XXXII The Death’s-Head
“God is my witness that I did then everything in the world to divert myself and to heal myself.”
A. DE MUSSET (Confession d’un enfant du Siècle).
One night he went out by stealth, crossed the market-place, and descended the hill. He had the look of a man who was hiding himself, and he went back several times, as if he was afraid of being followed. He reached the cemetery, took a key from his pocket, cautiously opened the gate and closed it behind him. At the bottom of the principal path there was a little chapel which served for an ossuary. In it was a hideous accumulation of the remains of several generations. The cemetery was becoming too full and it had been necessary to make room. Here as elsewhere the cry was: “Room for the young.” And it is only justice. What would become of as if all the old remained? There is overcrowding under ground as there is above. “Keep off! Keep off!” Therefore their ancestors’ bones were in the way, and they had cast them into this retreat to wait for the common grave. But the common grave is again a place which must be taken, and the recent gluttonous dead want everything. “Keep off! Keep off!” Let us not say anything ourselves, perhaps they will dispute with us the corner of ground which should shelter our bones!
Marcel went into the gloomy chapel; he lighted a dark lantern and began to search among the pile.
Then he returned to the parsonage like a thief, afraid of being caught, and shut himself up in his room.
He had a parcel under his arm; he opened it and, carefully placing its contents on the table, he sat down in front of it and contemplated it for a long time.
XXXIII
Frenzy
“Abstinence has its deadly exhaustions.”
BALZAC (Le Lys dans la Vallée).
A few days before, the gravedigger, while digging up the whitened bones of the ancient dead, had broken up with his pick-axe a mouldering coffin, and a head rolled to his feet It was of later date, for the lower jaw was still fastened to it and it had not the calcareous colour of bones buried long ago. It was the more horrible.
The gravedigger threw it into his wheel-barrow with its neighbour’s shin-bones, and carried it to the common heap. It was this thing that the Curé of Althausen had coveted and stolen.
He had then placed it on his table and contemplated it in silence. The top of the skull was polished and blunt, the front narrow, the bones small and apparently not having attained their full development. It was therefore a youthful head, the head of an adolescent cut down at the moment, when life completely unfolds itself to hope; while the elliptical shape of the lower maxillary, the small and similarly-shaped teeth, the slight separation of the nasal bones, a few long hairs still adhering to the occiput, clearly indicated its feminine origin.
“A young girl!” murmured Marcel, “a young girl! beautiful perhaps; loved without doubt … and there is what remains. Ah! if he who was pleased to kiss your lips, could see your dreadful laugh.”
And, after he had meditated a long while, he went to his bed, took the plaster virgin from its pedestal, and taking in his two hands the skull, he put it in its place between the serge curtains.
And when the fever seized him, when he was burning with all the flames which the fiery simoom of passion breathed on him, and he felt the frenzy taking possession of his pillow, he turned towards the wall and looked at this new companion. Sometimes a moon-beam came and lighted up the hideous skull and played in the gloomy cavities of its sightless eyes. The head then seemed to become animate and its bare teeth gave an infernal grin.
This was his remedy for love.
But we grow used to everything. Custom destroys sensations. Death and its mysteries, the horrible, and all its threatening shapes soon present nothing to our eyes but worn-out pictures. He accustomed himself to contemplate without emotion this lugubrious ruin. As before, the frenzy seized him and shook him before the skull. It did more. It clothed it again with flesh. It planted long hairs upon that shining, yellow forehead. It placed in the hollow orbits large eyes full of love; it hid the wasted cartillages under quivering nostrils, and upon that horrible jaw it laid rosy lips and a sweet mouth, like a maiden’s first kiss. And it is thus that it appeared to him in the shadow, wrapped in the curtains of his bed, like a modest girl who hides herself from sight.
“Oh! sweet phantom, return to life,” he said. “Take again thy body adorned with its graces and with its charms; come, clothed in thy sixteen years.”
And he stretched his arms towards the enchanting vision, while the death’s-head, with its bare jaw, gave its eternal grin.
He woke and found himself kneeling near his bed, facing the wreck of humanity.
Horror soiled him. His empty room was filled with spectres. He saw hell-hags with death’s-heads sporting and swarming on his bed. At the same time, little sharp, hasty, shrill knocks shook his window.
Fall of terror he ran to open it. A gust of wind, mingled with rain and hail, heat against his face. He was ashamed of his fears and leant his head out to catch the beneficent shower. His brain cooled and his blood grew calm.
He was there for a few minutes, when all at once, under the trees in the market-place, he thought he distinguished two motionless shadows. He thought for an instant that his hallucination lasted still, but soon the shadows drew near. They seemed to walk carefully under the young foliage of the limes in order to avoid the rain, and in one of them he recognized distinctly Suzanne.
XXXIV
The Prohibition
“Do you know any means of making a woman do that which she has decided that she will not do?”
ERNEST FEYDEAU (La Comtesse de Chalis).
That same day, after supper, the Captain had entered the drawing-room where Suzanne was playing the Requiem of Mozart.
—So you are playing Church airs now? he said to her.
—Don’t you like this piece, father?
—Not at all.
—Perhaps, said Suzanne smiling, because it is a Mass.
—My dear child, do you want me to tell you what you are with all your Masses?
—What?
—Where did you go this morning?
—At what time?
—At the time when you went out.
—I only went out to go to Mass.
—And the day before yesterday?
—Why this questioning, dearest papa?
—Ah! dearest papa, dearest papa. There is no dearest papa here, I want to know the truth.
—But what truth? I have nothing wrong to hide from you. I went to Mass. Is that forbidden?
—To Mass! Good Heavens! To Mass! That is most decidedly making up your mind to disobey me!
—But papa, you have not forbidden it to me.
—Not in so many words, it is true; because I counted on your reason and good sense. Have I not spoken loudly enough my way of thinking on this subject?
—But, papa, your way of thinking is completely contrary to that which I have been taught. You ought to have said when you sent me to Saint-Denis: “You are not to teach my daughter any religion.” They have taught me religion, what is more natural than for me to follow it.
—And what has your religion in common with your Mass? If you want to pray to God, can you not pray to him at home?
—Am I not a Catholic before all?
It was the first time that Suzanne had spoken to her father in this firm and decided tone. Nothing more was wanted to irritate the irascible soldier:
—Ah! I know the hidden and villainous insinuation! he cried, Catholic before all! It is that indeed. Before being daughter! before being wife! before being mother! the Church, the priest first; the rest only comes after. The Mass, the Church! the Church, the Mass! With that they cover every vileness. Well, do you want me to tell you what I think of women who frequent churches? They are either lazy, or hypocrites, or idiots, or finally hussies in love with the Curé. There are no others. In which category do you want to be placed, my daughter?
—And all that because I discharge my religious duties!
—You have spoken to that Curé? I see it. Where have you spoken to him?
—I have nothing to hide from you, father; but Monsieur Marcel had not given me any bad advice, I ask you to believe.
—So it is true then; you have spoken to this man: unknown to me, in secret.
—I had no secret to make of it. I went to confession, that is all, as I was accustomed to do at school.
—Confession! what, good Heavens! You went and knelt before that rascal, after what I have told you concerning all his like!
—All priests are not alike.
—Ah! you are under his influence already. Doubtless, he is the pearl, the model, the saint. Thunder of Heaven! my daughter too, but you do not know that your mother died of remorse of soul because she found a saint, a model of virtue in that black crew of scoundrels. Stay, be silent, you make me say too much.
—I don’t understand you.
—I will be obeyed and not questioned. Have I the right to expect that from my daughter?
—You have every right, father.
—Well, I forbid you for the future to put your foot inside the church.
—In truth, father, would not one say that you were talking of some ill-reputed place?
—Worse than that. Those who enter a place of ill-repute, know beforehand where they go and to what they expose themselves, which the little fools who frequent churches never know.
Suzanne made no reply and went down into the garden.
The old governess who bad brought her up and who loved her tenderly, came to meet her.
—Your father is after the Curés again. What can these poor people of God have done to the man?
They walked a long time round the kitchen-garden, then they sat down under an arbour of honeysuckle.
—What time is it, Marianne? the young girl said all at once, fixing her eyes on the window of her father’s room.
—It is late, my child, it is ten o’clock at least; everybody in the village has gone to bed. Come, your father has finished his newspaper, there is no longer any light in his room; he has just blown out his lamp. Let us go in.
They were near the little back-gate which led out to the meadows. Suzanne opened it cautiously: “No, let us go out,” she said.
XXXV
The Shelter
“Is it a chance? No. And besides; chance, what is it after all but the effect of a cause which escapes us?”
ERCHMAN-CHATRIAN (Contes fantastiques).
As soon as Marcel had recognized Suzanne, he did not take time to reflect, and say to himself:
“What is it you are going to do, idiot?” He ran downstairs, stumbling like a drunken man, and gently opened the door. What did he intend? He did not know. Was he going to call these women? He did not know. He opened his door, that was all, and his thought went no further.
The same morning at church, he had seen Suzanne, and said to himself, “I will not look at her.” He did not look at her. He kept his eyes lowered when he turned towards the nave, but he could have said how many times Suzanne lifted hers, if she were joyous or sad, and if she had a red ribbon or a blue ribbon at her neck.
Oh! the eternal contradiction of mankind. He had not wanted to look at her by day, and here he is throwing himself in her path in the middle of the night.
The steps approached and his heart beat with violence; he was so agitated that, at the moment when the two women passed before his door to reach the lane which led to the bottom of the hill, he could hardly articulate in a hesitating voice:
“Mademoiselle Durand.”
They uttered a cry.
—It is I, he said coming forward. Is it possible? You here at such an hour and in the rain?
—I had gone out with my maid, said Suzanne, and the rain has surprised us.
—Do not go farther. Shelter yourselves under my door. It is an April shower; it will soon have passed.
At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne’s hand. Never had he felt such boldness.
—I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof.
Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind.
The Curé shut the door again and, passing near the two women, drawn up against the wall, he brushed against the young girl’s damp dress with his hand.
—But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be wise to remain in this cold passage. Should I dare to ask you to go upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire?
His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne’s. He seized it therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: “Go up, I pray, go up,” he said.
She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a cheerful flame lighted up the hearth.
XXXVI
The Hot Wine
“I looked at her; she tried to show nothing of what she felt in her heart. She held herself straight, like an oarsman who feels that the current is carrying him away, and her nostrils quivered.”
CAMILLE LEMONNIER (Contes flamands et wallons).
Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on the ground, was drawing up the fire.
—Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close, Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don’t you find it so?
He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this blazing fire.
Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one of the fire-dogs. The priest’s eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line, the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of her dress.
—I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at such an hour.
—Ought not the priest’s house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour? It is open to the poor man who passes by; it is open sometimes to the vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter against the storm?
—It is true, it is the house of God, said Marianne. The young girl looked at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran through her frame.
Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety.
—Are you in pain? he said.
She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed her and answered with a kind of hesitation:
—No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of me?
—But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here because Monsieur le Curé has had the goodness to bring us in. Don’t you hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we are at Monsieur le Curé’s.
—Reassure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the good Marianne has just said, in the house of God, and I will say in my turn, beneath the eye of God. These are very great words about so small a matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a cold already.
He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant.
Marianne opposed this with all her power.
—Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady, she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica! what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right.
—Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is necessary.
They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb Veronica’s slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes.
—Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne alone.
He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly remounted the stair-case.
XXXVI
Tête-à-Tête
“’Tis yours to use aright the hour
Which destiny may leave you,
To drain the cup of oldest wine,
And pluck the morning’s roses.”
A. BUSQUET (La poésie des heures).
He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to commit a crime.
He passed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What! Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing through her fingers.
He sprang towards her.
—Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them.
—You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes.
—I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things; he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend.
He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent; he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which raged in his own heart.
At length he broke the silence.
—Mademoiselle, dear young lady, he said with his most insinuating voice, do you lack confidence then in me? Ah! I see but too well, your father’s prejudices have left their marks.
—Do not believe it, she cried eagerly, do not believe it.
—Thank you, dear young lady. I should so much wish to have your confidence. And in whom could you better repose it? What others could receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings? Ah, that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the afflicted. Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness. Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our arms to you, to me, who now say to you: “Open your heart to me, confide to me your troubles. However sick your soul may be, mine will understand it.”
The priest’s voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne’s heart. She cast on him a look full of compassion: You are unhappy, she asked.
—Do not say that, do not say that! Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but now I am so no longer. Are you not there? Has not your presence caused all the dark clouds to fly away? No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my hearth!
—Happiness! I bring happiness to you! But who am I? a little girl just out of school, who knows nothing of life.
—And that is what makes you more charming. You are a rose which the breath of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched. Life! dear child, do not seek to know it too soon. It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best are those who have suffered most deception and weeping.
—But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows….
—Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know all that passes at the bottom of a man’s heart.
Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the difference … yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me … speak … speak.
—Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don’t believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met you.
Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl’s hand, but he quickly dropped it, fearing she might observe his agitation.
—Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties. That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my life.
She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence. Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him, but he only thought of one thing. She had said: “Your looks avoided mine.”
When she had finished speaking, he was surprised to hear her no longer and listened afresh.
—I have spoken with open heart to my confessor, said Suzanne timidly, astonished at this silence.
—To the confessor! no, no, dear child; to the friend, to the friend, is it not? Do you want him? Will you trust yourself to me? Will you let yourself be guided by me? I will bring you by a way from which I will remove all the thorns.
—But my father?
This was like the blow from a club to Marcel.
—Your father! Ah, yes! your father! Well, but what are we going to do?
—I have just asked you.
—It is written in the Gospel: “No one can serve two masters at the same time.” You have a master who is God. Your father places himself between God and your duty. You must choose.
Suzanne did not reply.
—Consult your conscience, my child. What says your conscience?
—My conscience says nothing to me.
Marcel thought perhaps he had gone a little too far, he added:
—You must decide nevertheless. It is also written, “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”
—How am I to unite the respect and submission which I owe to my father with my duties as a Christian? That, repeated Suzanne, is what I wanted to ask you.
—And we will solve the problem, dear child. Yes, we will come forth from this evil pass, to our advantage and to our glory. Nothing happens but by the will of God, and it is He, doubt it not, who has guided you into my path in order that I may take care of your young and beautiful soul. The ancients were in the habit of marking their happy days; I count already two days in my life which I shall never obliterate from my memory, two days marked in the golden book of my remembrances. The one is that on which I saw you for the first time. You were in the gallery of our church. The light was streaming behind you through the painted windows and surrounded you with a halo. I said to myself: “Is it not one of the virgins detached from the window?” The other is to-day.—Do you believe in presentiments, Mademoiselle?
—Sometimes.
—Well! I had a presentiment as it were of this visit. Yes, shall I dare to tell you so? The whole day I have been wild with joy! I had an intuition of an approaching happiness, a very rare event with me, Mademoiselle.
—Of what happiness?
—Why of this, of this which I enjoy at this moment; this of seeing you sitting at my hearth, in front of me, near to me, this of hearing your sweet voice, and reading your pure eyes. But what am I saying? Pardon me, Mademoiselle. See how happiness make us egotistic! I talk to you about myself, while it is about you that we ought to occupy ourselves, of you, and of your future.
And he looked at her with such glowing eyes, that she was a little frightened.
XXXVIII
The Kiss
“That strange kiss makes me shudder still.”
A. DE MUSSET (Premières poesies).
—Are you not cold? said Marcel; and he stooped down to draw up the fire.
But on sitting down again it happened that his seat was quite close to that of Suzanne, so close that their knees were touching, and that he had only to make a slight movement to take one of her hands.
—Dear, dear child.
And he began to talk to her of God in his unctuous voice. He talked to her also of her duties as a Christian, and of the probable struggles she would have to undergo. He talked to her again of the purity of her heart and compared her to the angels.
And while he talked, he began to fondle this little soft white hand, lifting delicately the slender fingers with their rosy nails, drawing over the soft and satiny tips his brown and muscular fingers.
Soon his warm hand became burning. Magnetic influences were evolved. Invisible sparks broke forth suddenly at the contact of these two epidermises, ran through his veins, inflamed his heart and set his brain a-blaze.
He lost his presence of mind, his will wavered and sank in the molten lava of his desires; he lost perception of his surroundings, of all those formidable things which until then had bound him with the strong bands of moral authority; he thought no longer of anything, he paused no longer at anything, he saw nothing but this fair young girl whom he coveted, who was alone with him, her hand in his, sitting by his fire-side, in the silence and the mystery of the night. His clasp became convulsive. Under the fire of his burning gaze Suzanne raised her head, and a second time fell back in dismay. She tried to release her imprisoned hand, but he bent over it, and pressed it to his lips.
The door opened wide.
—Don’t get impatient, said Marianne, there is the hot wine. I have been a long time, but the wood was green. Are you better?
But Suzanne, trembling all over, remained silent.
XXXIX
The Devil in Petticoats
“I know an infallible means of drawing you back from the precipice on which you stand.”
CHARLES (Des Illustres Françaises).
—Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer master of myself.
Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!… It must have happened. Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God. They tried at the seminary by means of nenuphar and infusions of nitre to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling into an abyss of iniquity.
Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me? How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written there?… She, she, what will she think of me?… To kiss her hand, her soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going? I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me.
So spoke the Curé, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent rapture.
—Yes, it is shame, it is shame.
—Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice.
Marcel turned round, terror-struck.
His servant was behind him.
She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange, green eyes.
—Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that pretty young lady will hold her tongue.
She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the priest’s heart like a steel blade.
Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a passion.
—You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then? What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening then at the doors?
—That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously.
—What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it?
—There are many others who ought to blush and yet don’t blush.
—What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want?
—Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn.
—What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say?
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so.
—You are, at the very least, most indiscreet.
—Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a witness of what passed.
—Eh! what has passed then?
—Sir, don’t question me, she said in a pitying tone, I have heard and seen.
—You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen then, wretched woman?
And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door.
—Please, Monsieur le Curé, she implored, don’t hurt me.
These words recalled the priest to himself.
—No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me.
—I will do so. Ah! you frighten me….
—It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion?
—It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very peaceably, like the other, it is so nice.
—Please, enough of that subject.
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is just about that I want to speak to you.
—Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any more.
—A momentary error, which would have led you to some pretty things, Monsieur le Curé. Good God! if Marianne had not arrived in time, who knows what might have happened.
—It is not for you to blame me, Veronica. There is only God who is without sin.
—I know that well. Therefore, I have not said that to you in order to blame you. Quite the contrary, I was astonished that with a temperament … as strong as yours, you have remained free from fault till to-day.
—And, please God, I will always remain so.
—Oh! God does not ask for impossibilities, as my old master, Monsieur le Curé Fortin, used to say: he was a good-natured man. He often repeated to me: “You see, Veronica, provided appearances are saved, everything is saved. God is content, he asks for no more.”
—What, the Abbé Fortin said that?
—Yes, and many other things too. He was so honest, so delicate a man—not more than you, however, Monsieur le Curé—but he understood his case better than any other. He said again: “Beware of bad example, keep yourself from scandal. Dirty linen should be washed at home.” Good rules, are they not, Monsieur Marcel?
—Certainly.
—He knew so well how to compassionate human infirmities. Ah! when nature speaks, she speaks very loudly.
—Do you know anything about it, Veronica?
—Who does not know it? I can certainly acknowledge that to you, since you are my Curé and my confessor.
—That is true, Veronica.
—And to whom should a poor servant acknowledge her secret thoughts, if not to her Curé and her confessor? He is her only friend in this world, is he not?
The Curé did not reply. He considered the strange shape the conversation was taking, and cast a look of defiance at the woman.
—You do not answer, sir, she said. You do not look upon me as your friend, that is wrong. Is it because I have surprised your secrets?
—I have no secrets.
—Yes?…. Suzanne?
—Enough on that subject. Do not revive my shame, since you call yourself my friend.
—Oh! sir, it is precisely for that, it is because I do not want you to distress yourself about so little. Listen to me, sir, I am older than you, and although I am not so learned, I have the experience which, as they say, is not picked up in books: well, this experience has taught me many things which perhaps you do not suspect.
—Explain yourself.
—I would have explained already, if you had wished it. The other evening you were quite sad, sitting by that fireless grate; you were thinking of I don’t know what, but certainly it was not of anything very lively, so much so that it went to my heart. I suspected what was vexing you; I wanted to speak to you, but you repulsed me almost brutally. Nevertheless, if you had listened to me that day, what has just happened might not have occurred.
—I don’t understand you.
—I will make myself understood … if you allow me.
XL
Little Confessions
“To relate one’s misfortunes often alleviates them.”
CORNEILLE (Polyeucte).
The Curé laid his forehead between his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees, a common attitude among confessors.
—I am listening to you, he said.
—I said to you, Monsieur le Curé, do not despair. You will excuse a poor servant’s boldness, but it is the friendship I have for you which has urged me; nothing else, believe me; I am an honest girl, entirely devoted to my masters. You are the fourth, Monsieur le Curé, yes, the fourth master. Well! the three others have never had to complain about me a single moment for indiscretion, or for idleness, or for want of attention, or for anything, in fact, for anything. Never a harsh word. “You have done well, Veronica; that’s quite right, Veronica; do as you think proper, Veronica; your advice is excellent, Veronica.” Those are all the rough words which have been said to me, Monsieur Marcel. Therefore, I repeat, really it went to my heart to hear you speaking harshly sometimes to me, and to see that you did not appear satisfied with me. I had not been accustomed to that.
And the servant, picking up the corner of her apron, burst into tears.
—Why! Veronica, are you mad? Why do you cry so? Who has made you suppose that I was not satisfied with you? I may have spoken harshly to you, it is possible; but it was in a moment of excitement or of impatience, which I regret. You well know that I am not ill-natured.
—Oh, no, sir, that is just what grieves me. You are so kind to everybody. You are only severe to me.
—You are wrong again, Veronica. I may have felt hurt at your indiscretion, but that is all. Put yourself in my place, and you will allow that it is humiliating for a priest….
—Do not speak of that again, Monsieur le Curé. You are very wrong to disturb yourself about it, and if you had had confidence in me before, I should have told you that all have acted like you, all have gone through that, all, all.
—What do you mean?
—I mean that young and old have fallen into the same fault…. If we can call it a fault, as Monsieur Fortin used to say. And the old still more than the young. After that, perhaps you will say to me that it is the place which is wicked.
—Be silent, Veronica. What you say is very wrong, for if I perfectly understand you, you are bringing an infamous accusation against my predecessors. Perhaps you think to palliate my fault thus in my own eyes. I thank you for the intention, but it is an improper course, and the reproach which you try to cast upon the worthy priests who have succeeded one another in this parish, takes away none of my remorse.
—Monsieur Fortin had not so many scruples. He was, however, a most respectable man, and one who never dared to look a young girl in her face, he was so bashful. “Well,” he often used to say, “God has well done all that he has done, and He is too wise to be angry when we make use of His benefits!”
—That is rather an elastic morality.
—It was Monsieur Fortin who taught me that. After all, that is perhaps morality in word, you are … morality in deed.
—Veronica, you are strangely misusing the rights which I have allowed you to take.
—Do not put yourself in a rage, Monsieur le Curé, if I talk to you so. I wanted to persuade you thoroughly that you can rely upon me in everything, that I can keep a secret, though you sometimes call me a tattler, and that I am not, after all, such a worthless girl as you believe. We like, when the moment has come to get ourselves appreciated, to profit by it to our utmost.
—Veronica, said Marcel, I hardly know what you want to arrive at; but I wish to speak frankly to you, since you have behaved frankly towards me. I recognize all the wisdom of your proceeding, although you will agree it has something offensive and humiliating for me, but after all, it is preferable that you should come and tell me this to my face, than that you should go and chatter in the village and tattle without my knowledge.
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, Veronica is not capable of that.
—Therefore, since you have discovered … discovered a secret which would ruin me, what do you calculate on making from this secret, and what do you demand?
—I, Monsieur le Curé, cried the servant, I demand nothing … oh! nothing.
—You are hesitating. Yes, you want something. Come, it is you now who hang your head and blush, while it is I who am the culprit…. Come, place yourself there, close to me.
—Oh! Monsieur le Curé, I shall never presume.
—Presume then to-day. Have you not told me that you were my friend?… Yes. Well then, place yourself there. Tell me, Veronica, what is your age?
—Mine, Monsieur le Curé. What a question! I am not too old; come, not so old as you think. I am forty.
—Forty! why you are still of an age to get married.
—I quite think so.
—And you have never intended to do so?
—To get married? Oh, upon my word, if I had wanted to do so, I should not have waited until now.
—I believe you, Veronica. You could have done very well before now. But you may have changed your ideas. Our characters, our tastes change with time, and a thing displeases us to-day, which will please us to-morrow. There are often, it is true, certain considerations which stop us and make us reflect. Perhaps you have not a round enough sum. With a little money, at your age, you could still make an excellent match.
—And even without money, Monsieur le Curé. If I were willing, somebody has been pestering me for a long time for that.
—And you are not willing. The person doubtless does not suit you?
—Oh, I have my choice.
—Well and good. We cannot use too much reflection upon a matter of this importance. I am not rich, Veronica, but I should like to help you and to increase, if it be possible, your little savings, your dowry in fact.
—You are very good, sir, but I do not wish to get married.
—Why so?
—It depends on tastes, you know…. You are in a great hurry then to get rid of me, Monsieur le Curé.
—Not at all: do not believe it.
—Come, come, Monsieur le Curé. I see your intentions. You say to yourself: “she holds a secret which may prove troublesome to me; with a little money I will put a padlock on her tongue, I will get her married, and by this means she will trouble me no more.” Is it a bad guess?
—You have not guessed it the least in world, Veronica.
—Oh, it is! But it is a bad calculation, and for two reasons. In the first place, if I marry, your secret is more in danger than if I remain single. You know that a woman ought not to hide anything from her husband.
—There are certain things….
—No, nothing at all: no secret, or mystery. The husband ought to see all, to know all, to be acquainted with all that concerns his wife. Ah! I know how to live, though I am an old maid.
—You are a pearl, Veronica.
—You want to make fun of me; but others have said that to me before you, and they were talking seriously. On the other hand, she continued, if you keep me, you need not fear my slandering you, since I am in your hands and the day you hear any rumour, you can turn me away.
—Your argument is just, and believe me that my words had but a single object, not that of separating myself from you, but of being useful to you. Since you are desirous of remaining with me, at which I am happy, let us therefore try to live on good terms, and do you for your part forget my weaknesses; I for mine will forget your inquisitiveness; and let us talk no more about them.
—Oh yes, we will talk again.
—I consent to it. Let us therefore make peace, and give me your hand.
—Here it is, Monsieur le Curé.
—Ah, Veronica. Errare humanum est.
—Yes, I know, Monsieur Fortin often repeated it. That means to say that the devil is sly, and the flesh is weak.
—It is something like that. So then I trust to your honesty.
—You can do so without fear.
—To your discretion.
—You can do so with all confidence.
—To your friendship for me. Have you really a little, Veronica?
—I have, sir, said the servant, affected. You ask me that: what must I then do to convince you?
—Be discreet, that is all.
—Oh! you might require more than that. But could I also, in my turn, ask something of you?
—Ask on.
—It will be perhaps very hard for you.
—Speak freely. What do you want? Are you not mistress here? Is not everything at your disposal?
—Oh, no.
—No! You surprise me. Have I hurt you without knowing it? I do not remember it, I assure you. Tell me then, that I may atone for my fault.
—I hardly know how to tell you.
—Is it then very serious?
—Not precisely, but….
—You are putting me on thorns. What is it then?
—Oh, nothing.
—What nothing? Do you wish to vex me, Veronica.
—I don’t intend it; it is far from that.
—Speak then.
—Well no, I will say no more. You will guess it perhaps. But meanwhile….
—Meanwhile….
—It is quite understood between us that you will never see that little hussy again.
—What hussy?
—That little hussy, who was here just now.
—Oh, Veronica! Veronica!
—It is for your interests, Monsieur le Curé, in short … the proprieties.
—My dignity is as dear to me as it is to you, my daughter, be answered sharply.
—Good-night, Monsieur le Curé; take counsel with your pillow.
XLI
Moral Reflections
“Ah, poor grandmamma, what grand-dam’s tales
You used to sing to me in praise of virtue;
Everywhere have I asked: ‘What is this stranger?’
They laughed at me and said, ‘Whence hast thou come?’”
G. MELOTTE (Les Temps nouveaux).
The Curé of Althausen had no need of reflection to understand the kind of shameful bargain which his servant had allowed him to catch a glimpse of.
The lustful look of the woman had spoken too clearly, and when he had taken her hand, he had felt it burn and tremble in his.
Then certain circumstances, certain facts to which he had not attended at first, came back to his memory.
Two or three times, Veronica, on frivolous pretexts had entered his bedroom at night; and each time, he remembered well, she was in somewhat indecent undress, which contrasted strangely with her ordinarily severe appearance.
He recalled to himself all the stories of Curés’ servants who shared their masters’ bed. Stories told in a whisper at certain general repasts, when the priests of the district met together at the senior’s house to observe the feast of some saint or other—the great Saint Priapus perhaps—and where lively talk and sprightly stories ran merrily round the table.
And what he had taken for jokes in bad taste, and refused to believe till now, he began to understand.
For he could no longer doubt that he had set his servant’s passions aflame, and he must either expose himself to her venomous tongue and incur the shame and scandal, or else appease the erotic rage of this kitchen Messalina.
He tried to drive away this horrible thought, to believe that he had been mistaken, to persuade himself that he was the dope of erroneous appearances; he wished to convince himself that he had been the victim of errors engendered by his own depravity, that he judged according to his secret sentiments; his efforts were vain; the woman’s feverish eyes, her restless solicitude, her jealous rage, her incessant watching, the evidence in short was there which contradicted all his hopes to the contrary.
And then, the latest confessions regarding his predecessors: “All have acted like you, all,” possessed his mind. Like him! What had they done? They also had attempted then to seduce young girls, and perhaps had consummated their infernal design. What? respectable priests, ministers of the Gospel, pastors of God’s flock! Was it possible? But was not he a respectable priest and respected by all, a minister of God, a leader of the holy flock, a pastor of men, and yet….
How then? where is virtue?
“Virtue,” answered that voice which we have within ourselves, that voice odious to hypocrites and deceivers, which the Church calls the Devil’s voice, and which is the voice of reason. Virtue? Of which do you speak, fool? Without counting the three theological, there are fifty thousand kinds of virtues. It is like happiness, institutions, reputations, religions, morals, principles: Truth on this side the mount, error on that.
There are as many kinds of virtues as there are different peoples. History swarms with virtuous people who have been so in their own way. Socrates was virtuous, and yet what strange familiarities he allowed himself with the young Alcibiades. The virtuous Brutus virtuously assassinated his father. The virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary had herself whipped by her confessor, the virtuous Conrad, and the virtuous Janicot doted on virtuous little boys; and finally Monseigneur is virtuous, but his old lady friends look down and smile when he talks of virtue.
See this priest of austere countenance and whitened hair. He too, during long years, has believed in that virtue which forms his torment. Candid and trustful, he felt the fervency of religion fill his heart from his youth. He had faith, he was filled with the spirit of charity and love. He said like the apostle: Ubi charitas et amor, Deus ibi est. And he believed that God was with him, and that alone with God he was peacefully pursuing his road. But he had counted without that troublesome guest who comes and places himself as a third between the creature and the Creator, and who, more powerful than the God of legend, quickly banishes him, for he is the principle of life and the other is the principle of death; it is the fruitful love and the other is the wasting barren love; it is present and active, while the other is inert, dumb and in the clouds of your sickly brain.
“It is in vain that in his successive halts from parish to parish, he has resisted the thousand seductions which surround the priest, from the timid gaze of the simple school-girl, smitten with a holy love for the young curate, to the veiled smile of the languishing woman. In vain will he attempt, like Fénélon formerly, to put the warmth of his heart and the incitements of the flesh upon the wrong scent by carrying on a platonic love with some chosen souls; what is the result in the end of his efforts and his struggles? Now he is old; ought he not to be appeased? No, weighty and imperious matter has regained the upper hand. He loves no longer, he is not able to love any longer, but the fury urges him on. He seduces his cook, or dishonours his niece.”
And yet those most courageous natures exist, for they have resisted to the end. We blame them, we are wrong. Who would have been capable of such efforts and sacrifices? Who would sustain during ten, fifteen, twenty years, similar straggles between the imperious requirements of nature and the miserable duties of convention? They, therefore, who see their hair fall before their virtue are very rare.
The crowd of priests strike themselves against the obstacles of the road from the first steps, they tear their catechumen’s robe with the white thorns of May, and when they have arrived at the end of their career, they have stopped many a time under some mysterious thicket, unknown by the vulgar, relishing the forbidden fruit.
Let us leave them in peace. It is not I who will disturb their sweet tête-à-tête.
XLII
Memory Looking Back
“Man can do nothing against Destiny. We go, time flies, and that which must arrive, arrives.”
LÉON CLADEL (L’Homme de la Croix-aux-Baufs).
Marcel was one of those energetic natures who believe that struggle is one of the conditions of life. He had valiantly accepted the task which was incumbent upon him.
But there are hours of discouragement and exhaustion, in which the boldest and the strongest succumb, and he had reached one of those hours.
And then, it is so difficult to struggle without ceasing, especially when we catch no glimpse of calmer days. Weariness quickly comes and we sink down on the road.
Then a friendly hand should be stretched towards us, should lift us up and say to us “Courage.” But Marcel could not lean on any friendly hand.
He had no one to whom he could confide his struggles, his vexations, and the apprehension of his coming weaknesses.
Although his life as priest had been spotless up to then, his brethren held aloof from him, for there was a bad mark against him at the Bishop’s Palace. It had been attached at the commencement of his career. He was one of those catechumens on whom from the very first the most brilliant hopes are founded. Knowledge, intelligence, respectful obedience, appearance of piety, sympathetic face, everything was present in him.
The Bishop, a frivolous old man, a great lover of little girls, who combined the sinecure of his bishopric with that of almoner to a second-hand empress, whose name will remain celebrated in the annals of devout gallantry or of gallant devotion, the Bishop, a worthy pastor for such a sheep, passed the greater portion of his time in the intrigues of petticoats and sacristies, and left to the young secretary the care of matters spiritual.
It was he who, like Gil-Blas, composed the mandates and sometimes the sermons of Monseigneur.
This confidence did not fail to arouse secret storms in the episcopal guest-chamber.
A Grand-Vicar, jealous of the influence which the young Abbé was assuming over his master’s mind, had resolved upon his dismissal and fall.
With a church-man’s tortuous diplomacy, he pried into the young man’s heart, as yet fresh and inexperienced.
He insinuated himself into the most hidden recesses of his conscience, seized, so to say, in their flight the timid fleeting transports of his thought, of his vigorous imagination, and soon discovered with secret satisfaction that he was straying from the ancient path of orthodoxy.
Marcel, indeed, belonged to that younger generation of the clergy which believes that everything which alienates the Church from new ideas, brings it nearer to its ruin. And the day when the foolish Pius IX presumed to proclaim and define, to the great joy of free-thinkers and the enemies of Catholicism, the ridiculous dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the presence of two hundred dumb complaisant prelates, on that day he experienced profound grief. According to his ideas this was the severest blow which had been inflicted on the foundations of the Church for centuries.
He had studied theology deeply, but he had not confined himself to the letter; he believed he saw something beyond.
—The letter killeth, he said, the spirit giveth life.
—The spirit giveth life when it is wholesome and pure, the Grand-Vicar answered him with a smile, but is it healthy in a young man who believes himself to be wiser than his elders?
Marcel then without mistrust and urged by questions, developed his theories. He believed in the absolute equality of men before God, in the transmutation of souls: and the resurrection of the flesh seemed to him the utmost absurdity. He quite thought that there were future rewards and penalties, but he had too much faith in the goodness of God to suppose that the expiation could be eternal. He allied himself in that to the Universalists, who were, he said, the most reasonable sect of American Protestantism.
—Reasonable! reasonable! repeated the Grand-Vicar scoffingly; in truth, my poor friend, you make me doubt your reason. Can there be anything reasonable in the turpitude of heresy?
Then he hurried to find the Bishop:
—I have emptied our young man’s bag, he said to him. Do you know, Monseigneur, what there was at the bottom?
—Oh, oh. Has he been inclined to debauchery? He is so young.
—Would to heaven it were only that, Monseigneur. But it is a hundred times worse.
—What do you tell me? Must I fear then for all my little sheep? We must look after him then.
—I repeat, Monseigneur, that that would be nothing…. It is the abomination of abomination, a whole world of turpitude, heresies in embryo.
—Heresies! Oh, oh! That is serious.
—Heresies which would make the cursed shades of John Huss, Wickliffe, Luther and Calvin himself tremble, if they appeared again.
—What do you say?
—I tell you, Monseigneur, that you have warmed a viper in your bosom.
—Ah, well, I will drive out this wicked viper.
The Bishop, who kept two nieces in the episcopal seraglio, would willingly have pardoned his secretary if he had been accused of immorality, but he could not carry his condescension so far as heresy. He wanted, however, to assure himself personally, and as Marcel was incapable of lying, he quickly recognized the sad reality.
The young Abbé was severely punished. He was compelled to make an apology, to retract his horrible ideas, to stifle the germ of these infant monstrosities; then he was condemned to spend six months in one of those ecclesiastical prisons called houses of retreat, where the guilty priest is exposed to every torment and every vexation.
He was definitely marked and classed as a dangerous individual.
His enemy, the Grand-Vicar, pursued him with his indefatigable hatred, so far that from disgrace to disgrace he had reached the cure of Althausen.
XLIII
Espionage
“A sunbeam had traversed his heart; it had just disappeared.”
ERNEST DAUDET (Les Duperies de l’Amour).
Since the fatal evening when the secret of his new-born love had been discovered by his servant, Marcel had observed the woman on his steps, watching his slightest proceedings, scrutinizing his most innocent gestures.
He encountered everywhere her keen inquisitive look.
He wished at first to meet it with the greatest circumspection and the most absolute reserve. He avoided all conversation which he thought might lead him into the way of fresh confidences, and he affected an icy coldness.
But he was soon obliged to renounce this means.
The woman, irritated, suddenly became sullen and angry, and made the Curé pay dear for the reserve which he imposed on himself. The dinner was burnt, the soup tasted only of warm water, his bed was hard, his socks were full of holes, his shoes badly cleaned, finally, he was several times awakened with a start by terrible noises during the night.
He attempted a few remonstrances. Veronica replied with sharpness and threatened to leave him.
—You can look for another maid, she said to him; as for me, I have had enough of it.
—Oh! you old hussy, he thought; I would soon pack you off to the devil, if I were not afraid of your cursed tongue.
Then, for the sake of peace he changed his tactics. He was affable and smiling and spoke to her gently; and the servant’s manners changed directly.
She also became like she had been before, attentive and submissive.
Several days passed thus in a continual constraint and hidden anger; at the same time, a restlessness consumed him, which he used all his power to conceal.
He had not seen Suzanne again, either at the morning Masses, or in her usual walks. He looked forward to Sunday; but at High Mass her place remained empty; he reckoned on Vespers: Vespers, and then Compline passed without her. In vain he searched the nave and the galleries, his sorrowing gaze did not find Suzanne, and he chanted the Laudate pueri dominum with the voice of the De profundis.
Where was she? He had no other thought. Her father had prevented her from coming to church, without any doubt; but why had he not seen her as before upon the roads, which they both liked? He made a thousand conjectures, and with his thoughts completely absorbed in Suzanne, he forgot aught else. He saw no longer those attractive members of his congregation, who admired him in secret as they accompanied him with their fresh voices, and were astonished at the mysterious trouble which agitated their sweet pastor; he forgot even the odious spy who watched him in some corner of the church, and whom he would meet again at his house.
Ashamed of himself, he recalled with a blush the hand he had kissed in a moment of frenzy, which must have let Suzanne suspect what was the plague which consumed his heart, and he would have sacrificed ten years of his life to become again what he was in the eyes of this young girl, hardly a month ago; only a stranger.
Unaccustomed to the world, he did not yet know women well enough to be aware that they are full of indulgence for follies committed for their sake, and more ready to excuse an insult than to pardon indifference. Under these circumstances vanity takes the place of courage, and gives to the commonest girl the instincts of a patrician. There is no ill-made woman but wishes to see the world at her feet.
And the espionage which laid so heavy on him, became every day more irritating and more insupportable.
In vain he fled from the house, and walked on straight before him; far, very far, as far as possible, he felt his servant’s gaze following him, and weighing upon him with all the burden of her furious and clear-sighted jealousy.
He felt that lynx eye pierce the walls and watch him everywhere, even when he had put between himself and the parsonage, the streets, the gardens, the width of the village and the depth of the woods.
She received him on his return with a smile on her lips, but her eager eye searched him from head to foot, studied his looks, his gestures, the folds of his cassock and even the dust on his shoes; as though she wished to strip him and bare his heart in order to feast upon his secret conflicts.
XLIV
The Garret Window
“Do I direct my love? It directs me.
And I could abide it if I would!…
And I would, after all, that I could not.”
V. SARDOU (Nos Intimes).
Other days passed, and then others.
From a garret-window in the loft of the parsonage, the eye commanded a view of the whole village. Over the roofs could be seen the house of Captain Durand, quite at the bottom of the hill. Marcel went up there several times, and with his gaze fixed on that white wall which concealed the sweet object which had torn from him his tranquillity and his peaceful toil, he forgot himself and was lost in his thoughts.
Then his eyes wandered over the verdant plain, and the length of the stream edged with willows which wound along as far as the wood, side by side with the little path, where often he had met with Suzanne.
Sometimes the keen April wind blew violently through the ill-closed timber and the cracks of the roofing. It shook the joists and filled the loft with that shrill sinister sound, which is like an echo of the lamentable complaint of the dead, and it appeared to him that these groanings of the tempest mingled with the groanings of his soul.
But he soon discovered that the garret-window was also a post of observation for Veronica, for to their mutual embarrassment, they caught one another climbing cautiously up the wooden stair-case, or slipping under the dusty joists. Again he was caught in fault. What business had he in that loft?
He resumed his walks and prolonged them as much as possible; he resumed his pastoral visits with a zeal which charmed the feminine portion of his flock; but nowhere did he see or hear anything of Suzanne. That name filled his heart, and he dreaded the least suspicion, the slightest comment.
He was seen always abroad. He fled from his house, his books, his flowers, that little home which he loved so well when it was quiet, and where now he heard the muttering storms; he suspected some infernal plot.
And the remembrance of that hand which was surrendered to him, and on which he had placed his lips, that remembrance consumed his heart. He saw again Suzanne’s emotion, her large dark eyes full of amazement, yet without anger, and he would have wished to see them again, were it only for a second, in order to read in them the impression which his presence left there.
XLV
Treacherous Manoeuvre
“He stepped more lightly than a bird; love traced out his progress.”
CHAMPFLEURY (La Comédie Académique).
“I must know,” he said to himself, “where I stand.”
And one morning, after saying Mass, he went out of the village.
He took the opposite direction to the part where Captain Durand dwelt. But after following the high road for some time, sure that he was not being watched, he retraced his steps, quickly entered the little path, hedged with quicksets, which runs by the side of the gardens, and rapidly made the circuit of Althausen.
Hitherto in his walks, he had avoided, from shame as much as from fear, the Captain’s house, now he directed his steps thither, with head erect, resolute and assuming a careless air, as if the peasants whom he met could suspect his secret agitation.
He hurried his steps, desirous of settling the question one way or the other.
To discover Suzanne! that was his only desire, and his heart beat as though it would break.
In spite of the reproaches and invectives which he addressed and the fine argument which he formed for himself, he had fallen again more than ever under the yoke, precisely because he saw obstacles accumulating.
Love had taken absolute possession of his heart, it had hollowed out its nest therein, like the viper in the old Norway ballads, and while ever increasing, consumed it.
To see Suzanne, simply the hem of her gown, or her pretty spring hat crowned with bluebirds, to pass near the spot where she breathed and to inhale there some emanation from her, was his promised treat.
And he walked along joyously, his step was light, and he no longer felt the load of his grief; his apprehensions and anxiety disappeared, and he was filled with a wild hope.
A few steps more and he would see behind the clump of old chestnuts the little house, always so smart and white.
Ah! he knew it well. Many a time he had passed in front of it and behind it, pensive and indifferent, without dreaming that the sanctuary of a goddess was there, the only one henceforth whom his heart could adore.
There was a little garden, surrounded with palings, with two paths which crossed, and placed in the middle, a statue of the Little Corporal in a bed of China-asters. In one corner an arbour of honeysuckle, where more than once he had caught sight of a crabbed face.
Perhaps the maid with the sweet eyes will be sitting beneath that arbour embroidering thoughtfully some chosen pattern.
What shall he do if Suzanne is there? Will he dare to look at her?
Yes, he must! He must read the expression in her look. And if that look is sweet and free from anger, shall he stop? Certainly. Why should he hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young girl? Is he not her Curé? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is enough.
He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise.
What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose, and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh, that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of love, into that chaste virgin conch.
Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it she?
He turns round.
Veronica is behind him.
XLVI
The Letter
“Let them take but one step within your door. They will soon have taken four.”
LA FONTAINE (Fables).
She was red and out of breath, and her large breasts rose and fell like the bellows of a forge, while her air of triumph said clearly to Marcel: “Ah, ah, I have caught you here.”
—Come, Monsieur le Curé, it is quite a quarter-of-an-hour that I have been looking for you. I ought to have thought before where to find you. Somebody is waiting for you.
—Who!
But the servant avoided making any reply, as she took the lead towards home. The Curé followed her hanging his head.
He reached the parsonage directly after her.
—Who is waiting for me then? he said again.
—It’s the postman, she replied with an air of frankness; he could not wait till to-morrow. He had a letter for you … for you only, she added, lingering over these words with a scornful smile.
Marcel blushed.
—Another mystery, Veronica went on. Ah, Jesus! My God! What a lot of mysteries there are here. Really it’s worse than the Catechism. Your letters for you only! Isn’t that enough to humiliate me? You have reason then to complain of my discretion that you tell the postman to hand your letters to yourself only. Holy Virgin! it’s a pretty thing. What can they think of me then at the Post-office? They will surely say that I read your letters before you do. Upon my word. Your letters don’t matter to me. Would they not say…? Ah, Lord Jesus. To make a poor servant suffer martyrdom in this way?
—There you are with your recrimination again!
-Oh, Monsieur le Curé, I make no recriminations, I complain that is all: I certainly have the right to complain; my other masters never acted in that way with me.
—Your masters acted as they thought proper, and I also do as I wish.
—I see very well, that you don’t ask advice from anyone…. And with the insolence of a servant who has got on a footing with her master, she added: You have gone again to the part where Durand lives? After what has happened, are you not afraid of compromising yourself?
—Mind your own business, you silly woman, and leave me alone for once. I consider you are very impudent in trying to scrutinize my actions.
—My business! Well, Monsieur le Curé, yours is mine just a bit, since I am your confidante. As to being impudent, I shall never be so much as others I know.
—Insolent woman.
—Ah, you can insult me, Monsieur le Curé. I let you do as you like with me.
—Veronica, said Marcel, this life is unendurable. I hate to be surrounded with incessant spying; what do you want to arrive at? tell me, what do you want to arrive at?
And the Curé approached her, his fists clenched, and with glaring eyes.
—Take care of yourself, woman, for I am beginning to get tired.
—I am so too: I am tired, cried Veronica.
Marcel’s wrath passed all bounds.
—Yes. I understand, you ought indeed to be so. Tired of odious spying; tired of your unwholesome curiosity; tired of your useless narrow-mindedness. Do not drive me too far for your own sake, I warn you. Twice already you have made me beside myself, beware, you miserable woman, beware of doing it a third time.
—Be quiet, Monsieur le Curé, said Veronica softly, be quiet.
—Oh, you are driving me mad, cried Marcel, throwing himself into an arm-chair, and covering his face with his hands.
The servant came near him:
—It is you who are making me ill with your fits of anger, she said with solicitude: shall I make you a little tea?
—I don’t want anything.
—Come, Monsieur Marcel, be yourself. I am not what you think, no, I am not.
—It is my wish that you leave me, Veronica.
—Everything I do is for your interest, Monsieur le Curé, you will understand it one day.
—Leave me, I say.
The servant withdrew.
—It cannot last thus, he thought. What a scandalous scene! And what a horrible fatality thrusts me into this ridiculous and miserable situation! Ah, the apostle is right: “As soon as we leave the straight path, we fall into the abyss.” And I am in the abyss, for I am the laughing-stock of this servant. What will become of me with this creature? How can I get rid of her? Can I turn her out? She would proclaim everywhere what she has discovered…. Ah, if it were only a question of myself alone! What a dilemma I am involved in! But that letter, that letter! Suzanne!… dear Suzanne … no doubt it is she who has written to me, my heart tells me so loudly.
He waited with feverish impatience for the postman’s return.
Expecting news from Suzanne, and fearing with good reason his servant’s inquisitiveness, he had indeed asked him for the future to deliver his letters to himself only.
He sought for various pretexts to send Veronica away, but the woman too discovered excellent reasons for not going out.
She was present therefore, in spite of her master, at the delivery of the mysterious letter.
Marcel’s countenance at first displayed deep disappointment, but as he read on, it was lighted up by a ray of joy.
XLVII
Good News
“Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia
O filii et filiae…
Et Maria Magdalena
Et Jacobi, et Salome!
Alleluia.”
(Easter-Mass Hymn).
“Rejoice, my son, and sing with me Hosannah! Hosannah! The ways of the Lord are infinite.
“Your personal enemy, Saint Anastasius Gobin, Grand-Vicar, Arch-Priest, Notary Apostolic and, like the ancient slave, as vile as anyone, non tum vilis quam nullus, has just left Nancy secretly, and in disgrace, like a guilty wretch as he is.
“Ah, my poor friend, let us veil our faces like the daughters of Sion. It is written: ‘If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die.’ Anastasius Gobin has lived too much after the flesh. Alas! we know it, and you know it. Nemo melius judicare potest quam tu, as Brutus said to Cicero; so you will not share in the astonishment of the Cathedral worshippers. I will relate the matter to you in private.
“Ergo. You are henceforth safe from his persecution for ever; it is now only a question of regaining Monseigneur’s favour. The serpent is no longer there to whisper perfidious insinuations into his too complaisant ear. When the beast is dead, the venom is dead.
“I hope that adversity has been of use to you. You have experienced what it costs not to be sufficiently yielding. Now the future is yours; nothing has been lost except a few years, and those few years have brought, I hope, experience and knowledge of life. Courage then. Filii Sion exultate et laetimini in Domino Deo nostro.
“I have faith more than ever in your lucky star, and I hope that you will form the consolation and the pride of my declining years. Yes, my friend, you will do honour to your old master. Tu quoque Marcellus eris!
“As for myself, I am going to move heaven and earth for you, or, what is worth more, I am going to stir up the arrière-ban of the sacristies.
“I know some worthy sheep of influence, who, for my sake, will do anything in their power. I have shown your photograph to the old Comtesse de Montluisant; she finds it charming, yes charming! and she has promised that before six months, Monseigneur shall swear by the Abbé Marcel alone.
“That is rather too much to presume, for the old man is as obstinate as an Auvergne mule; but what I can promise you is a change of cure—that at length you shall leave your Thebaid.
“Once again then, my dear fellow, courage. As soon as I have a few days to dispose of after Easter, I will hurry to you. And while we are tasting your wine, provided it is good (which I doubt, you dreadful stoic), we will discuss what is best to do.
“Have patience then till then. Vos enim ad libertatem vocati estis, fratres, said St. Paul to the Galatians. I say so to you.
“I embrace you tenderly,
“Your spiritual Father
“Marcel Ridoux
“Curé of St. Nicholas.”
XLVIII
Reconciliation
“The fair Eglé chooses her part on a sudden
In the twinkling of an eye, she becomes charming.”
CHAMPFORT (Contes).
“Here is salvation,” said Marcel to himself, “the solution of the problem, the end of my misery and shame, the blow which severs this infernal knot which enfolds me and was about to hurry me on to my ruin. God be blessed!” And he turned joyfully to his servant who was watching him:
—Good news! Veronica.
—I congratulate you, sir, she said, perplexed and disturbed. Are you nominated to a better cure? Does Monseigneur give notice of his visit?
—Better than that, Veronica. My excellent and worthy uncle, the Abbé Ridoux, gives notice of his.
—Monsieur le Curé of Saint Nicholas?
—Himself. Do you know him?
—Certainly. He came one day to see Monsieur Fortin (may God keep his soul) regarding a collection for his church. Ah, he has a fine church, it appears, and a famous saint is buried there. My poor defunct master was in the habit of saying that there was not a more agreeable man anywhere in the world, and I easily credited it, for he was always in a good temper. It’s he then who has written to you. Well, if he comes here, it will make a little diversion, for we don’t often laugh.
—That is wrong, Veronica. A gentle gaiety ought to prevail in the priest’s house. Gaiety is the mark of a pure heart and a quiet conscience. Where there is hatred and division there is more room for the spirit of darkness. Our Saviour has said: “Every house divided against itself shall perish.”
—He has said so, yes, Monsieur le Curé.
—We must not perish, Veronica.
—I have no wish to do so; therefore I do not cause the war.
—Listen, Veronica. It would be lamentable and scandalous that my uncle might possibly be troubled on his arrival here by our little domestic differences, and particularly that he might suspect the nature of them. We are both of us a little in the wrong; by our each ascribing it to oneself, it will be easy for us to come to an understanding; will it not, Veronica?
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we can come to an understanding directly, if you wish it. God says that we must forgive, and I have no malice.
—Then it is agreed, we will talk of our little mutual complaints after supper.
—I ask for nothing better; I am quite at your service.
—And we will celebrate the good news.
—I will take my share in the celebration. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you do not know me yet; I hope that you will know me better, and you will see that I am not an ill-natured girl. My heart is as young as another’s, and when we must laugh, provided that it is decent and without offence, I know how to laugh, and do not give up my share.
—Good, said Marcel to himself, let me flatter this woman. That is the only way of preventing any rumour. I must leave Althausen, I will pass her on to my successor, but I do not want to have an enemy behind me. If you have my secret, you old hypocrite, I will have yours, and I will know what there is at the bottom of your bag of iniquity.