These stories, however, in spite of the persistence with which certain persons kept them afloat, never got beyond a particular set of idle gossiping people, and the reason which the Curé himself gave for not taking up his residence at the parsonage, namely, his liking for the Mourets' beautiful garden, where he could read his breviary in such perfect peace, was generally accepted as the true one. His great piety, his ascetic life and his contempt for all the frivolities and coquetries which other priests allowed themselves placed him beyond suspicion. The members of the Young Men's Club accused Abbé Fenil of trying to ruin him. All the new part of the town was on his side, and it was only the Saint-Marc quarter that was against him, its aristocratic inhabitants treating him with great reserve whenever they met him in Monseigneur Rousselot's saloons. However, in spite of his popularity, he shook his head when old Madame Rougon told him that he might now dare everything.
'Nothing is quite safe and solid yet,' he said. 'I am not sure of anyone. The least touch might bring the whole edifice toppling down.'
Marthe had been causing him anxiety for some time past. He felt that he was incapable of calming the fever of devotion which was raging within her. She escaped his control and disobeyed him, and advanced further than he wished her to do. He was afraid lest this woman, this much-respected patroness, who was so useful, might yet bring about his ruin. There was a fire burning within her which seemed to discolour her flesh, and redden her eyes and make them heavy. It was like an ever-growing disease, an infatuation of her whole being, that was gradually weakening her heart and brain. She often seemed to lapse into some ecstatic trance, her hands were shaken by a nervous trembling, and a dry cough occasionally shook her from head to foot without consciousness apparently on her part of how it was rending her. The Curé then showed himself sterner to her than before, tried to crush the passion which was dawning within her, and even forbade her to come to Saint-Saturnin's.
'The church is very cold,' he said, 'and you cough so much there. I don't want you to do anything to make yourself worse.'
She protested that there was nothing the matter with her beyond a slight irritation of the throat, but at last she yielded and accepted his prohibition as a well-deserved punishment which closed the doors of heaven upon her. She wept, believed that she was damned, and dragged herself listlessly through the blank weary days; and then, in spite of herself, like a woman returning to some forbidden love, when Friday came she humbly glided into Saint-Michael's chapel and laid her burning brow against the woodwork of the confessional-box. She did not speak a word, but simply knelt there, completely crushed, quite overwhelmed. At this Abbé Faujas, who was greatly irritated, treated her as harshly as though she was some unworthy woman, and hastily ordered her away. Then she left the church, feeling happy and consoled.
The priest was afraid of the effect of the gloomy darkness of Saint-Michael's chapel. He spoke upon the subject to Doctor Porquier, who persuaded Marthe to go to confession at the little oratory of the Home of the Virgin in the suburb. Abbé Faujas promised to be there to hear her every other Saturday. This oratory, which had been established in a large whitewashed room with four big windows, was bright and cheerful, and would, he thought, have a calming effect upon the excited imagination of his penitent. There, he thought, he would be able to bring her under control, reduce her to obedience, without possible fear of any scandal. As a guard against all calumnious gossip, he asked his mother to accompany Marthe, and while he confessed the latter Madame Faujas remained outside the door. As the old lady did not like to waste her time, she used to take her knitting with her and work away at a stocking.
'My dear child,' she often said to Marthe, as they were returning together to the Rue Balande, 'I could hear very well what Ovide was saying to you to-day. You don't seem to be able to please him. You can't care for him. Ah! I wish I were in your place to be able to kiss his feet! I shall grow to hate you, if you go on causing him nothing but annoyance.'
Marthe bent her head. She felt deep shame in Madame Faujas's presence. She did not like her, she felt jealous of her at finding her always coming between herself and the priest. The old lady's dark eyes, too, troubled her when they constantly bent upon her, full as they seemed of strange and disquieting thoughts.
Marthe's weak state of health sufficed to account for her meetings with Abbé Faujas at the oratory of the Home of the Virgin. Doctor Porquier stated that she went there simply in obedience to his orders, and the promenaders on the Cours were vastly amused by this saying of the doctor's.
'Well, all the same,' remarked Madame Paloque to her husband one day, as she watched Marthe going down to the Rue Balande, accompanied by Madame Faujas, 'I should like to be in some corner and watch the vicar and his sweetheart. It is very amusing to hear her talk of her bad cold! As though a bad cold was any reason why one shouldn't make one's confession in church! I have had colds, but I never made them an excuse for shutting myself up in a little chapel with a priest.'