“You beast, you liar!” she said.
“You beast! beast! beast!”
Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the door herself. “You ain’t fit to know,” she said; “they told the truth about you. Now you can take the canvas off her. Good-bye!” With that she was gone. The following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and such strange scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both disturbed and indignant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois did not attend), the Cure made his way to the sculptor’s workshop, followed by a number of parishioners.
The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at the door it seemed as if half the village was there. The chief witness against Francois had been Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, with indignation and bitterness, that there was no doubt about it; all that had been said was true.
Francois, with wonder and some confusion, admitted the Cure. When M. Fabre demanded that he be taken to the new workshop, Francois led the way. The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A hundred eyes were fastened upon the canvas-covered statue, which had been the means of the young man’s undoing.
Terrible things had been said—terrible things of Francois, and of the girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the charcoal-man, and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high standard of morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were harbouring shame and crime in this cedar shed.
The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force. Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he knew all!
“Remove the canvas from the figure,” said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness and resentment filled Francois’s breast. He did not stir.
“Do you oppose the command of the Church?” said the Cure, still more severely. “Remove the canvas.”
“It is my work—my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands,” said Francois doggedly.