He answered, in a feeble voice, that he was quite well, and only needed a little fresh air. He had just leant against one of the mulberry-trees, and was breathing rather quickly, as if faint.
‘Oh! all right,’ went on La Teuse, ‘do just as you like. Go on marrying people when you haven’t the strength for it, and when you know very well that it’s bound to upset you. I knew how it would be; I told you so yesterday. And if you took my advice, you wouldn’t stay where you are. The smell of the yard is bad for you. It is frightful just now. I can’t imagine what Mademoiselle Desirée can be stirring about there. She’s singing away, and doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Ah! that reminds me of something I want to tell you. You know that I did all I could to keep her from taking the cow to Beage; but she’s like you, obstinate, and will go her own way. Fortunately, however, for her, she’s none the worse for it. She delights to be amongst the animals and their young ones. But come now, your reverence, do be reasonable. Let me take you to your room. You must lie down and rest a little. What, you don’t want to! Well, then, so much the worse for you, if you suffer! Besides, it’s absurd to keep one’s worries locked up in one’s heart till they stifle one.’
Then, in her indignation, she hastily swallowed a big spoonful of soup at the risk of burning her throat. She rattled the handle of the spoon against the bowl, muttering and grumbling to herself.
‘There never was such a man,’ said she. ‘He would die rather than say a word. But it’s all very well for him to keep silent. I know quite enough, and it doesn’t require much cleverness to guess the rest. Well! well! let him keep it to himself. I dare say it is better.’
La Teuse was jealous. Dr. Pascal had had a tremendous fight with her in order to get her patient away at the time when he had come to the conclusion that the young priest’s case would be quite hopeless if he should remain at the parsonage. He had then explained to her that the sound of the bell would aggravate and intensify Serge’s fever, that the religious pictures and statuettes scattered about his room would fill his brain with hallucinations, and that entirely new surroundings were necessary if he was to be restored to health and strength and peacefulness of mind. She, however, had vigorously shaken her head, and declared that her ‘dear child’ would nowhere find a better nurse than herself. Still, she had ended by yielding. She had even resigned herself to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against this selection of the doctor’s, which astonished her. But she retained a strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by the silence which Abbé Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there. She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce him to talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and his obstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon about and crying:
‘You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Curé, if you were so happy there—I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better than I do.’
It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her suspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At this La Teuse’s kindly heart was filled with regret.
‘Ah!’ she murmured, ‘it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I told him what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to their own ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging in your body afterwards—It made me so angry that I would never speak of it to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Curé, you have me to thank that nobody knew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable! When Abbé Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of stories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don’t even know where Switzerland is.—Well! well! I surely don’t want to say anything to pain you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Very finely they’ve cured you indeed! It would have been very much better if they had left you with me. I shouldn’t have thought of trying to turn your head.’
Abbé Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt her. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from him, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in her motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her.
‘You would never let me tell you about Abbé Caffin. As soon as I began to speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbé Caffin had had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was a very holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he was a man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things. Well, there was a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of a miller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school. Well, to put it shortly, what was likely to happen did happen. When the story got about, all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbé. But he managed to escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there. Then he was sent here. The poor man was punished quite enough by being made to live in this hole of a place. I heard of the girl afterwards. She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy.’