"To thee I wish to confide this secret,Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreetThey love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age."
BABILLOT (La Mascarade humaine).
That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Curé of Althausen had coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups.
—You have asked somebody then? she enquired.
—Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica.
The woman smiled.
She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her master.
—We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us.
Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he thought, and he answered quietly:
—We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do anything wrong.
—Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would begin to chatter.
—It is true.
—And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so,Monsieur le Curé?
Marcel bent his head:
—You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one cannot usually with a … common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand me. Then, after a moment's hesitation:
—Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it.
—Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Curé, I deserved everything that you have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly towards you.
—I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely.
—Monsieur le Curé is too good.
—No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we can come to an understanding.
—Yes, I am easy to accommodate.
—Let us save appearances, that is essential.
—You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could ever reproach me for setting a bad example.
—I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we must wash our dirty linen at home.
—Poor Monsieur Fortin.
—That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little brandy? There! now sit close to me.
—Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees.
—At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, but by right of a friend.
—I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé.
—There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, but not a priest. Are you willing?
—I am quite willing.
—You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me.
—What do you want me to tell you?
—They committed faults then?…
—I have told you so, sir,—sometimes—like you.
—Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day.
—Seven times!
—Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater saints?
—Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar.
—Oh, Veronica, Veronica.
—Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them.
—What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things?
—One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to hisvalet de chambre; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I tell you so.
—But that is blasphemy, Veronica.
—Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel.
—Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness?
—Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who surprised me.
—You!… And how then?
—Monsieur le Curé, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine.
—Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? these ecclesiastics?
—Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet … if Mademoiselle SuzanneDurand….
—Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to me. It is wrong of you to forget that.
—Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand that since you, you have erred, the others….
—And what have they done?
—Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus!
—Let us see.
—I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it.
—Come, let us see, speak … you have nothing to be afraid of before me … speak, Veronica, speak.
—Where must I begin?
—Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose.
—There are several of them.
—Several beginnings?
—Yes; I have had three masters, you know.
—Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I knew slightly.
—He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no.
—The Abbé Fortin?
—Lord God, yes, the Abbé Fortin!
—What has he done then?
—My God … you know well, that which one does when one … is a man … and has a warm temperament.
—To you, Veronica, to you?
—Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, I am so good-natured, I don't know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out through the parsonage door.
—Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad.
—And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed is a sin half pardoned.
—Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence."
—Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so?
—A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe.
—I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least?
—He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman.
—That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would believe in us without that? I sayus, for I am also somewhat a church-woman.
—Undoubtedly.
—I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St.Eprive's and my mother the Curé's housekeeper.
—That is your title.
—Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the head of the association of the Holy Virgin.
—No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!… And how did he go to work to … seduce you? He must have used much deceit.
—All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge.
"The monk could not refrain from admiring the freshness and plumpness of this woman. For a long time he made his eyes speak, and he managed it so well that in the end he inspired the lady with the same desire with which he was burning."
BOCCACIO (La Décaméron).
Veronica took several sips of the brandy which remained at the bottom of the cup, collected her thoughts for a moment, and casting her eyes down with a modest air, she proceeded:
—The good Monsieur Fortin, as perhaps you know, used to drink a little of an evening.
—Oh, he used to drink!
—Yes, not every day, but every now and then; two or three times a week: but you know … quite nicely, properly, without making any noise; he was gayer than usual, that was all. But when he reached that point, though he was ordinarily as timid as a lay-brother, he became as bold as a gendarme, and he was very … how shall I say?… very enterprising. I may say that between ourselves, Monsieur le Curé, you understand that strangers never knew anything about it. If by chance anyone came and asked for him at these times, I used to say that he had gone out, or that he was ill. One day, I was finely put out. Christopher Gilquin's daughter came to call him to her mother who was at the point of death. He took it into his head to try and kiss her. The little one, who was hardly fifteen, did not know what it meant. I made her understand that it was to console her, and through pure affection for her and for her mamma. It passed muster. But when she had gone I gave it to him finely, and I made him go to bed … and sharply too.
—And he obeyed you?
—I should think so, and without a word. He saw very well he was wrong. One evening then … I had been in his service hardly six months—I must tell you first that he had looked at me very queerly for some time; I let him do so and said to myself: "Here is another of them who will do like the rest." And I waited for it to happen. I was better-looking then than I am now: I was ten years younger, Monsieur le Curé.
—Ten years younger! but you were thirty then. How could you be a Curé's servant at that age? Our rules are opposed to it.
—I passed as his relation. And that was tolerated. Besides, when Monseigneur made his visitation, I did not show myself … for form's sake, for Monseigneur knew very well that I was there. I met him once on the stairs; he took hold of my chin, looked at me very hard, and said in a sly way: "Here is this littlespiritual sisterthen; faith, she is a pretty little rogue." I was so bashful. I asked Monsieur Fortin what aspiritual sisterwas, and he told me that they used formerly to call women so who lived with priests. They say that all had two or threespiritual sisters. What indecency! I should not have allowed that.
—Spiritual sister is not exactly the expression, said Marcel, it isadoptive sister, because they were adopted.[1] Alas, Veronica, the clergy were slightly dissolute in former times: it is no longer so in our days, in which so many holy ecclesiastics give an example of the rarest virtues.
—Oh, three wives, Monsieur le Curé! three wives! sweet Jesus! they must have torn out each other's eyes.
—No, Veronica. They agreed very well among themselves. They had different ideas at that time to what we have now.
—One evening then Monsieur Fortin had drunk at table a little more than usual. I was going to bring the dessert and I leaned over to take up a dish which was before him. As the dish was heavy and rather far from my hand, I supported myself on the back of his chair, and involuntarily I rubbed against his body with my stomach. "Oh, oh," he said, "if that happens again I shall pinch that big breast."
—What! Monsieur Fortin used that expression?
—Yes, sir, and many others besides. I blush when I think of it…. Then I looked at him quite astounded. He began to laugh. I went to look for the cheese, and I passed again beside him on purpose, and supported myself on his chair again to place it on the table. "Ah," he cried, "she is beginning again.O, mammosa virgo!"—he repeated it so many times to me that I remember it—"so much the worse, I keep my promises." And he pinched me.
—Where?
—Where he had said. He made no error. I blushed for shame and drew back as quickly as possible: "How can he," I said to myself, "use Latin words to deceive poor women?" Then he cried: "Are you ticklish?"—Yes, sir. "Ah, you are ticklish. The big Veronica is ticklish! Who would have believed it?" And he laughed, but I saw clearly that his laugh was put on, and that something else preoccupied him. And from that moment, each time that I passed near him and stooped down to clear away, he tried to pinch me where he could: "And there," he said, "are you ticklish? are you ticklish there?" I was so stupefied that I could not get over it. "It is a little too much, Holy Mother of God," I said to myself, "a man like him! to pinch me in this way! who would believe it! One would not credit it, if one saw it! Ah, I will see how far he will go, and to-morrow I will give him an account." At last, when I saw that he would not stop it, and that he was going too far, I said to him severely: Monsieur le Curé, if you continue to tease me in this way, you shall see something.
—What shall I see? he said getting up suddenly, I want to see it directly. Ah,mammosa virgo! you threaten your master! Wait, wait, I will teach you respect.
And, pretending to punish me, he caught hold of as much as he could grasp with both hands; yes, sir, as much as he could. Ah, I was very angry, God can tell you so.
—And did he stop?
—Not at all, sir; quite the contrary. I escaped from his hands, and I turned round the table saying: "Ah, sweet Jesus, what is going to happen? Divine Saviour! How far will he dare to go?" To complete the misfortune, I let the lamp fall, and it went out. Then he put himself into a great passion, and soon caught me. "You have upset the oil," he cried. "I will teach you to spill the oil." He held me with all his might. Then I got angry in earnest, in earnest, you know.
—Well?
—Well, that was useless. I was taken like a poor fly. It was too late. It was all over.
—All over!
—All over. Monsieur Fortin let me go then. Ah! sir, if you knew how ashamed I was.
[Footnote 1: They are still calledsisters agapetaeorsubintroducedwomen. Perhaps it is not unnecessary to recall the fact that Gregory VII was the first of the popes to impose celibacy on the clergy. He nullified acts performed by married priests and compelled them to choose between their wives and the priesthood. In spite of this, and in spite of excommunication with which he threatened them, many kept their wives secretly, the rest contented themselves with concubines. Besides, the majority of the bishops, who lived after the same manner, tolerated for bribes infractions of the rule by the lower and higher clergy. The Council of Paris, in 1212, forbade them to receive money, proceeding from this source. At the present time, however, the Catholic priests of the Greeks-United, those of Libar and different Oriental communions, all under papal authority, not only may, but must take wives.
St. Paul said: "Choose for priest him who shall have but one wife." Would he find many of them at the present time?]
"Practise moderation and prudence with regard to certain virtues which may ruin the health of the body."
THE REV. FATHER LAURENT SCUPOLI (Le Combat Spirituel).
—What a strange story, said Marcel. Oh, Veronica. But did you not make more resistance?
—Resistance! I was lame from it for more than a fortnight. I walked like a duck. People said to me: "What is the matter with you, Mademoiselle Veronica? They say you have broken something!" Ah, if they had suspected what it was.
—What a scandal! Monsieur Fortin!
—He was stronger than I; but I don't give him all the blame. We must be just. It was my fault too. That is what comes of playing with fire.
—But it seems to me, Veronica, that you displayed a little willingness.
—Ah, Monsieur le Curé, you are scolding me for telling you all this so plainly. Was it not better for me to act thus, than to let Monsieur Fortin run right and left and expose himself to all sorts of affronts, as some do? That man had a temperament of fire. And that temperament must have expended itself on someone. The business about little Gilquin made me reflect. I sacrificed myself, and I acted as much in his interests as in the interests of religion.
—And does not temperament speak in you also, Veronica?
—Ah, that is only told in confession.
—Nevertheless it is fine to rule your passions, to be chaste.
—Ah, yes, as you were saying once when I came in: "Chaste without hope." All that is rubbish. God has well done all that he has done; I can't get away from that.
—How can you bring the holy name of God into these abominable things?
—Abominable! that is rubbish again. Monsieur Fortin and I often asked ourselves what evil that could do to God, when neither of us did any to other people. Monsieur Fortin used to say to me: "Are we doing evil to our neighbours, Veronica?" "Not that I know of, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we causing a scandal?" "Ah, Jesus, no, Monsieur le Curé." "Are we setting a bad example?" "No, Monsieur le Curé, no." "Are we populating the land with orphans?" "Oh, as to that, no." "Well then, in what way can we be offending God?" That was very well said all the same, the more so as his health depended on it.
—But, replied Marcel, wishing to change the conversation which was verging upon dangerous ground, have you not told me that you have been in the service of ecclesiastics for nearly five-and-twenty years. That appears to me to be very extraordinary for, after all, you are hardly forty.
—Thirty-nine, corrected Veronica, who was past forty-five.
—Reason the more.
—That is true, Monsieur le Curé, but I began early. At fifteen I went to the Abbé Braqueminet's.
—I was acquainted with a Braqueminet, who was Bishopin partibus. A very worthy prelate.
—That he is, sir; he went to America.
—Come! this is too much, Veronica; you want to make a fool of me. At fifteen, do you say, that is too much! At thirty you were with the Abbé Fortin. I have no objection to that, since you passed as his relation, although with regard to this, our rules are precise, and we cannot take a housekeeper, till she is over a certain age. Sometimes, it is true, they smuggle in a few years: but fifteen years!
—It is the exact truth, however, sir. I was fifteen years old, and no more at the Abbé Braqueminet's, and you will believe me, when I tell you that I was his niece.
-Monseigneur Braqueminet's niece! you, Veronica?
-Yes, sir, his niece; the Holy Virgin who hears me, will tell you that I was his niece, and I will explain to you how.
"This little maid, so fair, with teasing ways,Was made to be a lovely man's support.For many a foolish thing in former daysHe did to gain a face less fair than thine."
BÉRANGER (la Célibataire).
My father, as I have told you, was beadle at Saint Eprive's, and my mother was servant to Monsieur le Curé. These were two good situations, but they had a number of children, and not much time to attend to them. Therefore when I was thirteen, they entrusted me to an old aunt who was willing to take charge of me. She was servant to Monsieur Braqueminet, who was then at Mirecourt. She placed me at first with a lady who made me look after her little children. At the end of a year Monsieur l'Abbé had a change, and went away to a village near Saint-Dié. He said to my aunt: "You cannot leave Veronica alone at Mirecourt; she will soon be fifteen; she is tall and nice-looking; she will run too much risk, and we must take her with us; but as it would make these foolish peasants chatter if their Curé had a strange young girl in the house, she shall pass as my niece. What do you say to this proposal?" My aunt was delighted and agreed to it directly, and all the more because I would have to assist her in the household work, and that her labour would thus be lightened. They took me away from my situation, they taught me my lesson, and I went away with them, very pleased to be Monsieur le Curé's niece. Ah! that was the best time of my life. My aunt spoilt me, Monsieur le Curé was excessively fond of me, I had all my wishes. All the ladies in the neighbourhood spoke to me civilly, the Collector's wife, the lawyer's wife, the Mayoress, the wife of the exciseman, they all, in short, made much of me. Mademoiselle Veronica here! Mademoiselle Veronica there! I had my place in the gallery. They invited me to dinner and they were rivals as to who should make me little presents, as if I were really his true niece; everybody believed it, and my aunt herself, by dint of hearing it said, ended by believing it herself, for she never called me anything else than Mademoiselle Veronica.
Unfortunately after some time my aunt died. When we had both of us wept copiously for her, Monsieur le Curé said to me: "Now your aunt is dead, Veronica, what are you going to do?" I made no answer and burst again into tears. "You must not cry like that, little one, you will spoil your pretty eyes; will you remain with me? will you continue to be my niece?" That was my dream; I asked for nothing more. I thanked Monsieur Braqueminet with all my soul, and told him that as he wanted me to be his niece, I would remain his niece all my life.—"That is agreed," he said to me, "you shall keep my little house for me, and I will take another maid-servant for the heavy work only." For he was so nice to me that he would not allow me to fatigue myself in anything. Ah, the men, Monsieur le Curé, who can trust the men! See what he has made of me after all his fine promises: a poor servant, nothing more.
—Had he then any reason to complain of you?
—To complain of me! ah, sweet Paschal Lamb! Never has he said a word of reproach. But since I am in the mood to tell you everything, I may as well do so at once. It was he who had my innocence.
—What! it was not the Abbé Fortin then?
-No, Monsieur le Curé, it was the Abbé Braqueminet.
—And how did he go to work to have your innocence?
—Ah, he was a very clever man. First he knew how to inspire affection, he was so kind to me. It was I who managed everything. I was mistress of all, although so young, and, pray believe me, everything proceeded well. But … one fine day a real niece turned up, no one knows whence … and, faith, I was obliged to retire. I might have made an exposure, but I preferred to sacrifice myself.
—Was she younger than you then?
—The same age, sir, but she was fresh fruit. She appeared so innocent that one would have given her the sacrament without confession. Monsieur Braqueminet, he undertook to give her the Sacrament…. Yes, he undertook it, that man!…
—But was she really his niece?
—Yes, sir, his own sister's daughter. I have had proofs of it; do you think I should have gone away, without that? This sister hated me, and I thoroughly returned it; but when I saw her daughter arrive, I said to myself: I am well revenged.
—But your innocence…. how did he have it?
—Ah, you are anxious to know that. I must tell you everything then! everything! this is how it happened. He suffered a little from his chest, and every evening my aunt used to carry him up a posset. When my aunt was dead, I was obliged to take her place, for the servant we had taken was married, and went home at the end of the day. He knew very well what he was doing, and I, poor little lamb of God, believed everything. I was like a new-born child. It is not right to be so silly as that. God has punished me for it: it is quite right. I don't complain at it. So I used to take him up his posset every evening. Then he used to kiss me and squeeze me to his heart, calling me his dear niece, and charging me to be good:
—You will always be good? he used to say to me.
—Yes, uncle.
—Always! you promise me.
—Yes, uncle.
—Ah, let me kiss you for that kind promise. I found that he kissed me for rather a long time and although it was very pleasant to me, still it used to give me reason for reflection: "How can he love me so much, I thought, when he is not my uncle?"
You can judge by that if I was not silly. But it is perfectly conceivable, for I had never been to school, so who was there then to teach me naughtiness. A young girl's brain is active, and I formed a thousand fancies of every kind. "Perhaps he has some interest concealed underneath," I said artlessly to myself, "and perhaps he does not love me as he wishes me to believe." I was hardly fifteen, and you see I was quite candid and simple. I thought I would pretend to be ill, in order to make a trial of him, and see if he would be grieved and if he would come and nurse me. So one evening, when he had finished supper, I told him that I was not well, and that I was going to bed. He was reading his newspaper and did not appear to hear me. At least he made no reply. I went away very sadly and sorrowfully, thinking that his affection for me was not very great, as he did not give the least attention to my complaints. In short, I went to bed.
"He will go to bed too very soon," I said to myself, "he will call for his posset and he will be obliged to get up to see why I do not bring it to him."
Indeed, about an hour after, I heard his bell. I wrapped myself up in the sheets and pretended to be asleep. He rang a second time. "Veronica, Veronica," he cried, "my posset; what are you doing then? Have you forgotten it? Veronica!"
I turned a deaf ear.
"One is compelled sometimes to say to oneself,'On what does ruin or safety depend?'"
J. TOURGUENEFF (Les eaux printanières).
Then I heard him come upstairs cautiously and stop at the door of my room. All at once he opened it. He remained standing still for a moment, then he came near my bed on tip-toe.
I half-opened my eyes quickly, and the first thing I saw was his naked legs—my word, he had a very well-made leg! I looked again and saw that he was covered with an old black cloak which served him as a dressing-gown.
I closed my eyes again quickly, and, without giving an account of my feelings, I was overcome by a strong emotion.
My uncle passed his hand over my forehead. He found it burning, for he cried out directly: "But she is really ill, she is really ill, poor child." Then leaning over me: "Little one, little one, where are you in pain?"
I pretended to wake up with a start, and I stared wildly at him, as if I was much surprised to see him there. We women have the instinct of deceit from birth; believe me, what I tell you is true, Monsieur le Curé.
—It is possible, Veronica.
—Well, then be said to me, "Where are you in pain, little one?" I put my finger on the pit of my stomach, and replied in a feeble voice "Here."
He put his hand there, and I saw that he moved it about with complacency on that part.
This touch seemed to make him beside himself, "Oh, the pretty little girl, the pretty little girl!" he said, "she is ill, poor dear child." And his hand continued to caress me.
You may think how I was trembling. Although he did it very decently, I said to myself that it was not altogether proper, but I took good care not to utter a word. A girl is inquisitive, you know, and I was not displeased to see what he would come to.
"Will you have a fomentation?" he said to me after a moment. "No, uncle," I answered, "I feel I am getting better, it is not worth while; I am even going to get up to make you your posset." "To get up, do you dream of it?… All the same, perhaps you are right, there is still some fire in my room: will you come there? you will warm yourself better than in your bed." "I will, if it does not disturb you." "Disturb me! no, no, don't be afraid of disturbing me; come, put on a dress and come."
I sat up in bed, thinking that he would go out of the room to let me dress, but he remained standing in front of me, and his looks frightened me.
I remained sitting on the bed, without stirring. "Well, well, little girl, you are not getting up?"
"I dare not get up before you, uncle." "Are you silly? What are you afraid of? Are you not my niece? Come, come, out of bed, little stupid." He said that in a gentle insinuating voice, and I dared not hesitate any more. I put one leg out of bed. He followed my movements with the greatest attention; "Well, well, and that other leg?"
I put out the other leg, blushing all over with shame, and I wanted to take my petticoat.
But he came near directly and said: "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like this…. You will always be good, will you not?"
"Yes, uncle."
"How pretty you are when you are good. You will always be so? You promise?"
"Yes, uncle."
"Oh, I want to kiss you for that kind promise."
—I held out my cheek to him without resistance, but it was my mouth which received the kiss. It was followed by a thousand others. One is not of iron, Monsieur le Curé, and that was how … I … lost my innocence.
—What, Veronica, you fell so easily! They say that it is only the first step which is painful, but it seems hardly to have been painful to you.
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, we women are full of faults, and we deserve only eternal damnation.
—I do not say that, Veronica. Certainly in this circumstance all the fault lies on your seducer, but I should have preferred more struggle on your part.
—You men are very good with your struggle. To hear you, we never make enough resistance. Would one not say that the poor women are made of another paste than you, and that they ought to be harder?
—No, but it is necessary to know how to govern one's passions. That is the noble, the lofty, the meritorious thing. Resist temptation, everything lies in that.
[PLATE III: THE LEG. "Oh, the lovely little lass, how pretty she is like this…"]
[Illustration]
—Everything lies in that, I know it well; but what would you? I had lost my head entirely like Monsieur Braqueminet. And I did not know what he wanted, or what he was going to do. I only understood when it was too late.
—Ah, Veronica, you singular woman, you have made me quite beside myself with your stories.
—It was you who wished it.
—The Abbé Fortin! the Abbé Braqueminet! God of heaven! and who besides?
—The Abbé Marcel!
—Yes, it is true, I also … I have been on the point of transgressing. Ah! temptation is sometimes very strong, Veronica, my good Veronica; the noble thing is to resist.
The greatest saints have succumbed. St. Origen was obliged to employ a grand means, you know what, my daughter?
—Monsieur Fortin has told me. But you must not act like that saint; that would be a pity, it would be better to succumb, dear Monsieur Marcel. How I like your name, Marcel, Marcel, it is so soft to the mouth.
—To resist temptation like Jesus on the mountain….
—There was but one Jesus.
—Like St. Antony in the desert….
—That is rubbish; in the desert no one could tempt him.
—Leave the room, Veronica; since you have talked to me, I understand the fault of your former masters; leave the room.
—Are you afraid of me then? Angels of heaven, a woman like me. Is it possible? Ah, I should have been very proud of it.
—Proud to make me sin?
—Sin! Sin! Monsieur le Curé: why do we call that a sin?
She came nearer to him. He wished to rise from his chair, but his hand went astray, he never knew how, on his servant's waist.
Oh vow of chastity, sentiments of modesty, manly dignity and priestly virtue, where were you, where were you?
"Well, you have found it, this ephemeral happiness."
BABILLOT (La Mascarade humaine).
Sadness succeeds to joy, deception to illusion, the awakening to the dream, the head-ache to the debauch.
When the crime is perpetrated, remorse, the avenging lash of virtue, comes and scourges the conscience. "Come, up, vile thing! thou hast slept over long."
And it exposes to the wretch the emptiness of pleasures, purchased at the price of honour.
The dawn found the Curé of Althausen groaning secretly to himself on his couch.
He had made himself guilty of an abominable wickedness, he had just committed an inexcusable crime, he had succumbed cowardly, ignominiously; he had betrayed his faith, abjured his priestly oaths, forgotten his duties, prostituted his dignity on the withered breast of an old corrupted maid-servant.
Suzanne, the adorable young girl, who in the first place had insensibly and involuntarily drawn him on the road of perjury, for whom he would have sacrificed honour, reputation, the universe and his God, he had abjured her also in the arms of this drab.
And that was the wound which consumed his heart the most.
For as soon as we have yielded to the infernal temptation, the lying prism vanishes, the halo disappears, and there only remains vice in all its hideousness and repulsive nudity. It is then that we hear a threatening voice mutter secretly in the depths of our being.
Happy is he who, already slipping on the fatal descent, listens to that voice: "Stop, stop; there is still time, raise thyself up."
But most frequently we remain deaf to that importunate cry. And, weary of crying in vain, conscience is silent. It no more casts its solemn serious note into the intoxicating music of facile love.
And the wretch, devoured by insatiable desire, pursues his coarse and looks not back. He goes on, he ever goes on, leaving right and left, like the trees on the way-side, his vigour and his youth which he scatters behind him. He set forth young, robust and strong, and he arrives at the halting-place, worn-out, soiled and blemished. There is the ditch, and he tumbles headlong into it. He falls into the common grave of cowardice and infamy. The lowest depths receive him and restore him not again.
Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened. Disturb not this corpse, it is only putrefaction.
The poet has said:
"Evil to him who has permitted lewdnessBeneath his breast its foremost nail to delve!The pure man's heart is like a goblet deep:Whe the first water poured therin is foul,The sea itself could not wash out the spot,So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie."
Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself:
"Shall I ever be able to see the light of day? Shall I ever dare to raise my eyes after this filthy crime? Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me. Avenging thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth."
But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest rumbling of thunder. Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no minister of God had sinned. The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden.
There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile. She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless curiosity.
[PLATE IV: MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. …he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust…. And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.]
[Illustration]
Doubtless she was saying to herself: "Is it really possible? Am I then in bed with this handsome priest? Is my dream then realised?"
And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in theCuré of Althausen's bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones:
—You say nothing, my handsome master. You seem to be dejected. What! you are not tired out already?
And she put out her hand to give him a caress. But he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust.
—Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful. I was forgetting yourMass.
And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.
"'Tis the comer blest where God's creatures dwell,The wild birds' haunt and the dragon-fly's home,Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell,Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam."
CAMILLE DELTHIL (Les Rustiques).
"Abomination of abomination!" murmured Marcel, and he went out in haste; he would not remain another minute in that cursed house. It seemed to him that the walls of his room reeked of debauchery, and that everything there was impregnated with the odour of foul orgies.
He went out of the village, unconscious of his road, like a hunted criminal; he tried to escape from himself, for that harsh officer, remorse, had laid vigorous hold of his conscience. Be followed at random the foot-paths, lined by gardens by which he had passed so many times with placid brow and a clean heart; he walked on, he walked on, with bare head, and blank and haggard eyes, thinking of nothing but his crime, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, not oven the bell which summoned him to his morning Mass, as it cheerfully filled the air with its silver notes.
The morning was as bright as the face of a bride. May was shedding its perfumes and flowers on the paths, and displaying everywhere its marvellous adornments of universal life,—labour and love. The children were already tumbling about in the foot-paths, the birds were warbling in the hawthorn hedges, and in the moist grass the grasshopper was saluting the rising sun.
And he, in the midst of all this joy and all this life, was walking on with his head filled with vague ideas of suicide. A few peasants passed near him and sainted him: he saw them not; he saw not the children who stopped still and gazed in bewilderment at his strange appearance: he saw not Suzanne who was approaching at the end of the path.
She was only a few paces away when he raised his head, and all his blood rushed to his heart. Vision blessed and cursed at the same time. She, she there, at the vary moment of the consummation of his shame. She before him when he had just dug an abyss between them. What should he say? Would she not read on his troubled face the shameful secret of the drama within? Was not his crime written on his sullied brow in indelible soars? He would have wished the earth to open under his feet.
Meanwhile she advanced blushing, perhaps as greatly agitated as himself.
And from the smile on her rosy lips, from the brightness of her dark eyes, from the gram of her carriage, from the chaste swelling of her bosom, from the folds of her dress which, blown by the morning breeze, revealed the harmonious outlines of her fairy leg, from all those inexpressible maiden charms, there breathed forth thatsomething, for which there is no name in the language of men, but which accelerates the beating of the heart, which pours into the veins an unknown fluid, and bids us murmur low to the stranger who passes by, and whom perhaps we may never see again: "My life is thine, is thine!"
Mysterious sensation, which, in the golden days of youth, we have all experienced once at least with ravishing delight.
And everything seemed to say to Marcel: "Fool! If thou hadst wished it, we were thine. The delights of paradise were thine, and thou hast preferred the impurities of hell!"
Oh, if he had been able, if he had dared, he would have cast himself at this maiden's feet, he would have kissed her knees, he would have grovelled on the ground and cried with tears: "Pardon! pardon! Fate has caused it all. Almighty God will never pardon me, but it is thou whom I implore, and what matters it, if thou, thou dost pardon me."
The feeling of the reality recalled him to himself. Who was aware of his fault, and what was there, besides, in common between this young girl and himself? One evening when alone with her, he had acted imprudently, that was all, and it was now long ago. Then, through desperation and also to show that he attached no importance to that act of imprudence which he had almost forgotten, he assumed an icy demeanour.
She advanced with a smile, but she felt it congeal on her lips before this insolent coldness, while he, gravely bowing to her as before, a stranger, passed on.
"Ah, how much better are the love-tales which we spelt in our eyes with our hearts."
CAMILLE LEMONNIER (Croquis d'automne).
His Mass said, Marcel did not want to return to the parsonage. He made his way slowly to the wood, absorbed by a world of thoughts. All was quite changed since the day before, and what a revolution had been wrought in his soul in one day.
The day before there was still time to stop, there was time to cast far away temptations and impure desires, to avoid the infernal snares and ambushes, to take refuge, according to the Apostle's advice, in the bosom of God; now it was too late, it was no longer in his power; he found himself hemmed in within the circle of abominations, and he did not see how he could get forth.
A double remorse tormented him, and wrung his conscience with fierce fingers.
On the one hand, there was his servant, become his accomplice and his mistress, an odious thing; his servant defiling his couch, hitherto immaculate; his couch of a virtuous priest.
Then, on the other, there was the fair pale face of Suzanne, full of reproaches, surprised and sad. Why had he not stopped? What fury had urged him forward, cold and scornful, when he burned to hear once again the sound of that voice which stirred his heart!
And the memory of that meeting, at the very moment of the consummation of his infamy, was the blow of the lash which laid bare the open wound of his remorse. He did not curse his crime more than the inopportuneness and the awkwardness of that crime.
What! be had given himself up to a despicable old woman, he had slaked the thirst of that ghoul with his generous blood, he had abandoned to that hell-hag the promises of his young body and his virgin soul, while a young girl whose like he had never seen but in fairy tales and dreams, came to him and seemed to say to him: "You may love me."
And he had repulsed her in order to give himself up to the former: that horrible creature, that hypocrite, that sorceress.
And now that his judgment was calm, he could not understand how he had allowed himself to be carried away by such clumsy manoeuvres, that he had fallen in so cowardly a way, and for such an object.
If, at least, it had been in the arms of the lovely school-girl! If his virtue had melted under the kisses of her charming lips! But no, none of all that: none of those unparalleled joys, of those ineffable delights, of those divine and sweet pleasures.
Unclean touches, a withered body, an impure mouth. Lewdness instead of love.
And his servant's caresses recurred to him and froze him like the infernal spectres of a hideous nightmare.
He saw again her face, lighted up by amorous fever, her fiery lecherous look, fastening on him with all the wild fury of her forty-five years, with the cynicism of the sham saint who has thrown away her mask, and who, after long fasting, continence and privation, finds at length the means of glutting herself, and wallows more than any other in the sewer of obscenities and Saturnalia.
He saw her again like the old courtesan of Horace,
….Mulier nigris dignissima barris
soliciting horribly her too avaricious caresses, and employing all the arsenal of her filthy seduction to excite him.
Meanwhile the hours were passing away. The spirit travels in vain into the land of phantoms; nature performs her modest functions without caring for the wanderings of the spirit.
He felt by the pangs of his stomach that he had as yet only breakfasted on the body of Christ, a meagre repast after a night consecrated to Venus. In short, he was hungry, and he decided to return to the parsonage.
"What dost thou want with me, old vixen, worthy to have black elephants for thy lovers…. With what passion dost thou reproach me for my disgust."
HORACE (Epodes).
Veronica was waiting for him with a puckered smile. At another time she would have made a great uproar, for the hour for the meal had struck long ago; but she did not wish to abuse her freshly conquered rights, and she contended herself with asking in accents of soft reproach.
—How late you are. Where have you come from? I was beginning to be anxious.
Marcel made no reply.
—You don't answer me. Why this silence? Are you vexed already? Where have you come from?
—I have just been reading my breviary, replied Marcel sharply.
The servant smiled, and pointed out to him his breviary, lying on the table.
—Why tell a lie? she said, I don't bear you any ill-will, because you went towards the wood, although I should have preferred to see you return here quickly. Ah, you are not like me, you have not my impatience. But men are all like that; they do all they can to have a woman, and afterwards they scorn her.
This sentence struck the Curé to the heart like a pin prick. It opened his wounds, already bleeding overmuch, it recalled the shameful memory which he wished to drive away, and which rose up obstinately before him.
—You are changing our parts in a strange manner, he cried indignantly.
—There you are vexed. Why are you vexed? What have I done to you? Have I said anything wrong to you? Do you then regret? Ah, doubtless I am not young enough or pretty enough for you.
—I pray; enough upon that shameful subject. You are revolting.
—What do you say? replied the woman, wounded to the quick.
—I have no need to repeat it, you heard me, I think.
—I heard you, it is true, but I thought I was mistaken. Ah! I am revolting! revolting! Well, I am content to learn it from your mouth. But it is not to-day that you ought to tell me that, sir, it was yesterday, yesterday, she cried insolently.
—Yesterday! yesterday! Oh! let us forget yesterday, I implore you. I would that there were between yesterday and to-day, the night and the oblivion of the tomb.
—Yes? is that your thought? Well, for my part, I will forget nothing. Oh! you are pleased to wish to forget, are you? Therefore, you give yourself up to all your passions, you make use of a poor girl in order to satiate them, and the next day, when you are tired and weary from your debauchery, with no pity for the unhappy one who has trusted you, you say: "Let us forget." Ah! I know you all well, you virtuous gentlemen, you fine priests who preach continency and morality, you are all just the same, all of you, do you hear?
—Veronica, be silent, in the name of Heaven.
—I will not be silent, I will not. So much the worse if they hear me. What does that matter to me, poor unhappy creature that I am? It is not I who am guilty, it is you. It is not I who am charged to teach morality, it is you. It is not I who preach fine sermons on Sunday about chastity and purity and morals, and who hide myself behind the shutters to watch half-naked tumblers dancing in the market-place, who entice little girls at night under some pretest or other, and who kiss them when the servant has turned her back. Yes, yes, you have done that. I blush for you. And you are Monsieur le Curé! Monsieur le Curé. If that wouldn't make the hens laugh. Ah, what does it matter to me that they hear me telling you the truth, it is not I who will be despised by everybody, it will be you. Have I gone and sought for you, have I? You have made me tell you a lot of stories which ought not to be told except in confession, you have made me sit down beside you, drink brandy,… and then afterwards you have taken advantage of me. Yes, you have taken advantage of your maid-servant, a poor girl who has been all her life the victim of priests like you. No, I will not be silent, I will cry it upon the house-tops, if I must. Ah! you have taken me like a thing which one makes use of when convenient, and which one throws away, when one has no more need of it: I understand you; but I have more self-respect than that, although I am only a poor servant.
You want to forget. Very good. But I do not want to forget, and I shall not forget. Oh, I well know what it is your want, Messieurs les Curés; you want young girls, quite young girls, green fruit, which you pick like that at the Confessional, or in some corner, without appearing to touch it, and all the while praying to God. I am aware of that, you know. You cannot teach any tricks to me. You did not get up early enough, my good master. Your Suzanne! there is what would please you. You would not tell her that she is revolting. Affected thing! But they will give you them, wait a little.Go and see if they are coming, Jean. The little girls come like that and throw themselves at your neck! You would allow it perhaps. That is what would be revolting. But the mammas are watching, and the papas are opening their eyes. You hear, Monsieur le Curé? The papas; that is what annoys you. Papa Durand.
—Here! cried a voice of thunder from the bottom of the stair-case, and it resounded in Marcel's ears like the trumpet of the last judgment.
Pale and terrified, he questioned Veronica with his eyes.
—It is he, she said, hurrying to the landing-place.
"For her, for her I will drink the cup to the dregs."
A. DE VIGNY (Chatterton).
—A thousand pardons, said the Captain, but the door was open and I have knocked twice. Monsieur le Curé, I have the honour to salute you. I am not disturbing you?
—Not at all, Monsieur le Capitaine, quite the contrary, I am happy to see you; please come in, stammered Marcel, trying to conceal his confusion, and to look pleasantly at the old soldier. He eagerly brought forward an arm-chair for him, the one on which Suzanne had sat.
"Ah," he thought, "if he knew that his daughter was there, at this same place!"
The Captain sat down, and, tapping his cane on the floor, seemed to be seeking for a way of entering on his subject; he appeared anxious, and Marcel noticed that he no longer had his decisive scoffing manner.
—Monsieur le Curé, he said after a moment's silence, you must be a little surprised to see me … although, after what I believe I heard, I may not be altogether a stranger here.
—My parishioners are no strangers, Captain.
—Parishioner! oh, I am hardly that. I was not making allusion to that title, but to my name, which was uttered at the very moment when I was at your door.
—Your name, Captain, said Marcel growing red; but there are several persons of your name.
—That is what I said to myself. There is more than one donkey which is called Neddy, and more than onePapaDurand in the world.Papa! that recalls to me my position as father, sir, and the purpose of my presence here.
Marcel trembled.
—For you may guess that independently of the pleasure of paying you a call, I have moreover another object in view.
—Proceed, Captain.
—Yes, sir. I wish to talk to you about my daughter.
—About your daughter! cried Marcel.
—About my daughter, if you allow me.
—Do so, I beg of you.
—Monsieur le Curé, you have been in this neighbourhood some six or eight months. People have certainly spoken to you about me; they have told you who I am; a miscreant, a man without religion, who regards neither law or Gospel: that is to say, only worth hanging. In spite of that, you came to see me. Very good. You know that I do not pick and choose my words, that I do not seek a lot of little twisting ways to express my meaning. You have had a proof of it. I am blunt, and even brutal, that is well known; but I am open and true.
—I do not doubt it, Captain.
—After our little conversation the other day, you must have decided on my sentiments with regard to those of your profession. Are those sentiments right or wrong? That is my business. I am not come to begin a controversy, I am come to ask for an explanation.
—Please go on, said Marcel alarmed.
—Not liking the priests, I should have wished to bring up my daughter in these principles. You see I am straightforward. Unfortunately, like many other things, her education has slipped out of my hands. We soldiers do not accumulate property, and those who have the best share, if they have no private fortune, remain as poor as Job. We are not able therefore to bring up our children as we intend. The State, in its solicitude, is willing to undertake this care: we are glad of it, and we are thankful to the State; but our children slip out of our hands; they become what the State wishes them to be, that is to say, its humble servants, and, if they are daughters, anything but what their father has ever dreamed.
Marcel breathed again:
—The vocation of children, he said softly, is often in contradiction to the wishes of parents, and that is precisely the sign of the real vocation … to shatter obstacles. Where is the great artist, the great man, the hero, the saint, the martyr, who has not had to struggle with his own family?
—I am not speaking of a vocation, sir, but of prejudices, of fatal habits, of disheartening nonsense, which children, and especially young girls, imbibe in certain surroundings. The education which my daughter has received, has inoculated her with ideas which I am far from blaming in a woman—I have my religion myself too—but the abuse of which I resent. I am not then at war with my daughter because she has her own, and her own is more receptive, but what I blame with all my power, and what I am determined to oppose with all my power is the excessive attendance at church and on the priest … on the priest, above all. You are a man, sir, and you understand me, do you not?
—I understand, Captain, that you do not wish your daughter to go to church.
—As little as possible, sir.
—Nevertheless, as a Christian and as a Catholic, she has duties to perform.
—What do you mean by duties?
—Why, the first elements which the Catechism prescribes.
—I do not remember exactly what your catechism prescribes, but if you mean by that the little box where they tell their sins, that is exactly what I absolutely forbid.
—Nevertheless a young person has need of counsel.
—Undoubtedly; but that counsel I intend to give myself.
—There is also the priest's part, Captain.
—Allow me to have another opinion. Besides, the adviser is too young; that is why, Monsieur le Curé, I ask you to abstain in the future from all advice, and undertake to abandon any intention you may have with regard to the direction of this young soul. Such is the purport of my visit.
—Monsieur le Capitaine, answered Marcel, relieved from a great weight, I am an honourable man. Another perhaps might be offended at this proceeding. I will take no offence at it. Another perhaps might answer: "It is a soul to contend for with Satan; it is the struggle between the Church and the family; an old struggle, sir, an eternal struggle. You are master to impose your will among your own, just as among us, we are masters to act according to our conscience. As a father of a family, your rights are sacred, but they stop at the entrance to the holy place. You desire the struggle. It lies between us." For myself I simply reply: "Let it be done according to your wish, and may the will of God equally be done!"
—And what does that mean?
—That your daughter is and shall be in my eyes like all the souls which Heaven has willed to entrust to my care. If she does not come to church, I will not go to seek her; but if she comes there, I cannot ask her to depart.
—You are really too good. And if she comes and kneels in the little box?
—Then the will of God will be stronger than the paternal will.
—That is no answer.
—Well! what can I do? humbly replied Marcel.
—Allow me, sir; I ask you what you would do in such a case.
—I make you the judge of it; can I treat your daughter differently to the other ladies of the parish?
—That is to say that you will receive her confession?
—That will be my duty, Captain. I am frank also, you see.
—But, Monsieur le Curé, the first of your duties is not to encourage the disobedience of children, and not to place yourself between a father and his daughter.
—I place myself on no side, Captain. I confine myself, as far as I can, to the very obscure and modest character of a poor priest. I am charged with an office; is it possible, I ask you yourself, for me to repel those who address themselves to that office?
—Very good, sir, said the Captain rising; I know henceforth what to rely on.
—Pardon me, Captain, but allow me to say that your proceedings and apprehensions appear to me a trifle superfluous; for indeed, if you have a reproach to make your daughter, it is not that of excessive devotion, for it is a long time since she has come to church.
—I have forbidden it to her, sir. But my daughter is grieved, and that pains me. I came to address myself to you, man to man, and as you see, I am disappointed.
—Believe me, Captain, let the thing alone. Do nothing in a hurry. Young people are irritated by obstacles. They need freedom and diversion. Think of this young lady's position, dropped from her school into the midst of this solitude, having neither friends or companions any longer; at that age, the family is not everything; books, walks, music are not sufficient, What harm is there in her coming sometimes on Sunday, to hear Divine Service? We do not conceal it from ourselves, sir, that many women whom we see at service, come there for relaxation.
—And it is precisely that relaxation which ruins them.
—Not in the church, sir.
—Not there, no. But behind, in the sacristy, or at the back of some well-closed room. Adieu, sir.
—I do not want to criticize your language, Captain But one word more, I ask. Is your daughter acquainted with your proceeding?
—Why that question?
—Because then my task will be all traced out.
—What task?
—To avoid every sort….
—Of intercourse. Do what honour counsels you, and trust to me for the rest. I will act with my daughter as it will be suitable for me to act. As for you, you have asserted that any other priestless honourablewould have said to me: "We are going to engage in the struggle, it lies between us." I see now that in your mouth the wordhonourablesignifiespolite, for you have been polite, but the other alone would have been frank and honourable. "Between us" is better, "between us" pleases me. It is plainer and shorter. Again, I have the honour to salute you.