you think there is to do in this devilish desert? I read the old books; it was more amusing than shooting. The Count, who used to curse like a heathen, was always saying to me: “Jeanbernat, my boy, I fully expect to meet you again in the hot place, so that you will be able to serve me there as you have up here.” ’
Once more he waved his hand to the horizon and added: ‘You hear, nothing; there’s nothing. It’s all foolery.’
Dr. Pascal began to laugh.
‘A pleasant piece of foolery, at any rate,’ he said. ‘Jeanbernat, you are a deceiver. I suspect you are in love, in spite of your affectation of being blase. You were speaking very tenderly of the trees and stones just now.’
‘Oh, no, I assure you,’ murmured the old man, ‘I have done with that. At one time, it’s true, when I first knew you and used to go herborising with you, I was stupid enough to love all sorts of things I came across in that huge liar, the country. Fortunately, the old volumes have killed all that. I only wish my garden was smaller; I don’t go out into the road twice a year. You see that bench? That’s where I spend all my time, just watching my lettuces grow.’
‘And what about your rounds in the park?’ broke in the doctor.
‘In the park!’ repeated Jeanbernat, with a look of profound surprise. ‘Why, it’s more than twelve years since I set foot in it! What do you suppose I could do inside that cemetery? It’s too big. It’s stupid, what with those endless trees and moss everywhere and broken statues, and holes in which one might break one’s neck at every step. The last time I went in there, it was so dark under the trees, there was such a stink of wild flowers, and such queer breezes blew along the paths, that I felt almost afraid. So I have shut myself up to prevent the park coming in here. A patch of sunlight, three feet of lettuce before me, and a big hedge shutting out all the view, why, that’s more than enough for happiness. Nothing, that’s what I’d like, nothing at all, something so tiny that nothing from outside could come to disturb me. Seven feet of earth, if you like, just to be able to croak on my back.’
He struck the table with his fist, and suddenly raised his voice to call out to Abbe Mouret: ‘Come, just another glass, your reverence. The old gentleman isn’t at the bottom of the bottle, you know.’
The priest felt ill at ease. To lead back to God that singular old man, whose reason seemed to him to be strangely disordered, appeared a task beyond his powers. He now remembered certain bits of gossip he had heard from La Teuse about the Philosopher, as the peasants of Les Artaud dubbed Jeanbernat. Scraps of scandalous stories vaguely floated in his memory. He rose, making a sign to the doctor that he wished to leave this house, where he seemed to inhale an odour of damnation. But, in spite of his covert fears, a strange feeling of curiosity made him linger. He simply walked to the end of the garden, throwing a searching glance into the vestibule, as if to see beyond it, behind the walls. All he could perceive, however, through the gaping doorway, was the black staircase. So he came back again, and sought for some hole, some glimpse of that sea of foliage which he knew was near by the mighty murmur that broke upon the house, like the sound of waves.
‘And is the little one well?’ asked the doctor, taking up his hat.
‘Pretty well,’ answered Jeanbernat. ‘She’s never here. She often disappears all day long—still, she may be in the upstair rooms.’
He raised his head and called: ‘Albine! Albine!’ Then with a shrug of his shoulders, he added: ‘Yes, my word, she is a nice hussy. … Well, till next time, Monsieur le Cure. I’m always at your disposal.’
Abbe Mouret, however, had no time to accept the Philosopher’s challenge. A door suddenly opened at the end of the vestibule; a dazzling breach was made in the black darkness of the wall, and through the breach came a vision of a virgin forest, a great depth of woodland, beneath a flood of sunbeams. In that sudden blaze of light the priest distinctly perceived certain far-away things: a large yellow flower in the middle of a lawn, a sheet of water falling from a lofty rock, a colossal tree filled with a swarm of birds; and all this steeped, lost, blazing in such a tangle of greenery, such riotous luxuriance of vegetation, that the whole horizon seemed one great burst of shooting foliage. The door banged to, and everything vanished.
‘Ah! the jade!’ cried Jeanbernat, ‘she was in the Paradou again!’
Albine was now laughing on the threshold of the vestibule. She wore an orange-coloured skirt, with a large red kerchief fastened round her waist, thus looking like some gipsy in holiday garb. And she went on laughing, her head thrown back, her bosom swelling with mirth, delighted with her flowers, wild flowers which she had plaited into her fair hair, fastened to her neck, her bodice, and her bare slender golden arms. She seemed like a huge nosegay, exhaling a powerful perfume.
‘Ay, you are a beauty!’ growled the old man. ‘You smell of weeds enough to poison one—would any one think she was sixteen, that doll?’
Albine remained unabashed, however, and laughed still more heartily. Doctor Pascal, who was her great friend, let her kiss him.
‘So you are not frightened in the Paradou?’ he asked.
‘Frightened? What of?’ she said, her eyes wide open with astonishment. ‘The walls are too high, no one can get in. There’s only myself. It is my garden, all my very own. A fine big one, too. I haven’t found out where it ends yet.’
‘And the animals?’ interrupted the doctor.
‘The animals? Oh! they don’t hurt; they all know me well.’
‘But it is very dark under the trees?’
‘Course! there’s shade: if there were none, the sun would burn my face up. It is very pleasant in the shade among the leaves.’
She flitted about, filling the little garden with the rustling sweep of her skirts, and scattering round the pungent odour of wild flowers which clung to her. She had smiled at Abbe Mouret without trace of shyness, without heed of the astonished look with which he observed her. The priest had stepped aside. That fair-haired maid, with long oval face, glowing with life, seemed to him to be the weird mysterious offspring of the forest of which he had caught a glimpse in a sheet of sunlight.
‘I say, I have got some blackbird nestlings; would you like them?’ Albine asked the doctor.
‘No, thanks,’ he answered, laughing. ‘You should give them to the Cure’s sister; she is very fond of pets. Good day, Jeanbernat.’
Albine, however, had fastened on the priest.
‘You are the vicar of Les Artaud, aren’t you? You have a sister? I’ll go and see her. Only you must not speak to me about God. My uncle will not have it.’
‘You bother us, be off,’ exclaimed Jeanbernat, shrugging his shoulders. Then bounding away like a goat, dropping a shower of flowers behind her, she disappeared. The slam of a door was heard, and from behind the house came bursts of laughter, which died away in the distance like the scampering rush of some mad animal let loose among the grass.
‘You’ll see, she will end by sleeping in the Paradou,’ muttered the old man with indifference.
And as he saw his visitors off, he added: ‘If you should find me dead one of these fine days, doctor, just do me the favour of pitching me into the muck-pit there, behind my lettuces. Good evening, gentlemen.’
He let
