XXXIX.
THE DEVIL IN PETTICOATS.
"I know an infallible means of drawing you back from the precipice on which you stand."
CHARLES (Des Illustres Françaises).
—Wretch that I am. I have defiled a pure confiding child, who came in all loyalty to sit at my fire-side. Vile and cowardly nature, like some base Lovelace, I have grossly abused the confidence which was placed in me. My priestly robe, far from being a safeguard, is but a cloke for my iniquities. I have reached that pitch of cowardice that I am no longer master of myself.
Incapable of commanding my feelings; become the slave and the plaything of my shameful desires and of my lustful passions!… It must have happened. Yes, it must have happened. Sooner or later I was obliged to fall: it is the chastisement of my presumption and pride. Ah! wretch, you wish to subdue the flesh, you wish to reform nature, you wish to be wiser than God. They tried at the seminary by means of nenuphar and infusions of nitre to quench in you the desires of youth and its rebellious passion. Vain efforts, senseless attempts, which served only to retard your fall. In vain you try, in vain you struggle, in vain you invoke the angels and call God to your aid; there comes a time, a moment, a minute, a second, in which all your life of struggles and efforts is lost. The angry flesh subdues you in its turn, baffled nature revolts, and the Creator, whose laws you have not recognized, abandons the worthless creature and lets him roll over, falling into an abyss of iniquity.
Oh! my God! where is all this going to bring me? What will become of me? How can I show my brow all covered with shame? Is not my infamy written there?… She, she, what will she think of me?… To kiss her hand, her soft perfumed hand. Oh God, God all-powerful, where am I? where am I going? I said it; martyrdom or shame! It is shame which awaits me.
So spoke the Curé, when Marianne had taken away her young mistress, and his conscience exaggerated the gravity and the consequences of his imprudent rapture.
—Yes, it is shame, it is shame.
—Do not despair in this way, said a jeering voice.
Marcel turned round, terror-struck.
His servant was behind him.
She had approached, noiselessly, and was looking at him with her strange, green eyes.
—Shame lies in scandal, she added sententiously. Reassure yourself; that pretty young lady will hold her tongue.
She spoke low, slowly, with perfect calm, and each word penetrated the priest's heart like a steel blade.
Like all persons ashamed of having been caught, he put himself in a passion.
—You! he cried. You here? Who called you? You were not gone to bed then? What do you want? What have you just been doing? You are always listening then at the doors?
—That is useful sometimes, the woman said sententiously.
—What, you dare to admit that wretched fault without blushing at it?
—There are many others who ought to blush and yet don't blush.
—What do you mean? Come, speak? what do you want?
—Only to talk with you. You have had a long talk with Mademoiselle Suzanne
Durand! you can well listen to me a little in my turn.
—What do you say? wicked creature! what do you say?
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, you are wrong to call me wicked, I am not so.
—You are, at the very least, most indiscreet.
—Oh, sir, it is not my fault; it is quite involuntarily that I have been a witness of what passed.
—Eh! what has passed then?
—Sir, don't question me, she said in a pitying tone, I have heard and seen.
—You have seen! cried the priest in a stifled voice. What have you seen then, wretched woman?
And mad with anger, with blazing eyes and clenched fists, he sprang upon the servant, who was afraid and retreated to the door.
—Please, Monsieur le Curé, she implored, don't hurt me.
These words recalled the priest to himself.
—No, he said as he sat down again, no, Veronica, I shall not hurt you. I flew into a passion, I was wrong; pardon me. Reassure yourself; see, I am calm; come closer and let us talk. Come closer. Sit here, in front of me.
—I will do so. Ah! you frighten me….
—It is your fault, Veronica; why do you put me into such passion?
—It was not my intention; far from it. I wanted to talk with you very peaceably, like the other, it is so nice.
—Please, enough of that subject.
—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, it is just about that I want to speak to you.
—Do not jest, Veronica. You have been, thanks to your culpable indiscretion, witness of a momentary error, which will not be repeated any more.
—A momentary error, which would have led you to some pretty things, Monsieur le Curé. Good God! if Marianne had not arrived in time, who knows what might have happened.
—It is not for you to blame me, Veronica. There is only God who is without sin.
—I know that well. Therefore, I have not said that to you in order to blame you. Quite the contrary, I was astonished that with a temperament … as strong as yours, you have remained free from fault till to-day.
—And, please God, I will always remain so.
—Oh! God does not ask for impossibilities, as my old master, Monsieur le Curé Fortin, used to say: he was a good-natured man. He often repeated to me: "You see, Veronica, provided appearances are saved, everything is saved. God is content, he asks for no more."
—What, the Abbé Fortin said that?
—Yes, and many other things too. He was so honest, so delicate a man—not more than you, however, Monsieur le Curé—but he understood his case better than any other. He said again: "Beware of bad example, keep yourself from scandal. Dirty linen should be washed at home." Good rules, are they not, Monsieur Marcel?
—Certainly.
—He knew so well how to compassionate human infirmities. Ah! when nature speaks, she speaks very loudly.
—Do you know anything about it, Veronica?
—Who does not know it? I can certainly acknowledge that to you, since you are my Curé and my confessor.
—That is true, Veronica.
—And to whom should a poor servant acknowledge her secret thoughts, if not to her Curé and her confessor? He is her only friend in this world, is he not?
The Curé did not reply. He considered the strange shape the conversation was taking, and cast a look of defiance at the woman.
—You do not answer, sir, she said. You do not look upon me as your friend, that is wrong. Is it because I have surprised your secrets?
—I have no secrets.
—Yes?…. Suzanne?
—Enough on that subject. Do not revive my shame, since you call yourself my friend.
—Oh! sir, it is precisely for that, it is because I do not want you to distress yourself about so little. Listen to me, sir, I am older than you, and although I am not so learned, I have the experience which, as they say, is not picked up in books: well, this experience has taught me many things which perhaps you do not suspect.
—Explain yourself.
—I would have explained already, if you had wished it. The other evening you were quite sad, sitting by that fireless grate; you were thinking of I don't know what, but certainly it was not of anything very lively, so much so that it went to my heart. I suspected what was vexing you; I wanted to speak to you, but you repulsed me almost brutally. Nevertheless, if you had listened to me that day, what has just happened might not have occurred.
—I don't understand you.
—I will make myself understood … if you allow me.