Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 11

Chapter 11

That night Abbe Mouret slept very heavily. When he opened his eyes in
the morning, later than usual, his face and hands were wet with tears.
He had been weeping all through the night while he slept. He did not say
his mass that day. In spite of his long rest, he had not recovered from
his excessive weariness of the previous evening, and he remained in his
bedroom till noon, sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. The
condition of stupor into which he more and more deeply sank, took all
sensation of suffering away from him. He was conscious only of a great
void and blank as he sat there overpowered and benumbed. Even to read
his breviary cost him a great effort. Its Latin seemed to him a
barbarous language, which he would never again be able to pronounce.

Having tossed the book upon his bed he gazed for hours through his open
window at the surrounding country. In the far distance he saw the long
wall of the Paradou, creeping like a thin white line amongst the gloomy
patches of the pine plantations to the crest of the hills. On the left,
hidden by one of those plantations, was the breach. He could not see it,
but he knew it was there. He remembered every bit of bramble scattered
among the stones. On the previous night he would not have thus dared to
gaze upon that dreaded scene. But now with impunity he allowed himself
to trace the whole line of the wall, as it emerged again and again from
the clumps of verdure which here and there concealed it. His blood
pulsed none the faster for this scrutiny. Temptation, as though
disdaining his present weakness, left him free from attack. Forsaken by
the Divine grace, he was incapable of entering upon any struggle, the
thought of sin could no longer even impassion him; it was sheer stupor
alone that now rendered him willing to accept that which he had the day
before so strenuously refused.

At one moment he caught himself talking aloud and saying that, since the
breach in the wall was still open, he would go and join Albine at
sunset. This decision brought him a slight feeling of worry, but he did
not think that he could do otherwise. She was expecting him to go, and
she was his wife. When he tried to picture her face, he could only
imagine her as very pale and a long way off. Then he felt a little
uneasy as to their future manner of life together. It would be difficult
for them to remain in the neighbourhood; they would have to go away
somewhere, without any one knowing anything about it. And then, when
they had managed to conceal themselves, they would need a deal of money
in order to live happily and comfortably. He tried a score of times to
hit upon some scheme by which they could get away and live together like
happy lovers, but he could devise nothing satisfactory. Now that he was
no longer wild with passion, the practical side of the situation alarmed
him. He found himself, in all his weakness, face to face with a
complicated problem with which he was incompetent to grapple.

Where could they get horses for their escape? And if they went away on
foot, would they not be stopped and detained as vagabonds? Was he
capable of securing any employment by which he could earn bread for his
wife? He had never been taught any kind of trade. He was quite ignorant
of actual life. He ransacked his memory, and he could remember nothing
but strings of prayers, details of ceremonies, and pages of Bouvier's
'Instruction Theologique,' which he had learned by heart at the
seminary. He worried too over matters of no real concern. He asked
himself whether he would dare to give his arm to his wife in the street.
He certainly could not walk with a woman clinging to his arm. He would
surely appear so strange and awkward that every one would turn round to
stare at him. They would guess that he was a priest and would insult
Albine. It would be vain for him to try to obliterate the traces of his
priesthood. He would always wear that mournful pallor and carry the
odour of incense about with him. And what if he should have children
some day? As this thought suddenly occurred to him, he quite started. He
felt a strange repugnance at the very idea. He felt sure that he should
not care for any children that might be born to him. Suppose there were
two of them, a little boy and a little girl. He could never let them get
on his knees; it would distress him to feel their hands clutching at his
clothes. The thought of the little girl troubled him the most; he could
already see womanly tenderness shining in the depths of her big,
childish eyes. No! no! he would have no children.

Nevertheless he resolved that he would flee with Albine that evening.
But when the evening came, he felt too weary. So he deferred his flight
till the next morning. And the next morning he made a fresh pretext for
delay. He could not leave his sister alone with La Teuse. He would
prepare a letter, directing that she should be taken to her uncle
Pascal's. For three days he was ever on the point of writing that
letter, and the paper and pen and ink were lying ready on the table in
his room. Then, on the third day, he went off, leaving the letter
unwritten. He took up his hat quite suddenly and set off for the Paradou
in a state of mingled stupor and resignation, as though he were
unwillingly performing some compulsory task which he saw no means of
avoiding. Albine's image was now effaced from his memory; he no longer
beheld her, but he was driven on by old resolves whose lingering
influence, though they themselves were dead, still worked upon him in
his silence and loneliness.

He took no pains to escape notice when he set foot out of doors. He
stopped at the end of the village to talk for a moment to Rosalie. She
told him that her baby was suffering from convulsions; but she laughed,
as she spoke, with the laugh that was natural to her. Then he struck out
through the rocks, and walked straight on towards the breach in the
wall. By force of habit he had brought his breviary with him. Finding
the way long, he opened the book and read the regulation prayers. When
he put it back again under his arm, he had forgotten the Paradou. He
went on walking steadily, thinking about a new chasuble that he wished
to purchase to replace the old gold-broidered one, which was certainly
falling into shreds. For some time past he had been saving up
twenty-sous pieces, and he calculated that by the end of seven months he
would have got the necessary amount of money together. He had reached
the hills when the song of a peasant in the distance reminded him of a
canticle which had been familiar to him at the seminary. He tried to
recall the first lines of it, but his recollection failed him. It vexed
him to find that his memory was so poor. And when, at last, he succeeded
in remembering the words, he found a soothing pleasure in humming the
verses, which came back to his mind one by one. It was a hymn of homage
to Mary. He smiled as though some soft breath from the days of his
childhood were playing upon his face. Ah! how happy he had then been!
Why shouldn't he be as happy again? He had not grown any bigger, he
wanted nothing more than the same old happiness, unruffled peace, a nook
in the chapel, where his knees marked his place, a life of seclusion,
enlivened by the delightful puerilities of childhood. Little by little
he raised his voice, singing the canticle in flutelike tones, when he
suddenly became aware of the breach immediately in front of him.

For a moment he seemed surprised. Then, the smile dying from his face,
he murmured quietly:

'Albine must be expecting me. The sun is already setting.'

But just as he was about to push some stones aside to make himself a
passage, he was startled by a snore. He sprang down again: he had only
just missed setting his foot upon the very face of Brother Archangias,
who was lying on the ground there sleeping soundly. Slumber had
overtaken him while he kept guard over the entrance to the Paradou. He
barred the approach to it, lying at full length before its threshold,
with arms and legs spread out. His right hand, thrown back behind his
head, still clutched his dogwood staff, which he seemed to brandish like
a fiery sword. And he snored loudly in the midst of the brambles, his
face exposed to the sun, without a quiver on his tanned skin. A swarm of
big flies was hovering over his open mouth.

Abbe Mouret looked at him for a moment. He envied the slumber of that
dust-wallowing saint. He wished to drive the flies away, but they
persistently returned, and clung around the purple lips of the Brother,
who was quite unconscious of their presence. Then the Abbe strode over
his big body and entered the Paradou.

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