Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The church was perfectly silent, except for the murmuring sound of the
rain, which was falling heavily once more. In that sudden change to
quietude the priest's anger subsided, and he even felt moved. It was
with his face streaming with tears, his frame shaken by sobs, that he
went back to throw himself on his knees before the great crucifix. A
torrent of ardent thanksgiving burst from his lips.

'Thanks be to Thee, O God, for the help which Thou hast graciously
bestowed upon me. Without Thy grace I should have hearkened unto the
promptings of my flesh, and should have miserably returned to my sin. It
was Thy grace that girded my loins as with armour for battle; Thy grace
was indeed my armour, my courage, the support of my soul, that kept me
erect, beyond weakness. Oh! my God, Thou wert in me; it was Thy voice
that spoke in me, for I no longer felt the cowardice of the flesh, I
could have cut asunder my very heart-strings. And now, O God, I offer
Thee my bleeding heart. It no longer belongs to any creature of this
world; it is Thine alone. To give it to Thee I have wrenched it from all
worldly affection. But think not, O God, that I take any pride to myself
for this victory. I know that without Thee I am nothing; and I humbly
cast myself at Thy feet.'

He sank down upon the altar steps, unable to utter another word, while
his breath panted incense-like from his parted lips. The divine grace
bathed him in ineffable ecstasy. He sought Jesus in the recesses of his
being, in that sanctuary of love which he was ever preparing for His
worthy reception. And Jesus was now present there. The Abbe knew it by
the sweet influences which permeated him. And thereupon he joined with
Jesus in that spiritual converse which at times bore him away from earth
to companionship with God. He sighed out the verse from the 'Song of
Solomon,' 'My beloved is mine, and I am his; He feedeth his flock among
the lilies, until the day be cool, and the shadows flee away.' He
pondered over the words of the 'Imitation:' 'It is a great art to know
how to talk with Jesus, and it requires much prudence to keep Him near
one.' And then, with adorable condescension, Jesus came down to him, and
spoke with him for hours of his needs, his happiness, and his hopes.
Their confidences were not less affectionate and touching than those of
two friends, who meet after long separation and quietly retire to
converse on the bank of some lonely stream; for during those hours of
divine condescension Jesus deigned to be his friend, his best, most
faithful friend, one who never forsook him, and who in return for a
little love gave him all the treasures of eternal life. That day the
priest was eager to prolong the sweet converse, and indeed, when six
o'clock sounded through the quiet church, he was still listening to the
words which echoed through his soul.

On his side there was unreserved confession, unimpeded by the restraints
of language, natural effusion of the heart which spoke even more quickly
than the mind. Abbe Mouret told everything to Jesus, as to a God who had
come down in all the intimacy of the most loving tenderness, and who
would listen to everything. He confessed that he still loved Albine; and
he was surprised that he had been able to speak sternly to her and drive
her away, without his whole being breaking out into revolt. He marvelled
at it, and smiled as though it were some wonderful miracle performed by
another. And Jesus told him that he must not be astonished, and that the
greatest saints were often but unconscious instruments in the hands of
God. Then the Abbe gave expression to a doubt. Had he not lost merit in
seeking refuge in the Cross and even in the Passion of his Saviour? Had
he not shown that he possessed as yet but little courage, since he had
not dared to fight unaided? But Jesus evinced kindly tolerance, and
answered that man's weakness was God's continual care, and that He
especially loved those suffering souls, to whose assistance He went,
like a friend to the bedside of a sick companion.

But was it a sin to love Albine, a sin for which he, Serge, would be
damned? No; if his love was clean of all fleshly taint, and added
another hope to his desire for eternal life. But, then, how was he to
love her? In silence; without speaking a word to her, without taking a
step towards her; simply allowing his pure affection to breathe forth,
like a sweet perfume, pleasing unto heaven. And Jesus smiled with
increasing kindliness, drawing nearer as if to encourage confession, in
such wise that the priest grew bolder and began to recapitulate Albine's
charms. She had hair that was fair and golden as an angel's; she was
very white, with big soft eyes, like those of the aureoled saints. Jesus
seemed to listen to this in silence, though a smile still played upon
His face. And the priest continued: She had grown much taller. She was
now like a queen, with rounded form and splendid shoulders. Oh! to clasp
her waist, were it only for a second, and to feel her shoulders drawn
close by his embrace! But the smile on the divine countenance then
paled and died away, as a star sinks and falls beneath the horizon.
Abbe Mouret now spoke all alone. Ah! had he not shown himself too
hard-hearted? Why had he driven her away without one single word of
affection, since Heaven allowed him to love her?

'I do love her! I do love her!' he cried aloud, in a distracted voice,
that rang through the church.

He thought he saw her still standing there. She was stretching out her
arms to him; she was beautiful enough to make him break all his vows. He
threw himself upon her bosom without thought of the reverence due to his
surroundings, he clasped her and rained kisses upon her face. It was
before her that he now knelt, imploring her mercy, and beseeching her to
forgive him his unkindness. He told her that, at times a voice which was
not his own spoke through his lips. Could he himself ever have treated
her harshly? It was the strange voice that had repulsed her. It could
not, surely, be he himself, for he would have been unable to touch a
hair of her head without loving emotion. And yet he had driven her away.
The church was really empty! Whither should he hasten to find her again,
to bring her back, and wipe her tears away with kisses? The rain was
streaming down more violently than ever. The roads must be rivers of
mud. He pictured her to himself lashed by the downpour, tottering
alongside the ditches, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin. No!
no! it could not have been himself; it was that other voice, the jealous
voice that had so cruelly sought to slay his love.

'O Jesus!' he cried in desperation, 'be merciful and give her back to
me!'

But his Lord was no longer there. Then Abbe Mouret, awaking with a
start, turned horribly pale. He understood it all. He had not known how
to keep Jesus with him. He had lost his friend, and had been left
defenceless against the powers of evil. Instead of that inward light,
which had shone so brightly within him as he received his God, he now
found utter darkness, a foul vapour that irritated his senses. Jesus had
withdrawn His grace on leaving him; and he, who since early morning had
been so strong with heaven-sent help, now felt utterly miserable,
forsaken, weak and helpless as an infant. How frightful was his fall!
How galling its bitterness! To have straggled so heroically, to have
remained unshaken, invincible, implacable, while the temptress actually
stood before him, with all her warm life, her swelling bosom and superb
shoulders, her perfume of love and passion; and then to fall so
shamefully, to throb with desire, when she had disappeared, leaving
behind her but the echo of her skirts, and the fragrance diffused from
her white neck! Now, these mere recollections sufficed to make her all
powerful, her influence permeated the church.

'Jesus! Jesus!' cried the priest, once more, 'return, come back to me;
speak to me once again!'

But Jesus remained deaf to his cry. For a moment Abbe Mouret raised his
arms to heaven in desperate entreaty. His shoulders cracked and strained
beneath the wild violence of his supplications. But soon his hands fell
down again in discouragement. Heaven preserved that hopeless silence
which suppliants at times encounter. Then he once more sat down on the
altar steps, heart-crushed and with ashen face, pressing his elbows to
his sides, as though he were trying to reduce his flesh to the smallest
proportions possible.

'My God! Thou deserted me!' he murmured. 'Nevertheless, Thy will be
done!'

He spoke not another word, but sat there, panting breathlessly, like a
hunted beast that cowers motionless in fear of the hounds. Ever since
his sin, he had thus seemed to be the sport of the divine grace. It
denied itself to his most ardent prayers; it poured down upon him,
unexpectedly and refreshingly, when he had lost all hope of winning it
for long years to come.

At first he had been inclined to rebel against this dispensation of
Heaven, complaining like a betrayed lover, and demanding the immediate
return of that consoling grace, whose kiss made him so strong. But
afterwards, after unavailing outbursts of anger, he had learned to
understand that humility profited him most and could alone enable him to
endure the withdrawal of the divine assistance. Then, for hours and for
days, he would humble himself and wait for comfort which came not. In
vain he cast himself unreservedly into the hands of God, annihilated
himself before the Divinity, wearied himself with the incessant
repetition of prayers. He could not perceive God's presence with him;
and his flesh, breaking free from all restraint, rose up in rebellious
desire. It was a slow agony of temptation, in which the weapons of faith
fell, one by one, from his faltering hands, in which he lay inert in the
clutch of passion, in which he beheld with horror his own ignominy,
without having the courage to raise his little finger to free himself
from the thraldom of sin.

Such was now his life. He had felt sin's attacks in every form. Not a
day passed that he was not tried. Sin assumed a thousand guises,
assailed him through his eyes and ears, flew boldly at his throat,
leaped treacherously upon his shoulders, or stole torturingly into his
bones. His transgression was ever present, he almost always beheld
Albine dazzling as the sunshine, lighting up the greenery of the
Paradou. He only ceased to see her in those rare moments when the divine
grace deigned to close his eyes with its cool caresses. And he strove to
hide his sufferings as one hides those of some disgraceful disease. He
wrapped himself in the endless silence, which no one knew how to make
him break, filling the parsonage with his martyrdom and resignation, and
exasperating La Teuse, who, at times, when his back was turned, would
shake her fist at heaven.

This time he was alone now, and need take no care to hide his torment.
Sin had just struck him such an overwhelming blow, that he had not
strength left to move from the altar steps, where he had fallen. He
remained there, sighing, and groaning, parched with agony, incapable of
a single tear. And he thought of the calm unruffled life that had once
been his. Ah! the perfect peace, the full confidence of his first days
at Les Artaud! The path of salvation had seemed so straight and easy
then! He had smiled at the very mention of temptation. He had lived in
the midst of wickedness, without knowledge of it, without fear of it,
certain of being able to withstand it. He had been a model priest, so
pure and chaste, so inexperienced and innocent in God's sight, that God
had led him by the hand like a little child.

But now, all that childlike innocence was dead, God visited him in the
morning, and forthwith tried him. A state of temptation became his life
on earth. Now that full manhood and sin had come upon him, he entered
into the everlasting struggle. Could it be that God really loved him
more now than before? The great saints have all left fragments of their
torn flesh upon the thorns of the way of sorrow. He tried to gather some
consolation from this circumstance. At each laceration of his flesh,
each racking of his bones, he tried to assure himself of some exceeding
great reward. And then, no infliction that Heaven might now cast upon
him could be too heavy. He even looked back with scorn on his former
serenity, his easy fervour, which had set him on his knees with mere
girlish enthusiasm, and left him unconscious even of the bruising of the
hard stones. He strove also to discover pleasure in pain, in plunging
into it, annihilating himself in it. But, even while he poured out
thanks to God, his teeth chattered with growing terror, and the voice of
his rebellious blood cried out to him that this was all falsehood, and
that the only happiness worth desiring was in Albine's arms, amongst the
flowers of the Paradou.

Yet he had put aside Mary for Jesus, sacrificing his heart that he might
subdue his flesh, and hoping to implant some virility in his faith. Mary
disquieted him too much, with her smoothly braided hair, her
outstretched hands, and her womanly smile. He could never kneel before
her without dropping his eyes, for fear of catching sight of the hem of
her dress. Then, too, he accused her of having treated him too tenderly
in former times. She had kept him sheltered so long within the folds of
her robe, that he had let himself slip from her arms to those of a human
creature without being conscious even of the change of his affection. He
thought of all the roughness of Brother Archangias, of his refusal to
worship Mary, of the distrustful glances with which he had seemed to
watch her. He himself despaired of ever rising to such a height of
roughness, and so he simply left her, hiding her images and deserting
her altar. Yet she remained in his heart, like some love which, though
unavowed, is ever present. Sin, with sacrilege whose very horror made
him shudder, made use of her to tempt him.

Whenever he still invoked her, as he did at times of irrepressible
emotion, it was Albine who showed herself beneath the white veil, with
the blue scarf knotted round her waist and the golden roses blooming on
her bare feet. All the representations of the Virgin, the Virgin with
the royal mantle of cloth-of-gold, the Virgin crowned with stars, the
Virgin visited by the Angel of the Annunciation, the peaceful Virgin
poised between a lily and a distaff, all brought him some memory of
Albine, her smiling eyes or her delicately curved mouth or her softly
rounded cheeks.

Thereupon, by a supreme effort, he drove the female element from his
worship, and sought refuge in Jesus, though even His gentle mildness
sometimes proved a source of disquietude to him. What he needed was a
jealous God, an implacable God, the Jehovah of the Old Testament, girded
with thunder and manifesting Himself only to chastise the terrified
world. He had done with the saints and the angels and the Divine Mother;
he bowed down before God Himself alone, the omnipotent Master, who
demanded from him his every breath. And he felt the hand of this God
laid heavily upon him, holding him helpless at His mercy through space
and time, like a guilty atom. Ah! to be nothing, to be damned, to dream
of hell, to wrestle vainly against hideous temptations, all that was
surely good.

From Jesus he took but the cross. He was seized with that passion for
the cross which has made so many lips press themselves again and again
to the crucifix till they were worn away with kissing. He took up the
cross and followed Jesus. He sought to make it heavier, the mightiest of
burdens; it was great joy to him to fall beneath its weight, to drag it
on his knees, his back half broken. In it he beheld the only source of
strength for the soul, of joy for the mind, of the consummation of
virtue and the perfection of holiness. In it lay all that was good; all
ended in death upon it. To suffer and to die, those words ever sounded
in his ears, as the end and goal of mortal wisdom. And, when he had
fastened himself to the cross, he enjoyed the boundless consolation of
God's love. It was no longer, now, upon Mary that he lavished filial
tenderness or lover's passion. He loved for love's mere sake, with an
absolute abstract love. He loved God with a love that lifted him out of
himself, out of all else, and wrapped him round with a dazzling radiance
of glory. He was like a torch that burns away with blazing light. And
death seemed to him to be only a great impulse of love.

But what had he omitted to do that he was thus so sorely tried? With
his hand he wiped away the perspiration that streamed down his brow,
and reflected that, that very morning, he had made his usual
self-examination without finding any great guilt within him. Was he not
leading a life of great austerity and mortification of the flesh? Did he
not love God solely and blindly? Ah! how he would have blessed His Holy
Name had He only restored him his peace, deeming him now sufficiently
punished for his transgression! But, perhaps, that sin of his could
never be expiated. And then, in spite of himself, his mind reverted to
Albine and the Paradou, and all their memories.

At first he tried to make excuses for himself. He had fallen, one
evening, senseless upon the tiled floor of his bedroom, stricken with
brain fever. For three weeks he had remained unconscious. His blood
surged furiously through his veins and raged within him like a torrent
that had burst its banks. His whole body, from the crown of his head to
the soles of his feet, was so scoured and renewed and wrought afresh by
the mighty labouring of his ailment, that in his delirium he had
sometimes thought he could hear the very hammer blows of workmen that
nailed his bones together again. Then, one morning, he had awakened,
feeling like a new being. He was born a second time, freed of all that
his five-and-twenty years of life had successively implanted in him. His
childish piety, his education at the seminary, the faith of his early
priesthood, had all vanished, had been carried off, and their place was
bare and empty. In truth, it could be hell alone that had thus prepared
him for the reception of evil, disarming him of all his former weapons,
and reducing his body to languor and softness, through which sin might
readily enter.

He, perfectly unconscious of it all, unknowingly surrendered himself to
the gradual approach of evil. When he had reopened his eyes in the
Paradou, he had felt himself an infant once more, with no memory of the
past, no knowledge of his priesthood. He experienced a gentle pleasure,
a glad feeling of surprise at thus beginning life afresh, as though it
were all new and strange to him and would be delightful to learn. Oh!
the sweet apprenticeship, the charming observations, the delicious
discoveries! That Paradou was a vast abode of felicity; and hell, in
placing him there, had known full well that he would be defenceless.
Never, in his first youth, had he known such enjoyment in growing. That
first youth of his, when he now thought of it, seemed quite black and
gloomy, graceless, wan and inactive, as if it had been spent far away
from the sunlight.

But at the Paradou, how joyfully had he hailed the sun! How admiringly
had he gazed at the first tree, at the first flower, at the tiniest
insect he had seen, at the most insignificant pebble he had picked up!
The very stones charmed him. The horizon was a source of never-ending
amazement. One clear morning, the memory of which still filled his eyes,
bringing back a perfume of jasmine, a lark's clear song, he had been so
affected by emotion that he felt all power desert his limbs. He had long
found pleasure in learning the sensations of life. And, ah! the morning
when Albine had been born beside him amidst the roses! As he thought of
it, an ecstatic smile broke out upon his face. She rose up like a star
that was necessary to the very sun's existence. She illumined
everything, she made everything clear. She made his life complete.

Then in fancy he once again walked with her through the Paradou. He
remembered the little curls that waved behind her neck as she ran on
before him. She exhaled delicious scent, and the touch of her warm
swaying skirts seemed like a caress. And when she clasped him with her
supple curving arms, he half expected to see her, so slight and slender
she was, twine herself around him. It was she who went foremost. She led
him through winding paths, where they loitered, that their walk might
last the longer. It was she who instilled into him love for nature; and
it was by watching the loves of the plants that he had learned to love
her, with a love that was long, indeed, in bursting into life, but whose
sweetness had been theirs at last. Beneath the shade of the giant tree
they had reached their journey's goal. Oh! to clasp her once again--yet
once again!

A low groan suddenly came from the priest. He hastily sprang up and
then flung himself down again. Temptation had just assailed him
afresh. Into what paths were his recollections leading him? Did he
not know, only too well, that Satan avails himself of every wile to
insinuate his serpent-head into the soul, even when it is absorbed in
self-examination? No! no! he had no excuse. His illness had in no wise
authorised him to sin. He should have set strict guard upon himself, and
have sought God anew upon recovering from his fever. And what a
frightful proof he now had of his vileness: he was not even able to make
calm confession of his sin. Would he never be able to silence his
nature? He wildly thought of scooping his brains out of his skull that
he might be able to think no more, and of opening his veins that his
blood might no longer torment him. For a moment he buried his face
within his hands, shuddering as though the beasts that he felt prowling
around him might infect him with the hot breath of temptation.

But his thoughts strayed on in spite of himself, and his blood throbbed
wildly in his very heart. Though he held his clenched fists to his eyes,
he still saw Albine, dazzling like a sun. Every effort that he made to
press the vision from his sight only made her shine out before him with
increased brilliancy. Was God, then, utterly forsaking him, that he
could find no refuge from temptation? And, in spite of all his efforts
to control his thoughts, he espied every tiny blade of grass that thrust
itself up by Albine's skirts; he saw a little thistle-flower fastened in
her hair, against which he remembered that he had pricked his lips.
Even the perfumed atmosphere of the Paradou floated round him, and
well-remembered sounds came back, the repeated call of a bird, then an
interval of hushed silence, then a sigh floating through the trees.

Why did not Heaven at once strike him dead with its lightning? That
would have been less cruel. It was with a voluptuous pang, like the
pangs which assail the damned, that he recalled his transgression. He
shuddered when he again heard in his heart the abominable words that he
had spoken at Albine's feet. Their echoes were now accusing him before
the throne of God. He had acknowledged Woman as his sovereign. He had
yielded to her as a slave, kissing her feet, longing to be the water she
drank and the bread she ate. He began to understand now why he could no
longer recover self-control. God had given him over to Woman. But he
would chastise her, scourge her, break her very limbs to force her to
let him go! It was she who was the slave; she, the creature of impurity,
to whom the Church should have denied a soul. Then he braced himself,
and shook his fists at the vision of Albine; but his fists opened and
his hands glided along her shoulders in a loving caress, while his lips,
just now breathing out anger and insult, pressed themselves to her hair,
stammering forth words of adoration.

Abbe Mouret opened his eyes again. The burning apparition of Albine
vanished. It was sudden and unexpected solace. He was able to weep.
Tears flowed slowly and refreshingly down his cheeks, and he drew a long
breath, still fearing to move, lest the Evil One should again grip him
by the neck, for he yet thought that he heard the snarl of a beast
behind him. And then he found such pleasure in the cessation of his
sufferings that his one thought was to prolong the enjoyment of it.

Outside the rain had ceased falling. The sun was setting in a vast
crimson glow, which spread across the windows like curtains of
rose-coloured satin. The church was quite warm and bright in the parting
breath of the sinking luminary. The priest thanked God for the respite
He had been pleased to vouchsafe to him. A broad ray of light, like a
beam of gold-dust, streamed through the nave and illumined the far end
of the building, the clock, the pulpit, and the high altar. Perhaps the
Divine grace was returning to him from heaven along that radiant path.
He watched with interest the atoms that came and went with prodigious
speed through the ray, like a swarm of busy messengers ever hastening
with news from the sun to the earth. A thousand lighted candles
would not have filled the church with such splendour. Curtains of
cloth-of-gold seemed to hang behind the high altar; treasures of the
goldsmith's art covered all the ledges; candle-holders arose in dazzling
sheaves; censers glowed full of burning gems; sacred vases gleamed like
fiery comets; and around all there seemed to be a rain of luminous
flowers amidst waving lacework--beds, bouquets, and garlands of roses,
from whose expanding petals dropped showers of stars.

Never had Abbe Mouret desired such magnificence for his poor church. He
smiled, and dreamt of how he might retain all that splendour there, and
then arrange it most effectively. He would have preferred to see the
curtains of cloth-of-gold hung rather higher; the vases, too, needed
more careful arrangement; and he thought that the bouquets of flowers
might be tied up more neatly, and the garlands be more regularly shaped.
Yet how wondrously magnificent it all was! He was the pontiff of a
church of gold. Bishops, princes, princesses, arrayed in royal mantles,
multitudes of believers, bending to the ground, were coming to visit it,
encamping in the valley, waiting for weeks at the door until they should
be able to enter. They kissed his feet, for even his feet had turned to
gold, and worked miracles. The bath of gold mounted to his knees. A
golden heart was beating within his golden breast, with so clear a
musical pulsation that the waiting crowds could hear it from outside.
Then a feeling of overweening pride seized upon him. He was an idol. The
golden beam mounted still higher, the high altar was all ablaze with
glory, and the priest grew certain that the Divine grace must be
returning to him, such was his inward satisfaction. The fierce snarl
behind him had now grown gentle and coaxing, and he only felt on his
shoulder a soft velvety pressure, as though some giant cat were lightly
caressing him.

He still pursued his reverie. Never before had he seen things under such
a favourable light. Everything seemed quite easy to him now that he once
more felt full of strength. Since Albine was waiting for him, he would
go and join her. It was only natural. On the previous morning he had
married Fortune and Rosalie. The Church did not forbid marriages. He saw
that young couple again as they knelt before him, smiling and nudging
each other while his hands were held over them in benediction. Then, in
the evening, they had shown him their room. Each word that he had spoken
to them echoed loudly in his ear. He had told Fortune that God had sent
him a companion, because He did not wish man to live alone; and he had
told Rosalie that she must cleave to her husband, never leaving him, but
always acting as his obedient helpmate. But he had said these things
also for Albine and himself. Was she not his companion, his obedient
helpmate, whom God had sent to him that his manhood might not wither up
in solitude? Besides, they had been joined the one to the other. He felt
surprised that he had not understood and recognised it at once; that he
had not gone away with her, as his duty plainly required that he should
have done. But he had quite made up his mind now; he would certainly
join her in the morning. He could be with her in half an hour. He would
go through the village, and take the road up the hill; it was much the
shortest way. He could do what he pleased; he was the master, and no one
would presume to say anything to him. If any one looked at him, a wave
of his hand would force them to bend their heads. He would live with
Albine. He would call her his wife. They would be very happy together.

The golden stream mounted still higher, and played amongst his fingers.
Again did he seem to be immersed in a bath of gold. He would take the
altar-vases away to ornament his house, he would keep up a fine
establishment, he would pay his servants with fragments of chalices
which he could easily break with his fingers. He would hang his
bridal-bed with the cloth-of-gold that draped the altar; and he would
give his wife for jewels the golden hearts and chaplets and crosses that
hung from the necks of the Virgin and the saints. The church itself, if
another storey were added to it, would supply them with a palace. God
would have no objection to make since He had allowed them to love each
other. And, besides, was it not he who was now God, with the people
kissing his golden miracle-working feet?

Abbe Mouret rose. He made that sweeping gesture of Jeanbernat's, that
wide gesture of negation, that took in everything as far as the horizon.

'There is nothing, nothing, nothing!' he said. 'God does not exist.'

A mighty shudder seemed to sweep through the church. The terrified
priest turned deadly pale and listened. Who had spoken? Who was it that
had blasphemed? Suddenly the velvety caress, whose gentle pressure he
had felt upon his shoulder, turned fierce and savage: sharp talons
seemed to be rending his flesh, and once more he felt his blood
streaming forth. Yet he remained on his feet, struggling against the
sudden attack. He cursed and reviled the triumphant sin that sniggered
and grinned round his temples, whilst all the hammers of the Evil One
battered at them. Why had he not been on his guard against Satan's
wiles? Did he not know full well that it was his habit to glide up
softly with gentle paws that he might drive them like blades into the
very vitals of his victim?

His anger increased as he thought how he had been entrapped, like a mere
child. Was he destined, then, to be ever hurled to the ground, with sin
crouching victoriously on his breast? This time he had actually denied
his God. It was all one fatal descent. His transgression had destroyed
his faith, and then dogma had tottered. One single doubt of the flesh,
pleading abomination, sufficed to sweep heaven away. The divine
ordinances irritated one; the divine mysteries made one smile. Then came
other temptations and allurements; gold, power, unrestrained liberty, an
irresistible longing for enjoyment, culminating in luxuriousness,
sprawling on a bed of wealth and pride. And then God was robbed. His
vessels were broken to adorn woman's impurity. Ah! well, then, he was
damned. Nothing could make any difference to him now. Sin might speak
aloud. It was useless to struggle further. The monsters who had hovered
about his neck were battening on his vitals now. He yielded to them with
hideous satisfaction. He shook his fists at the church. No; he believed
no longer in the divinity of Christ; he believed no longer in the Holy
Trinity; he believed in naught but himself, and his muscles and the
appetites of his body. He wanted to live. He felt the necessity of being
a man. Oh! to speed along through the open air, to be lusty and strong,
to owe obedience to no jealous master, to fell one's enemies with
stones, to carry off the fair maidens that passed upon one's shoulders.
He would break out from that living tomb where cruel hands had thrust
him. He would awaken his manhood, which had only been slumbering. And
might he die of shame if he should find that it were really dead! And
might the Divinity be accursed if, by the touch of His finger, He had
made him different from the rest of mankind.

The priest stood erect, his mind all dazed and scared. He fancied that,
at this fresh outburst of blasphemy, the church was falling down upon
him. The sunlight, which had poured over the high altar, had gradually
spread and mounted the walls like ruddy fire. Flames soared and licked
the rafters, then died away in a sanguineous, ember-like glow. And all
at once the church became quite black. It was as though the fires of the
setting sun had burst the roof asunder, pierced the walls, thrown open
wide breaches on every side to some exterior foe. The gloomy framework
seemed to shake beneath some violent assault. Night was coming on
quickly.

Then, in the far distance, the priest heard a gentle murmur rising from
the valley of Les Artaud. The time had been when he had not understood
the impassioned language of those burning lands, where writhed but
knotted vine-stocks, withered almond-trees, and decrepit olives
sprawling with crippled limbs. Protected by his ignorance, he had passed
undisturbed through all that world of passion. But, to-day, his ear
detected the slightest sigh of the leaves that lay panting in the heat.
Afar off, on the edge of the horizon, the hills, still hot with the
sinking luminary's farewell, seemed to set themselves in motion with the
tramp of an army on the march. Nearer at hand, the scattered rocks, the
stones along the road, all the pebbles in the valley, throbbed and
rolled as if possessed by a craving for motion. Then the tracts of ruddy
soil, the few fields that had been reduced to cultivation, seemed to
heave and growl like rivers that had burst their banks, bearing along in
a blood-like flood the engenderings of seeds, the births of roots, the
embraces of plants. Soon everything was in motion. The vine-branches
appeared to crawl along like huge insects; the parched corn and the dry
grass formed into dense, lance-waving battalions; the trees stretched
out their boughs like wrestlers making ready for a contest; the fallen
leaves skipped forward; the very dust on the road rolled on. It was a
moving multitude reinforced by fresh recruits at every step; a legion,
the sound of whose coming went on in front of it; an outburst of
passionate life, sweeping everything along in a mighty whirlwind of
fruitfulness. And all at once the assault began. From the limits of the
horizon, the whole countryside, the hills and stones and fields and
trees, rushed upon the church. At the first shock, the building quivered
and cracked. The walls were pierced and the tiles on the roof were
thrown down. But the great Christ, although shaken, did not fall.

A short respite followed. Outside, the voices sounded more angrily, and
the priest could now distinguish human ones amongst them. The Artauds,
those bastards who sprang up out of the rocky soil with the persistence
of brambles, were now in their turn blowing a blast that reeked of
teeming life. They had planted everywhere forests of humanity that
swallowed up all around them. They came up to the church, they shattered
the door with a push, and threatened to block up the very nave with the
invading scions of their race. Behind them came the beasts; the oxen
that tried to batter down the walls with their horns, the flocks of
asses, goats, and sheep, that dashed against the ruined church like
living waves, while swarms of wood-lice and crickets attacked the
foundations and reduced them to dust with their sawlike teeth. Yet
again, on the other side, there was Desiree's poultry-yard, where the
dunghill reeked with suffocating fumes. Here the big cock, Alexander,
sounded the assault, and the hens loosened the stones with their beaks,
and the rabbits burrowed under the very altars; whilst the pig, too fat
to stir, grunted and waited till all the sacred ornaments should be
reduced to warm ashes in which he might wallow at his ease.

A great roar ascended, and a second assault was delivered. The
villagers, the animals, all that overflowing sea of life assailed the
church with such impetuosity that the rafters bent and curved. This time
a part of the walls tottered and fell down, the ceiling shook, the
woodwork of the windows was carried away, and the grey mist of the
evening streamed in through the frightful gaping breaches. The great
Christ now only clung to His cross by the nail that pierced His left
hand.

A mighty shout hailed the downfall of the block of wall. Yet the church
still stood there firmly, in spite of the injuries it had received. It
offered a stern, silent, unflinching resistance, clutching desperately
to the tiniest stones of its foundations. It seemed as though, to keep
itself from falling, it required only the support of its slenderest
pillar, which, by some miracle of equilibration, held up the gaping
roof. Then Abbe Mouret beheld the rude plants of the plateau, the
dreadful-looking growths that had become hard as iron amidst the arid
rocks, that were knotted like snakes and bossy with muscles, set
themselves to work. The rust-hued lichens gnawed away at the rough
plasterwork like fiery leprosy. Then the thyme-plants thrust their roots
between the bricks like so many iron wedges. The lavenders insinuated
hooked fingers into the loosened stonework, and by slow persistent
efforts tore the blocks asunder. The junipers, the rosemaries, the
prickly holly bushes, climbed higher and battered the walls with
irresistible blows; and even the grass, the grass whose dry blades
slipped beneath the great door, stiffened itself into steel-like spears
and made its way down the nave, where it forced up the flagstones with
powerful levers. It was a victorious revolt, it was revolutionary nature
constructing barricades out of the overturned altars, and wrecking the
church which had for centuries cast too deep a shadow over it. The other
combatants had fallen back, and let the plants, the thyme and the
lavender and the lichens, complete the overthrow of the building with
their ceaseless little blows, their constant gnawing, which proved more
destructive than the heavier onslaught of the stronger assailants.

Then, suddenly, the end came. The rowan-tree, whose topmost branches had
already forced their way through the broken windows under the vaulted
roof, rushed in violently with its formidable stream of greenery. It
planted itself in the centre of the nave and grew there monstrously. Its
trunk expanded till its girth became so colossal that it seemed as
though it would burst the church asunder like a girdle spanning it too
closely. Its branches shot out in knotted arms, each one of which broke
down a piece of the wall or thrust off a strip of the roof, and they
went on multiplying without cessation, each branch ramifying, till a
fresh tree sprang out of each single knot, with such impetuosity of
growth that the ruins of the church, pierced through and through like a
sieve, flew into fragments, scattering a fine dust to the four quarters
of the heavens.

Now the giant tree seemed to reach the stars; its forest of branches was
a forest of legs, arms, and breasts full of sap; the long locks of women
streamed down from it; men's heads burst out from the bark; and up aloft
pairs of lovers, lying languid by the edges of their nests, filled the
air with the music of their delights.

A final blast of the storm which had broken over the church swept away
the dust of its remains: the pulpit and the confessional-box, which had
been ground into powder, the lacerated holy pictures, the shattered
sacred vessels, all the litter at which the legion of sparrows that had
once dwelt amongst the tiles was eagerly pecking. The great Christ, torn
from the cross, hung for a moment from one of the streaming women's
curls, and then was whirled away into the black darkness, in the depths
of which it sank with a loud crash. The Tree of Life had pierced the
heavens; it overtopped the stars.

Abbe Mouret was filled with the mad joy of an accursed spirit at the
sight before him. The church was vanquished; God no longer had a house.
And thenceforward God could no longer trouble him. He was free to rejoin
Albine, since it was she who triumphed. He laughed at himself for having
declared, an hour previously, that the church would swallow up the whole
earth with its shadow. The earth, indeed, had avenged itself by
consuming the church. The mad laughter into which he broke had the
effect of suddenly awakening him from his hallucination. He gazed
stupidly round the nave, which the evening shadows were slowly
darkening. Through the windows he could see patches of star-spangled
sky; and he was about to stretch out his arms to feel the walls, when he
heard Desiree calling to him from the vestry-passage:

'Serge! Serge! Are you there? Why don't you answer? I have been looking
for you for this last half-hour.'

She came in; she was holding a lighted lamp; and the priest then saw
that the church was still standing. He could no longer understand
anything, but remained in a horrible state of doubt betwixt the
unconquerable church, springing up again from its ashes, and Albine, the
all-powerful, who could shake the very throne of God by a single breath.

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