The Grip of Desire Part 42

Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. She hesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, she was afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake and catch the Cure of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour, before her door, during her father's absence. G.o.d only knew what a scandal there would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps might hear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they were beginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetings on the road.

She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating that the Cure would withdraw.

But the Cure of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition to abandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by the alcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that he had just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place, he was waiting with impatience.

Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to see if he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and calling her by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy, multiplied his salutes and his signs.

She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for him to have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require an interview with her in the middle of the night "Good G.o.d! could some misfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. She hesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and went downstairs.

LXXI.

THE BREACH.

"Who art thou, who knockest so loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed (more than life) their very heart ...

Ah, if thou art he, let the door be opened wide."

MICHELET (_L'Amour_).

She saw at once that he was all in a fever.

--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father?

--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him this morning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well.

--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me.

--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous has happened. Be comforted. I was pa.s.sing by in my walk, I saw the light, I observed you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself: Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away.

--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? And where? And when?

--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Ma.s.s.

--For ever?

--Perhaps.

--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to your paris.h.i.+oners, to your friends!

--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hear me some ... friends.h.i.+p; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poor solitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell.

--But why this sudden and unexpected departure?

--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, like others, a little grain of ambition.

--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change in your fortune. Is it far?

--Nancy, Mademoiselle.

--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions there which you have not here. I almost envy you.

--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I am sorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, I have no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me to depart.

--Motives ... serious?

--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, and that I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day I saw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy.

Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness which I should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if G.o.d had given me one.

Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblem of purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you, for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why I wished to see you again and bid you farewell.

--I thank you, sir.

--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I may ask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if I shall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with your thought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. We leave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end?

May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar on the arduous road of life?

It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heaven is dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, in a little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul, which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmurs across s.p.a.ce: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and less alone.

--Yes, that is true, I understand you.

--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all the pleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of the Covenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that we should follow one another thus in life? You do not answer....

--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road.

--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there are footsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell, Mademoiselle, farewell.

--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for they must have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions.

--What shall I do? I cannot remain here.

--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safe from any gaze.

--What! said Marcel, you wish...?

--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It is more prudent for both of us.

She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-open gate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour.

Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him.

LXXII.

THE a.s.sAULT.