Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 6

Chapter 6

The next day was Sunday. As the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy
Cross fell on a high mass day, Abbe Mouret desired to celebrate the
festival with especial solemnity. He was now full of extraordinary
devotion for the Cross, and had replaced the image of the Immaculate
Conception in his bedroom by a large crucifix of black wood, before
which he spent long hours in worship. To exalt the Cross, to plant it
before him, above all else, in a halo of glory, as the one object of his
life, gave him the strength he needed to suffer and to struggle. He
sometimes dreamed of hanging there himself, in Jesus's place, his head
crowned with thorns, nails driven through his hands and feet, and his
side rent by spears. What a coward he must be to complain of an
imaginary wound, when God bled there from His whole body, and yet
preserved on His lips the blessed smile of the Redemption! And however
unworthy it might be, he offered up his wound as a sacrifice, ended by
falling into ecstasy, and believing that blood did really stream from
his brow and side and limbs. Those were hours of relief, for he fancied
that all the impurity within him flowed forth from his wounds. And he
then usually drew himself up with the heroism of a martyr, and longed to
be called upon to suffer the most frightful tortures, in order that he
might bear them without a quiver of the flesh.

At early dawn that day he knelt before the crucifix, and grace came upon
him 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 his
bones in sweetest and most refreshing fulness. On the previous day he
had prayed for grace in agony, and it had not come. At times it long
remained deaf to his entreaties, and then, when he simply clasped his
hands, in quite childlike fashion, it flowed down to succour him. It
came upon him that morning like a benediction, bringing perfect
serenity, absolute trusting faith. He forgot his anguish of the previous
days, and surrendered himself wholly to the triumphant joy of the Cross.
He seemed to be cased in such impenetrable armour that the world's most
deadly blows would glide off from it harmlessly. When he came down from
his bedroom, he stepped along with an air of serenity and victory. La
Teuse 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 seen
him looking so well for the last six months.

But it was in the church, at high mass, that the priest felt that he
had really recovered divine grace. It was a long time since he had
approached the altar with such loving emotion; and he had to make a
great effort to restrain himself from weeping whilst he remained with
his lips pressed to the altar-cloth. It was a solemn high mass. The
local rural guard, an uncle of Rosalie, chanted in a deep bass voice
which rumbled through the low nave like a hoarse organ. Vincent, robed
in a surplice much too large for him, which had formerly belonged to
Abbe Caffin, carried an old silver censer, and was vastly amused by the
tinkling of its chains; he swung it to a great height, so as to produce
copious clouds of smoke, and glanced behind him every now and then to
see if he had succeeded in making any one cough. The church was almost
full, for everybody wanted to see his reverence's painting. Peasant
women laughed with pleasure because the place smelt so nice, while the
men, standing under the gallery, jerked their heads approvingly at each
deeper and deeper note that came from the rural guard. Filtering through
the paper window panes the full morning sun lighted up the brightly
painted walls, on which the women's caps cast shadows resembling huge
butterflies. The artificial flowers, with which the altar was decorated,
almost seemed to possess the moist freshness of natural ones newly
gathered; and when the priest turned round to bless the congregation, he
felt 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 peasant
women. Vincent inquisitively turned his head, and in doing so, almost
let 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 an
expression of reproof, he murmured: 'It is your reverence's uncle, who
has just come in.'

At the end of the church, standing beside one of the slender wooden
pillars that supported the gallery, Abbe Mouret then perceived Doctor
Pascal. The doctor was not wearing his usual cheerful and slightly
scoffing expression. Hat in hand, he stood there looking very grave, and
followed the service with evident impatience. The sight of the priest at
the altar, his solemn demeanour, his slow gestures, and the perfect
serenity of his countenance, appeared to gradually increase his
irritation. He could not stay there till the end of the mass, but left
the church, and walked up and down beside his horse and gig, which he
had secured to one of the parsonage shutters.

'Will that nephew of mine never have finished censing himself?' he asked
of 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 the
doctor, as he followed La Teuse into the cold-looking, stiffly furnished
chamber, which she pompously called the drawing-room. Here for a few
minutes he paced up and down. The gloomy coldness of his surroundings
seemed to increase his irritation. As he strode about, flourishing a
stick he carried, he kept on striking the well-worn chair-seats of
horsehair 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 a
gaudily 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 me
listen 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 of
surprise. 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 a
smile. 'I did not expect you before Thursday. Sunday isn't your day for
coming. Is there something you want to tell me?'

Uncle Pascal did not give an immediate answer. He went on looking at the
Abbe. The latter was still fresh from the influence of the church and
the mass. His hair was fragrant with the perfume of the incense, and in
his eyes shone all the joy of the Cross. His uncle jogged his head, as
he noticed that expression of triumphant peace.

'I have come from the Paradou,' he said, abruptly. 'Jeanbernat came to
fetch me there. I have seen Albine, and she disquiets me. She needs much
careful treatment.'

He kept his eyes fixed upon the priest as he spoke, but he did not
detect so much as a quiver of Serge's eyelids.

'She took great care of you, you know,' he added, more roughly. 'Without
her, my boy, you might now be in one of the cells at Les Tulettes, with
a 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
anxious to go away.'

'I can do nothing more than pray for the person of whom you speak,' said
Abbe Mouret, softly.

And as the doctor, losing his temper, brought his stick down heavily
upon 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 into an
armchair, 'it is I who am an old fool. Yes, I wept like a child, as I
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 the
world. How could I guess that it would all turn out so badly?'

He rose from his chair and began to walk about again, looking
exceedingly 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! You are
not as other men. But listen to me, I assure you that otherwise you
would never have recovered. It was she alone, with the atmosphere she
set round you, who saved you from madness. There is no need for me to
tell 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 is
dying of it!'

Abbe Mouret remained there erect, perfectly calm, his face reflecting
all the quiet serenity of a martyr whom nothing that man might do could
disturb.

'God will take mercy upon her,' he said.

'God! God!' muttered the doctor below his breath. 'Ah! He would do
better not to interfere. We might manage matters if we were left to
ourselves.' Then, raising his voice, he added: 'I thought I had
considered 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 to
recover your strength. The shade of the trees, the cheerful chatter of
the girl, all the youthfulness about you would quickly bring you round.
And then you, on your side, it seemed to me, would do something to
reclaim 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. And
then how was I to guess that old philosophising Jeanbernat would never
stir an inch from his lettuce-beds? Well! well! I myself never left my
own laboratory. I had such pressing work there. . . . And it is all my
fault! Ah! I am a stupid bungler!'

He was choking, and wished to go off. And he began to look about him for
his 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--for
my sake! You see how miserable, how upset I am. I swear to you that she
shall go away immediately afterwards. That is all settled. My gig is
here; 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 had
seen 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 He
heard me, and He will comfort her as He has comforted me. There is no
other 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 no
further 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 had
been younger he had been wont to listen to her childish prattle for
hours without showing the least sign of weariness. And, even now, he did
his best to spoil her, and manifested the greatest interest in her
farmyard, often spending a whole afternoon with her amongst her fowls
and ducks, and smiling at her with his bright eyes. He seemed to
consider her superior to other girls. And so she now flung herself
round his 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 her
arms from his neck with a somewhat pettish air. She laughed however, and
again clasped her arms round him.

'Oh! but you must,' she persisted. 'I have some eggs that have only just
been laid. I have been looking in the nests, and there are fourteen eggs
this morning. And, if you will stay, we can have a fowl, the white one,
that is always quarrelling with the others. When you were here on
Thursday, you know, it pecked the big spotted hen's eye out.'

But her uncle persisted in his refusal. He was irritated to find that he
could not unfasten the knot in which he had tied his reins. And then she
began to skip round him, clapping her hands and repeating in a sing-song
voice: '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 head
and 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 was
gilding her bare arms.

'You big silly!' he said; and clasping her by the wrists as she
continued skipping gleefully about him, he went on: 'No, dear; not
to-day. I have to go to see a poor girl who is ill. But I will come some
other 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 slight
laugh.

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 nice and
healthy you are! And you are worth more than all the others put
together. Ah! if every one was like my big silly, this earth would be
too beautiful!'

He set his horse off with a cluck of his tongue, and continued talking
to himself as the gig rattled down the hill.

'Yes, yes! there should be nothing but animals. Ah! if they were mere
animals, how happy and gay and strong they would all be! It has gone
well with the girl, who is as happy as her cow; but it has gone badly
with the lad, who is in torture beneath his cassock. A drop too much
blood, a little too much nerve, and one's whole life is wrecked!
. . . They are true Rougons and true Macquarts those children there!
The tail-end of the stock--its final degeneracy.'

Then, urging on his horse, he drove at a trot up the hill that led to
the Paradou.

Back to chapter list of: Abbe Mouret's Transgression