist intoher mouth to keep from laughing. 

'No, indeed, it is certainly not cheerful, ' continued Lisa. 'Therereally was nobody at all at that funeral. The graveyard would be quiteempty without us. '

'I've heard say that she killed herself, ' said old mother Brichet. 

'Yes, I know, ' interrupted La Rousse. 'The Brother didn't want tolet her be buried amongst Christians, but Monsieur le Cure saidthat eternity was for everybody. I was there. But all the same thePhilosopher might have come. '

At that very moment Rosalie reduced them all to silence by murmuring:'See! there he is, the Philosopher. '

Jeanbernat was, indeed, just entering the graveyard. He walked straightto the group that stood around Albine's grave; and he stepped along withso lithe, so springy a gait, that none of them heard him coming. Whenhe was close to them, he remained for a moment behind Brother Archangiasand seemed to fix his eyes, for an instant, on the nape of the Brother'sneck. Then, just as the Abbe Mouret was finishing the office, he calmlydrew a knife from his pocket, opened it, and with a single cut slicedoff the Brother's right ear. 

There had been no time for any one to interfere. The Brother gave aterrible yell. 

'The left one will be for another occasion, ' said Jeanbernat quietly, ashe threw the ear upon the ground. Then he went off. 

So great and so general was the stupefaction that nobody followed him. Brother Archangias had dropped upon the heap of fresh soil which hadbeen thrown out of the grave. He was staunching his bleeding wound withhis handkerchief. One of the four peasants who had carried the coffin, wanted to lead him away, conduct him home; but he refused with a gestureand remained where he was, fierce and sullen, wishing to see Albinelowered into the pit. 

'There! it's our turn at last!' said Rosalie with a little sigh. 

But Abbe Mouret still lingered by the grave, watching the bearers whowere slipping cords under Albine's coffin in order that they might letit down gently. The bell was still tolling; but La Teuse must have beengetting tired, for it tolled irregularly, as though it were becoming alittle irritated at the length of the ceremony. 

The sun was growing hotter and the Solitaire's shadow crept slowly overthe grass and the grave mounds. When Abbe Mouret was obliged to stepback in order to give the bearers room, his eyes lighted upon the marbletombstone of Abbe Coffin, that priest who also had loved, and who wasnow sleeping there so peacefully beneath the wild-flowers. 

Then, all at once, even as the coffin descended, supported by the cords, whose knots made it strain and creak, a tremendous uproar arose in thepoultry-yard on the other side of the wall. The goat began to bleat. Theducks, the geese, and the turkeys raised their loudest calls and flappedtheir wings. The fowls all cackled at once. The yellow cock, Alexander, crowed forth his trumpet notes. The rabbits could even be heard leapingin their hutches and shaking their wooden floors. And, above all thislifeful uproar of the animal creation, a loud laugh rang out. There wasa rustling of skirts. Desiree, with her hair streaming, her arms bareto the elbows, and her face crimson with triumph, burst into sight, herhands resting upon the coping of the wall. She had doubtless climbedupon the manure-heap. 

'Serge! Serge!' she cried. 

At that moment Albine's coffin had reached the bottom of the grave. The cords had just been withdrawn. One of the peasants was throwing thefirst shovelful of earth into the cavity. 

'Serge! Serge!' Desiree cried, still more loudly, clapping her hands, 'the cow has got a calf!'

 THE END