Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 3

Chapter 3

'Now my soup is too hot!' grumbled La Teuse, as she returned from the
kitchen with a basin, from which a wooden spoon was projecting.

She placed herself just in front of Abbe Mouret, and began to eat very
cautiously from the edge of the spoon. She wanted to enliven the Abbe
and to draw him out of his melancholy moodiness. Ever since he had
returned from the Paradou, he had declared himself well again, and had
never complained. Often, indeed, he smiled in so soft and sweet a
fashion, that his fever seemed to have increased his saintliness, at
least so thought the villagers. But, at intervals, he had fits of gloomy
silence, and appeared to be suffering torture which he strove to bear
uncomplainingly. It was a mute agony which bore down upon him, and, for
hours at a time, left him stupefied, a prey to a frightful inward
struggle, the violence of which could only be guessed by the sweat of
anguish that streamed down his face.

At such times La Teuse refused to leave him, and overwhelmed him with a
torrent of gossip, until he had gradually recovered tranquillity by
crushing the rebellion of his blood. On that particular morning, the old
servant foresaw a more grievous attack than usual, and poured forth an
amazing flood of talk, while continuing her wary manoeuvres with the
spoon, which threatened to burn her tongue.

'Well, well,' said she, 'one has to live among a lot of wild beasts to
see such goings-on. Would any one ever think in a decent village of
being married by candlelight? It shows what a poor sort these Artauds
are. When I was in Normandy, I used to see weddings that threw every one
into commotion for a couple of leagues round. They would feast for three
whole days. The priest would be there, and the mayor, too; and at the
marriage of one of my cousins, all the firemen came as well. And didn't
they have a fine time of it! But to make a priest get up before sunrise
and marry people before even the chickens have left their roost, why,
there's no sense in it! If I had been your reverence, I should have
refused to do it. You haven't had your proper sleep, and you may have
caught cold in the church. It is that which has upset you. Besides which
it would be better to marry brute beasts than that Rosalie and her ugly
lout. That brat of theirs dirtied one of the chairs.--But you ought to
tell me when you feel poorly, and I could make you something warm.--Eh!
Monsieur le Cure, speak to me!'

He answered, in a feeble voice, that he was quite well, and only needed
a little fresh air. He had just leant against one of the mulberry-trees,
and was breathing rather quickly, as if faint.

'Oh! all right,' went on La Teuse, 'do just as you like. Go on marrying
people when you haven't the strength for it, and when you know very well
that it's bound to upset you. I knew how it would be; I told you so
yesterday. And if you took my advice, you wouldn't stay where you are.
The smell of the yard is bad for you. It is frightful just now. I can't
imagine what Mademoiselle Desiree can be stirring about there. She's
singing away, and doesn't seem to mind it at all. Ah! that reminds me of
something I want to tell you. You know that I did all I could to keep
her from taking the cow to Beage; but she's like you, obstinate, and
will go her own way. Fortunately, however, for her, she's none the worse
for it. She delights to be amongst the animals and their young ones. But
come now, your reverence, do be reasonable. Let me take you to your
room. You must lie down and rest a little. What, you don't want to!
Well, then, so much the worse for you, if you suffer! Besides, it's
absurd to keep one's worries locked up in one's heart till they stifle
one.'

Then, in her indignation, she hastily swallowed a big spoonful of soup
at the risk of burning her throat. She rattled the handle of the spoon
against the bowl, muttering and grumbling to herself.

'There never was such a man,' said she. 'He would die rather than say a
word. But it's all very well for him to keep silent. I know quite
enough, and it doesn't require much cleverness to guess the rest. Well!
well! let him keep it to himself. I dare say it is better.'

La Teuse was jealous. Dr. Pascal had had a tremendous fight with her in
order to get her patient away at the time when he had come to the
conclusion that the young priest's case would be quite hopeless if he
should remain at the parsonage. He had then explained to her that the
sound of the bell would aggravate and intensify Serge's fever, that the
religious pictures and statuettes scattered about his room would fill
his brain with hallucinations, and that entirely new surroundings were
necessary if he was to be restored to health and strength and
peacefulness of mind. She, however, had vigorously shaken her head, and
declared that her 'dear child' would nowhere find a better nurse than
herself. Still, she had ended by yielding. She had even resigned herself
to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against this
selection of the doctor's, which astonished her. But she retained a
strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by the
silence which Abbe Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there.
She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce him to
talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and his
obstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon about
and crying:

'You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Cure, if you were so happy
there--I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better
than I do.'

It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her
suspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not
check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At this
La Teuse's kindly heart was filled with regret.

'Ah!' she murmured, 'it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I told
him what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to their
own ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging
in your body afterwards--It made me so angry that I would never speak of
it to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Cure, you have me to thank that nobody
knew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable!
When Abbe Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your
absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of
stories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don't even know where
Switzerland is.--Well! well! I surely don't want to say anything to pain
you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Very
finely they've cured you indeed! It would have been very much better if
they had left you with me. I shouldn't have thought of trying to turn
your head.'

Abbe Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt
her. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from
him, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in her
motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her.

'You would never let me tell you about Abbe Caffin. As soon as I began
to speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbe Caffin had
had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was a
very holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he was a
man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things. Well, there
was a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of a
miller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school. Well, to put it
shortly, what was likely to happen did happen. When the story got about,
all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbe. But he managed
to escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there.
Then he was sent here. The poor man was punished quite enough by being
made to live in this hole of a place. I heard of the girl afterwards.
She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy.'

La Teuse, delighted at having been allowed to tell her story,
interpreted the priest's silence as an encouragement to continue her
gossiping. So she drew a little nearer to him and said:

'He was very friendly with me, was good Monsieur Caffin, and often spoke
to me of his sin. It won't keep him out of heaven, I'm sure. He can rest
quite peacefully out there under the turf, for he never harmed any one.
For my part, I can't understand why people should get so angry with a
priest when such a thing unhappily befalls him. Of course it's wrong,
and likely to anger God; but then one can confess and repent, and get
absolution. Isn't it so, your reverence, that when one truly repents,
one is saved in spite of one's sins?'

Abbe Mouret slowly raised his head. By a supreme effort he had overcome
his agony, and though his face was still very pale, he exclaimed in a
firm voice, 'One should never sin; never! never!'

'Ah! sir,' cried the old servant, 'you are too proud and reserved. It is
not a nice thing, that pride of yours.--If I were in your place, I would
not harden myself like that. I would talk of what was troubling me, and
not try to rend my heart in pieces. You should reconcile yourself to the
separation gradually. The worry wears off little by little. But, instead
of that, you won't even allow people's names to be uttered. You forbid
them to be mentioned. It is as though they were dead. Since you came
back, I have not dared to tell you the least bit of news. Well, well, I
am going to speak now, and I shall tell you all I know; because I see
quite well that it is all this silence that is preying upon your heart.'

He looked at her sternly, and lifted his finger to silence her.

'Yes, yes,' she went on, 'I get news from over yonder, very often
indeed, and I am going to tell it to you. To begin with, there is some
one there who is no happier than you are.'

'Silence! Silence!' said Abbe Mouret, summoning all his strength to rise
and move away.

But La Teuse also rose and barred his way with her bulky figure. She was
angry, and cried out:

'There, you see, you want to be off already! But you are going to listen
to me. You know quite well that I am not over fond of the people yonder,
don't you? If I talk to you about them, it is for your own good. Some
people say that I am jealous. Well, one day I mean to take you over
there. You would be with me, and you wouldn't be afraid of any harm
happening. Will you go?'

He motioned her away from him with his hands, and his face was calm
again as he said:

'I desire nothing. I wish to know nothing. There is high mass to-morrow.
You must see that the altar is made ready.'

Then, as he walked away, he added, smiling:

'Don't be uneasy, my good Teuse. I am stronger than you imagine. I shall
be able to cure myself without any one's assistance.'

With these words he went off, bearing himself sturdily, with his head
erect, for he had vanquished his feelings. His cassock rustled very
gently against the borders of thyme. La Teuse, who for a moment had
remained rooted to the spot where she was standing, sulkily picked up
her basin and wooden spoon. Then, shrugging her big shoulders again and
again, she mumbled between her teeth:

'That's all bravado of his. He imagines that he is differently made from
other men, just because he is a priest. Well, as a matter of fact, he is
very firm and determined. I have known some who wouldn't have had to be
wheedled so long. And he is quite capable of crushing his heart, just as
one might crush a flea. It must be the Almighty who gives him his
strength.'

As she returned to the kitchen she saw Abbe Mouret standing by the gate
of the farmyard. Desiree had stopped him there to make him feel a capon
which she had been fattening for some weeks past. He told her pleasantly
that it was very heavy, and the big child chuckled with glee.

'Ah! well,' said La Teuse in a fury, 'that bird has got to crush its
heart too. But then it can't help itself.'

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