Abbe Mouret's Transgression: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The gig once more rolled along the road skirting the Paradou's
interminable wall. Abbe Mouret, still silent, scanned with upturned eyes
the huge boughs which stretched over that wall, like the arms of giants
hidden there. All sorts of sounds came from the park: rustling of wings,
quivering of leaves, furtive bounds at which branches snapped, mighty
sighs that bowed the young shoots--a vast breath of life sweeping over
the crests of a nation of trees. At times, as he heard a birdlike note
that seemed like a human laugh, the priest turned his head, as if he
felt uneasy.

'A queer girl!' said his uncle as he eased the reins a little. 'She was
nine years old when she took up her quarters with that old heathen. Some
brother of his had ruined himself, though in what I can't remember. The
little one was at school somewhere when her father killed himself. She
was even quite a little lady, up to reading, embroidery, chattering, and
strumming on the piano. And such a coquette too! I saw her arrive with
open-worked stockings, embroidered skirts, frills, cuffs, a heap of
finery. Ah, well! the finery didn't last long!'

He laughed. A big stone nearly upset the gig.

'It will be lucky if I don't leave a wheel in this cursed road!' he
muttered. 'Hold on, my boy.'

The wall still stretched beside them: the priest still listened.

'As you may well imagine,' continued the doctor, 'the Paradou, what with
its sun, its stones, and its thistles, would wreck a whole outfit every
day. Three or four mouthfuls, that's all it made of all the little one's
beautiful dresses. She used to come back naked. Now she dresses like a
savage. To-day she was rather presentable; but sometimes she has
scarcely anything on beyond her shoes and chemise. Did you hear her? The
Paradou is hers. The very day after she came she took possession of it.
She lives in it; jumps out of the window when Jeanbernat locks the door,
bolts off in spite of all, goes nobody knows whither, buries herself in
some invisible burrows known only to herself. She must have a fine time
in that wilderness.'

'Hark, uncle!' interrupted Abbe Mouret. 'Isn't that some animal running
behind the wall?'

Uncle Pascal listened.

'No,' he said after a minute's silence, 'it is the rattle of the trap
on the stones. No, the child doesn't play the piano now. I believe she
has even forgotten how to read. Just picture to yourself a young lady
gone back to a state of primevalness, turned out to play on a desert
island. My word, if ever you get to know of a girl who needs proper
bringing up, I advise you not to entrust her to Jeanbernat. He has a
most primitive way of letting nature alone. When I ventured to speak to
him about Albine he answered me that he must not prevent trees from
growing as they pleased. He says he is for the normal development of
temperaments. . . . All the same, they are very interesting, both of
them. I never come this way without paying them a visit.'

The gig was now emerging from the hollowed road. At this point the
wall of the Paradou turned and wound along the crest of the hills as
far as one could see. As Abbe Mouret turned to take a last look at that
grey-hued barrier, whose impenetrable austerity had at last begun to
annoy him, a rustling of shaken boughs was heard and a clump of young
birch trees seemed to bow in greeting from above the wall.

'I knew some animal was running behind,' said the priest.

But, although nobody could be seen, though nothing was visible in the
air above save the birches rocking more and more violently, they heard a
clear, laughing voice call out: 'Good-bye, doctor! good-bye, Monsieur le
Cure! I am kissing the tree, and the tree is sending you my kisses.'

'Why! it is Albine,' exclaimed Doctor Pascal. 'She must have followed
the trap at a run. Jumping over bushes is mere play to her, the little
elf!'

And he in his turn shouted out:

'Good-bye, my pet! How tall you must be to bow like that.'

The laughter grew louder, the birches bowed still lower, scattering
their leaves around even on the hood of the gig.

'I am as tall as the trees; all the leaves that fall are kisses,'
replied the voice now mellowed by distance, so musical, so merged into
the rippling whispers of the park, that the young priest was thrilled.

The road grew better. On coming down the slope Les Artaud reappeared in
the midst of the scorched plain. When the gig reached the turning to the
village, Abbe Mouret would not let his uncle drive him back to the
vicarage. He jumped down, saying:

'No, thanks, I prefer to walk: it will do me good.'

'Well, just as you like,' at last answered the doctor. And with a
clasp of the hand, he added: 'Well, if you only had such parishioners
as that old brute Jeanbernat, you wouldn't often be disturbed. However,
you yourself wanted to come. And mind you keep well. At the slightest
ache, night or day, send for me. You know I attend all the family
gratis. . . . There, good-bye, my boy.'

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