“You desert me, in fact, Monsieur le Curé,” said Fabien, crossly.
“I leave you in good hands, as you must be aware,” said the curé, who, having been mistaken himself, felt a degree of satisfaction in snubbing the young man. “Nothing that I can say can atone for the pain we have unintentionally inflicted upon M. Deshoulières, and all that remains is a matter of form.”
“Will you not consent to meet us here to-morrow at the same time?”
“On the contrary, immediately that I have been to the Evêché, I shall return to Ardron. Are you coming my way, M. Deshoulières?”
They all went down the stairs together—the curé, the doctor, Fabien looking discontented, Thérèse, and Nannon. Thérèse lingered a moment to say in an undertone,—
“Fabien, why do you not acknowledge that you have wronged him!”
“Wronged him, bah! The only person wronged is myself. Thérèse, you used to take my part.”
It was the first allusion, on his part, to other days. A little earlier in the interview it would have touched her more. Now it gave her something of the old sense of compassion for his weakness; but that was not the feeling that could bring her back. Her heart had always revolted against injustice; it revolted now doubly, trebly. She was frightened at herself; frightened at the way in which the love she had been clinging to all this time was melting away. In the midst of her pain and indignation and pity, it gave her a strange unreal feeling. There is often a strange medley in our hearts on those days which we call crises in our lives. The lesser things subside, and we forget all but the most prominent; but at the time the oddest emotions hustle one another. Thérèse was puzzled at herself; at the change that seemed to have come over her since that morning. And then she found herself curiously watching the little procession that went down the stairs,—the curé in his flowing black cassock and his wide beaver hat; M. Deshoulières and Fabien, so unlike each other; Nannon, with her broad shoulders and her heavily plaited green gown—it seemed as if all the characters in her little drama were trooping down together. Monsieur Deshoulières was the victor, who was going away in triumph, but there was not much triumph in his heart just then. At the door they separated.
“Adieu, Thérèse,” said Fabien, with his hand on the door of the salle-à-manger.
“Adieu, Fabien.”