This remark came from Veronica, who up till now had said nothing. At the gentle sound of her well-known voice, Anthime started and completely lost all self-control. Contradictions and incoherences came jostling from his lips. “You have no right to pray for a person against his will, to ask for a favour for him without his leave. It’s treachery! You haven’t gained much by it, however. That’s one comfort. It’ll teach you what your prayers are worth. Much to be proud of. I’m sure!... But, after all, perhaps you didn’t go on praying long enough.”
“Don’t be alarmed! I am going on,” Veronica announced in the same gentle voice as before. And then, smiling quietly, as though she stood outside the range of his tempestuous anger, she went on to tell Marguerite that every evening, without missing a single one, she burnt two candles for Anthime and placed them beside the wayside figure of the Madonna standing at the north corner of the house—the same figure in front of which she had once caught Beppo crossing himself. There was a recess in the wall close by, into which the boy used to tuck himself, when he wanted to rest. Veronica could be sure of finding him there at the right time. She couldn’t have managed by herself, as the shrine was too high up—out of the reach of passers-by. But Beppo (he was a slim lad now of about fifteen) by clinging to the stones and to a metal ring that was in the wall, scrambled up and was able to place two candles, already lighted and flaring, beside the holy image.... The conversation insensibly drifted away from Anthime—closed over him, so to speak, as the sisters went on to talk of the simple, touching piety of the common folk, who love most to honour the rudest statues.... Anthime was completely engulfed. What! not content with feeding his rats behind his back, Veronica must needs now burn candles for him! His own wife! And, moreover, mix Beppo up in all this idiotic tomfoolery.... Ha, ha! We’ll soon see!
The blood rushed to Anthime’s head; he choked; his temples drummed a tattoo. With a huge effort he rose, knocking down his chair behind him. He emptied a glass of water on to his napkin and mopped his forehead. Was he going to be ill? Veronica was all concern. He pushed her away brutally, made for the door and slammed it behind him; they heard his halting step, accompanied by the dull thud of his crutch, clatter down the passage.
This abrupt departure left them perplexed and saddened. For a few moments they remained silent.
“My poor dear!” said Marguerite at last. This incident served once again to illustrate the difference between the two sisters. Marguerite’s soul was of that admirable stuff out of which God makes his martyrs. She was aware of it and with all her might yearned to suffer. Life unfortunately offered her little to complain of. Her lot overflowed with blessings, so that she was reduced to seeking occasions for her power of endurance, in the trifling vexations of daily life. She did her best to find thorns in the smoothest path and caught eagerly at anything that had the smallest resemblance to a bramble. It must be admitted that she was an adept in the art of managing to get herself slighted; but Julius seemed continually endeavouring to give her less and less scope for exercising her virtues. Is it to be wondered at, then, that her attitude towards him was always discontented and complaining? How splendid her vocation would have been with a husband like Anthime! She was vexed to see her sister make so little of her opportunities. Veronica, indeed, eluded every grievance; sarcasms and jeers alike slipped off her smiling unruffled smoothness like water off a duck’s back. She had no doubt long ago become reconciled to the solitude of her life; Anthime, moreover, didn’t really treat her badly—she didn’t grudge him speaking his mind. She explained that the reason he spoke so loud was that he found it so difficult to move. His temper would be less violent if his legs were more active; and as Julius asked where he could have gone to, “To the laboratory,” she answered, and when Marguerite added that perhaps it would be as well to go and see whether he hadn’t been taken ill after such a fit of anger, she assured her it was better to let him get over it by himself and not pay too much attention to his outburst.
“Let us finish dinner quietly,” she concluded.
V
No! Uncle Anthime had not stayed in his laboratory.
He had passed rapidly through the room in which the six rats were bringing their long-drawn sufferings to a close. Why did he not linger on the terrace which lay bathed in the glimmer of the western sky? Perhaps the celestial radiance of the evening might have calmed his rebel soul—inclined his.... But no, he stopped his ears to so wise a counsel. He went on, took the difficult winding stairs and reached the court-yard, which he crossed. To us, who know what efforts each painful step cost him, this crippled haste seems tragic. When shall we see him show such savage energy in a good cause? Sometimes a groan escaped his lips; his features were distorted. Where would his impious rage lead him?
The Madonna, who stood in the corner niche, was watching over the house and perhaps interceding for the blasphemer himself. Grace and radiance—whose light was borrowed from Heaven’s own—streamed from her outstretched hands upon the world below. This figure of the Virgin was not one of those modern statues, made out of Blafaphas’ newly invented Roman Plaster, such as the firm of Fleurissoire and Lévichon turn out by the gross. In our eyes the very artlessness of the figure makes it all the more expressive of the people’s simple piety—gives it an added beauty—an enhanced eloquence. The colourless face, the gleaming hands, the blue cloak, were lighted by a lantern, which hung some way in front of the statue; a zinc roof projected over the niche and at the same time sheltered the ex-votos, which were fixed to the wall on each side of it. A little metal door, of which the beadle of the parish kept the key, was within arm’s reach and protected the fastening of the cord to which the lantern was attached. Two candles burnt day and night before the statue. Fresh ones had been placed there that afternoon by Veronica. At the sight of these candles which were burning, he knew, for him, the unbeliever’s wrath blazed out afresh. Beppo, who was munching a crust and a stalk or two of fennel in his hole in the wall, came running to meet him. Without answering his friendly greeting, Anthime seized him by the shoulder and, bending down, whispered something in his ear. What could it have been to make the boy shudder? “No! No!” he protested. Anthime took out a five-lira note from his waistcoat pocket. Beppo grew indignant.... Later on he might steal perhaps—perhaps he might even kill—who knows with what sordid defilement poverty might not smirch his brow? But raise his hand against his protectress?—against the Virgin to whom every night he breathed out a last sigh before he slept, and whom, every morning when he woke, he greeted with his first smile? Anthime might try in turn entreaties, blows, bribes, threats; nothing would make him yield.