“Oh! curé,” said Renaud, “sometimes it is difficult to do what is right!”
With that he was about to pass on, but the curé seized his arm and detained him.
“Eh! curé,” said Renaud, “you have still a powerful grasp!”
“Beware, Renaud,” said the curé very slowly, “lest you become a great sinner. I know what I know. Your betrothed wife is weeping. She is jealous. Already rumors are in circulation concerning you. And for whom, just God! would you betray that virtuous girl, who, wealthy as she is, gives herself to you, a poor orphan? You would ruin a whole family, poor you! and your honor and the repose of your heart, forever! The devil is crafty, you are right, and to do right is difficult, but those whom the devil inspires, when you follow their momentary caprice and your own fancy, lead you on to abysses deeper than the lorons of the paluns. You are walking at this moment on the moving crust! If it bursts, adieu, my man! You will be engulfed body and soul. As for yourself, that is a small matter! but by what right do you compel the little one to run the risk of your downfall? You are dealing with an accursed creature, a woman who does not know herself, who is submissive to nobody, and who cares nothing for the misfortunes of others. Whatever she does is for her own amusement. I have seen her and watched her. The saints have taught me many things. Beware! The little one is brave. Some day there may be innocent blood on your hands, if you keep on in the road I forbid you to follow, for the devil is in the affair, I tell you, and all sorts of monsters are awaiting you at the turning in the evil road. A betrothed lover’s infidelity, like a husband’s, lays an egg filled with ghastly creatures, which sometimes hatches. If you have a heart, show it, Renaud, take my advice, and go back to your horses and cattle in the solitude of your plains, where the malignant fever is less to be feared than the disease you are taking here!”
Renaud, the tall, strong, dashing blade, listened to these wise words, hanging his head, poor fellow, like a child scolded for not knowing his catechism.
“If you are a man, make up your mind at once, and give me your word as a true-hearted drover.”
“Take my hand, Monsieur le curé. I give you my word. I was in a fair way to go wrong. A spell was on me.”
The two men exchanged a grasp of the hand.
The curé walked away with an anxious heart. He knew that Renaud was sincere, but he knew the strength of man’s passion and his ingenuity in lying.
So the curé had been asking questions?—In that case, to consort with the gipsy was to risk a rupture with Livette.