THIS summons was not occasioned by any special event; the priest had resolved to write one day after Noémi had confessed her weekly collection of venial sins, and had begged for her preceptor's spiritual assistance in withstanding certain temptations and disturbances whose exact nature she did not divulge.
Jean's departure had afforded her a certain delicious languor, a sort of convalescence. To her, solitude was an endless joy, and she allowed herself full enjoyment of it. Although incapable of self-analysis, she felt herself to be another person. She was living her old life again, but she knew perfectly well that she was no longer a girl. Her disgust with matrimony had kept her from realizing that it had made her a woman; this stranger within her was now beginning to make mysterious demands. She was so disconcerted at her inability to recover the peace of mind she had known before her marriage that she could not explain to herself the struggle between her dormant thoughts and her half-awakened flesh. Her mental horror had been intense, certainly, but the flesh never forgets the ordeals to which it has been submitted. Noémi's prayer book represented the extent of her reading, and her state of poverty and gentle birth deprived her of intimate friendships; there was nothing in her life that could explain this insistent craving. And then Chance enlightened her.
The March sunlight flashed in the pools of rain water that dappled the square. During M. Jêrome's siesta the house lay under a spell of silence; even the furniture refrained from cracking. Noémi, like all the other women in the town, sat sewing just inside one of the ground floor windows; the shutters were half closed. Her work-table was covered with mending, some of which had fallen to the floor. There was a noise of wheels outside, and she saw that a light gig had drawn up close to the window. A young man sat holding the reins, obviously in search of guidance, but the square was empty. Noémi pushed the shutters wide open and the young man turned towards her, took off his hat, and asked to be directed to Dr. Pieuchon's house. She told him the way, and he bowed, touched his horse with the whip, and disappeared. Noémi took up her mending again and spent the rest of the day plying her needle, her thoughts far from the face that had left its image in her mind. The next day, at the same time, the unknown young man drove by again. He did not stop, but, as he passed, drew in the reins slightly and looked in through the half-closed shutters. He bowed.
At the evening meal, M. Jêrome said he had it from the priest that Dr. Pieuchon's son was worse, and that a young doctor whose method was highly thought of had been called in from the sub-prefecture. He treated tuberculosis with tincture of iodine in heavy doses; the patient had to swallow hundreds of drops diluted with water. M. Jêrome expressed his doubts as to whether young Pieuchon's stomach could cope with such a mixture.
Every day the gig drove by, and every day it slowed down in front of the Péloueyre house, but the shutters always remained half-closed. The young doctor bowed to the strip of shadow where Noémi sat unseen. The town became interested in the iodine cure, and all the consumptives in the district adopted it; people said that young Pieuchon was improving. Spring came before its appointed time, and at the end of March the warmth broke the bonds of winter. One evening Noémi undressed with her window open; she rested her elbows on the sill and looked out into the darkness in a state of melancholy happiness that precluded sleep. At night, by some secret process, this man's face, hitherto little more than a vague impression, became almost a visual revelation. For the first time, she deliberately allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it: this stranger had bowed to her each day without even seeing her. Would it not be more suitable if, the next morning, she were to open the shutters and return his greeting? A decision to do this produced a pleasant emotion, and she stood awhile at the window before getting into bed. She evoked what she had seen during the few seconds of their only conversation: black curly hair beneath the raised hat; a short moustache and thick red lips; a rough tweed suit, and from its pocket the clasp of a fountain pen shining; no tie, but a soft tussore shirt, open at the neck.
Noémi, whose impulses were generally instinctive, was, however, accustomed to examining her conscience. She was on her guard now, and the first alarm came when she was kneeling by her bed; she had to begin her prayers over and over again, for a sunburnt smiling face intruded itself into her communion with God. She lay for some time, a prey to this apparition, and upon waking the first clear thought that rose out of her dream-troubled consciousness was that she would soon be seeing him again. All through mass that morning, Noémi kept her face hidden in her hands. During M. Jêrome's siesta the gig drove past, and slackened speed, but the shutters on the ground floor of the Péloueyre house were all closed.
It was then that the disquieting letter was sent to Jean in Paris; Noémi had written, "I miss you." Lately she had been sitting in the dark room until the gig drove past, and then had pushed open the shutters and taken up her mending. One afternoon, she came to the conclusion that over-scrupulousness was a sin like any other. "I'm getting worked up over nothing at all," she thought, and decided to lean out of the window and return the young doctor's greeting. She thought she heard the rattle of wheels and her hand went to the fastening, but for the first time for a fortnight the gig did not drive past.
When the time came to give M. Jêrome his valerian, Noémi could not help telling him that the new doctor had not visited the Pieuchons, and she learned that the invalid had had a relapse the day before, that he could no longer take the iodine. The priest had brought the news of a bad hemorrhage; the spring was a dangerous time of the year for consumptives. He also reported that Dr. Pieuchon had quarrelled with his young colleague, who no doubt would not dare to show himself in the neighbourhood again. Noémi interviewed one of the farmers, helped Cadette to fold up the washing, and at six o'clock went to her devotions. On her way home, she called in as usual at her parents' house. After dinner, she complained of a headache, and went to her room.
She began to lead a more active life, and occupied herself with the poultry; her broods were a great success. Then she remembered social obligations and, in her best clothes, made her annual round of visits, the solemn practice of all the ladies of the town. After that came the farmers. She enjoyed driving along the forest roads that had been opened up by heavy farm carts. Cadette's grandson sat beside her, acting as coachman on these occasions. There were splashes of yellow gorse in the dried bracken; a few dead leaves clung to the oaks in trembling resistance to the warm southerly breeze. A round pool held the untroubled reflection of tall reddish trunks, dark feathery green foliage, and the blue of the sky. Resin was oozing from innumerable freshly made incisions in the pines, and the heat of the sun filled the air with its pungent odour. The cuckoo's soft notes recalled other springs, and the two young people laughed lightheartedly as the jolting of the cart bumped them against each other. The next morning, Noémi was so tired that the bailiff had to be asked to finish the round of the farms. Except at mass, no one saw her again till the morning of Jean's return.