his need of affection, confidence and tenderness. Jeanne did not tell him about her new ideas, and her friendship for the Abbé Tolbiac. The first time he saw the priest he conceived a great aversion to him. And when Jeanne asked him that evening how he liked him, he replied: “That man is an inquisitor! He must be very dangerous.”
When he learned from the peasants, whose friend he was, of the harshness and violence of the young priest, of the kind of persecution which he carried on against all human and natural instincts, he developed a hatred toward him. He, himself, was one of the old race of natural philosophers who bowed the knee to a sort of pantheistic Divinity, and shrank from the catholic conception of a God with bourgeois instincts, Jesuitical wrath, and tyrannical revenge. To him reproduction was the great law of nature, and he began from farm to farm an ardent campaign against this intolerant priest, the persecutor of life.
Jeanne, very much worried, prayed to the Lord, entreated her father; but he always replied: “We must fight such men as that, it is our duty and our right. They are not human.”
And he repeated, shaking his long white locks: “They are not human; they understand nothing, nothing, nothing. They are moving in a morbid dream; they are anti-physical.” And he pronounced the word “anti-physical” as though it were a malediction.
The priest knew who his enemy was, but as he wished to remain ruler of the château and of Jeanne, he temporized, sure of final victory. He was also haunted by a fixed idea. He had discovered by chance the amours of Julien and Gilberte, and he desired to put a stop to them at all costs.
He came to see Jeanne one day and, after a long conversation on spiritual matters, he asked her to give her aid in helping him to fight, to put an end to the evil in her own family, in order to save two souls that were in danger.
She did not understand, and did not wish to know. He replied: “The hour has not arrived. I shall see you some other time.” And he left abruptly.
The winter was coming to a close, a rotten winter, as they say in the country, damp and mild. The abbé called again some days later and hinted mysteriously at one of those shameless intrigues between persons whose conduct should be irreproachable. It was the duty, he said, of those who were aware of the facts to use every means to bring it to an end. He took Jeanne’s hand and adjured her to open her eyes and understand and lend him her aid.
This time she understood, but she was silent, terrified at the thought of all that might result in the house that was now peaceful, and she pretended not to understand. Then he spoke out clearly.
She faltered: “What do you wish me to do, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
“Anything, rather than permit this infamy. Anything, I say. Leave him. Flee from this impure house!”
“But I have no money; and then I have no longer any courage; and, besides, how can I go without any proof? I have not the right to do so.”
The priest arose trembling: “That is cowardice, madame; I am mistaken in you. You are unworthy of God’s mercy!”
She fell on her knees: “Oh, I pray you not to leave me, tell me what to do!”
“Open M. de Fourville’s eyes,” he said abruptly. “It is his place to break up this intrigue.”
This idea filled her with terror. “Why, he would kill them, Monsieur l’Abbé! And I should be guilty of denouncing them! Oh, never that, never!”
He raised his hand as if to curse her in his fury: “Remain in your shame and your crime; for you are more guilty than they are. You are the complaisant wife! There is nothing more for me to do here.” And he went off so furious that he trembled all over.
She followed him, distracted and ready to do as he suggested. But he strode along rapidly, shaking his large blue umbrella in his rage. He perceived Julien standing outside the gate superintending the lopping of the trees, so he turned to the left to go across the Couillard farm, and he said: “Leave me alone, madame, I have nothing further to say to you.”
Jeanne was entreating him to give her a few days for reflection, and then if he came back to the château she would tell him what she had done, and they could take counsel together.
Right in his road, in the middle of the farmyard, a group of children, those of the house and some neighbor’s children, were standing around the kennel of Mirza, the dog, looking curiously at something with silent and concentrated attention. In the midst of them stood the baron, his hands behind his back, also looking on with curiosity. One would have taken him for a schoolmaster. When he saw the priest approaching, he moved away so as not to have to meet him and speak to him.
The priest did not call again; but the following Sunday from the pulpit he hurled imprecations, curses and threats against the château, anathematizing the baron, and making veiled allusions, but timidly, to Julien’s latest intrigue. The vicomte was furious, but the dread of a shocking scandal kept him silent. At each service thereafter the priest declared his indignation, predicting the approach of the hour when God would smite all his enemies.
Julien wrote a firm, but respectful letter to the archbishop; the abbé was threatened with suspension. He was silent thereafter.
Gilberte and Julien now frequently met him during their rides reading his breviary, but they turned aside so as not to pass him by. Spring had come and reawakened their love. As the foliage was still sparse and the grass damp, they used to meet in a shepherd’s movable hut that had been deserted since autumn. But one day when they were leaving it, they saw the Abbé Tolbiac, almost hidden in the sea rushes on the slope.
“We must leave our horses in the ravine,” said Julien, “as they can be seen from a distance and would betray us.” One evening as they were coming home together to La Vrillette, where they were to dine with the comte, they met the curé of Étouvent coming out of the château. He stepped to the side of the road to let them pass, and bowed without their eyes meeting. They were uneasy for a few moments, but soon forgot it.
One afternoon, Jeanne was reading beside the fire while a storm of wind was raging outside, when she suddenly perceived Comte Fourville coming on foot at such a pace that she thought some misfortune had happened.
She ran downstairs to meet him, and when she saw him she thought he must be crazy. He wore a large quilted cap that he wore only at home, his hunting jacket, and looked so pale that his red mustache, usually the color of his skin, now seemed like a flame. His eyes were haggard, rolling as though his mind were vacant.
He stammered: “My wife is here, is she not?” Jeanne, losing her presence of mind, replied: “Why, no, I have not seen her to-day.”
He sat down as if his legs had given way. He then took off his cap and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief mechanically several times. Then starting up suddenly, he approached Jeanne, his hands stretched out, his mouth open, as if to speak, to confide some great sorrow to her. Then he stopped, looked at her fixedly and said as though he were wandering: “But it is your husband — you also — — “ And he fled, going toward the sea.
Jeanne ran after him, calling him, imploring him to stop, her heart beating with apprehension as she thought: “He knows all! What will he do? Oh, if he only does not find them!”
But she could not come up to him, and he disregarded her appeals. He went straight ahead without hesitation, straight to his goal. He crossed the ditch, then, stalking through the sea rushes like a giant, he reached the cliff.
Jeanne,
