Complete Works of Emile Zola (387 page)

La Teuse again shook her broom at them. ‘Hush!’ she hissed out, so energetically that it seemed as if a blast of wind had burst into the church.

Meantime Abbe Mouret had collected himself, and he began, in a rather low voice:

‘My dear brother, my dear sister, you are joined together in Jesus. The institution of marriage symbolises the sacred union between Jesus and His Church. It is a bond which nothing can break; which God wills shall be eternal, so that man may not sever those whom Heaven has joined. In making you flesh of each other’s flesh, and bone of each other’s bone, God teaches you that it is your duty to walk side by side through life, a faithful couple, along the paths which He, in His omnipotence, appoints for you. And you must love each other with God-like love. The slightest ill-feeling between you will be disobedience to the Creator, Who has joined you together as a single body. Remain, then, for ever united, after the likeness of the Church, which Jesus has espoused, in giving to us all His body and blood.’

Big Fortune and Rosalie sat listening, with their noses peaked up inquisitively.

‘What does he say?’ asked Lisa, who was a little deaf.

‘Oh! he says what they all say,’ answered La Rousse. ‘He has a glib tongue, like all the priests have.’

Abbe Mouret went on with his address, his eyes wandering over the heads of the newly wedded couple towards a shadowy corner of the church. And by degrees his voice became more flexible, and he put emotion into the words he spoke, words which he had formerly learned by heart from a manual intended for the use of young priests. He had turned slightly towards Rosalie, and whenever his memory failed him, he added sentences of his own:

‘My dear sister, submit yourself to your husband, as the Church submits itself to Jesus. Remember that you must leave everything to follow him, like a faithful handmaiden. You must give up father and mother, you must cleave only to your husband, and you must obey him that you may obey God also. And your yoke will be a yoke of love and peace. Be his comfort, his happiness, the perfume of his days of strength, the support of his days of weakness. Let him find you, as a grace, ever by his side. Let him have but to reach out his hand to find yours grasping it. It is thus that you will step along together, never losing your way, and that you will meet with happiness in the carrying out of the divine laws. Oh! my dear sister, my dear daughter, your humility will hear sweet fruit; it will give birth to all the domestic virtues, to the joys of the hearth, and the prosperity that attends a God-fearing family. Have for your husband the love of Rachel, the wisdom of Rebecca, the constant fidelity of Sarah. Tell yourself that a pure life is the source of all happiness. Pray to God each morning that He may give you strength to live as a woman who respects her responsibilities and duties; for the punishment you would otherwise incur is terrible: you would lose your love. Oh! to live loveless, to tear flesh from flesh, to belong no more to the one who is half of your very self, to live on in pain and agony, bereft of the one you have loved! In vain would you stretch out your arms to him; he would turn away from you. You would yearn for happiness, but you would find in your heart nothing but shame and bitterness. Hear me, my daughter, it is in your own conduct, in your obedience, in your purity, in your love, that God has established the strength of your union.’

As Abbe Mouret spoke these words, there was a burst of laughter at the other end of the church. The baby had just woke up on the chair where La Teuse had laid it. But it was no longer in a bad temper. Having kicked itself free of its swaddling clothes, it was laughing merrily, and shaking its rosy little feet in the air. It was the sight of these little feet that made it laugh.

Rosalie, who was beginning to find the priest’s address rather tedious, turned her head to smile at the child. But, when she saw it kicking about on the chair, she grew alarmed, and cast an angry look at Catherine.

‘Oh! you can look at me as much as you like,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m not going to take it any more. It would only begin to cry again.’

And she turned aside to ferret in an ant-hole at a corner of one of the stone flags under the gallery.

‘Monsieur Caffin didn’t talk so long,’ now remarked La Rousse. ‘When he married Miette, he just gave her two taps on the cheek and told her to be good.’

My dear brother,’ resumed Abbe Mouret, turning towards big Fortune, ‘it is God who, to-day, gives you a companion, for He does not wish that man should live alone. But, if He ordains that she shall be your servant, He demands from you that you shall be to her a master full of gentleness and love. You will love her, because she is part of your own flesh, of your own blood, and your own bone. You will protect her, because God has given you strong arms only that you may stretch them over her head in the hour of danger. Remember that she is entrusted to you, and that you cannot abuse her submission and weakness without sin. Oh! my dear brother, what proud happiness should be yours! Henceforth, you will no longer live in the selfish egotism of solitude. At all hours you will have a lovable duty before you. There is nothing better than to love, unless it be to protect those whom we love. Your heart will expand; your manly strength will increase a hundredfold. Oh! to be a support and stay, to have a love given into your keeping, to see a being sink her existence in yours and say, “Take me and do with me what you will! I trust myself wholly to you!” And may you be accursed if you ever abandon her! It would be a cowardly desertion which God would assuredly punish. From the moment she gives herself to you, she becomes yours for ever. Carry her rather in your arms, and set her not upon the ground until it be certain that she will be there in safety. Give up everything, my dear brother — ‘

But here the Abbe’s voice faltered, and only an indistinct murmur came from his lips. He had quite closed his eyes, his face was deathly white, and his voice betokened such deep distress that big Fortune himself shed tears without knowing why.

‘He hasn’t recovered yet,’ said Lisa. ‘It is wrong of him to fatigue himself. See, there’s Fortune crying!’

‘Men are softer-hearted than women,’ murmured Babet.

‘He spoke very well, all the same,’ remarked La Rousse. ‘Those priests think of a lot of things that wouldn’t occur to anybody else.’

‘Hush!’ cried La Teuse, who was already making ready to extinguish the candles.

But Abbe Mouret still stammered on, trying to utter a few more sentences. ‘It is for this reason, my dear brother, my dear sister, that you must live in the Catholic Faith, which alone can ensure the peace of your hearth. Your families have taught you to love God, to pray to Him every morning and evening, to look only for the gifts of His mercy — ‘

He was unable to finish. He turned round, took the chalice off the altar, and retired, with bowed head, into the vestry, preceded by Vincent, who almost let the cruets and napkin fall, in trying to see what Catherine might be doing at the end of the church.

‘Oh! the heartless creature!’ said Rosalie, who left her husband to go and take her baby in her arms. The child laughed. She kissed it, and rearranged its swaddling clothes, while threatening Catherine with her fist. ‘If it had fallen,’ she cried out, ‘I would have boxed your ears for you, nicely.’

Big Fortune now came slouching along. The three girls stepped towards him, with compressed lips.

‘See how proud he is,’ murmured Babet to the others. ‘He is sure of inheriting old Bambousse’s money now. I used to see him creeping along every night under the little wall with Rosalie.’

Then they giggled, and big Fortune, standing there in front of them, laughed even louder than they did. He pinched La Rousse, and let Lisa jeer at him. He was a sturdy young blood, and cared nothing for anybody. The priest’s address had annoyed him.

‘Hallo! mother, come on!’ he called in his loud voice. But mother Brichet was begging at the vestry door. She stood there, tearful and wizen, before La Teuse, who was slipping some eggs into the pocket of her apron. Fortune didn’t seem to feel the least sense of shame. He just winked and remarked: ‘She is a knowing old card, my mother is. But then the Cure likes to see people at mass.’

Meanwhile, Rosalie had grown calm again. Before leaving the church, she asked Fortune if he had begged the priest to come and bless their room, according to the custom of the country. So Fortune ran off to the vestry, striding heavily through the church, as if it were a field. He soon reappeared, shouting that his reverence would come. La Teuse, who was scandalised at the noise made by all these people, who seemed to think themselves in a public street, gently clapped her hands, and pushed them towards the door.

‘It is all over,’ said she; ‘go away and get to your work.’

She thought they had all gone, when her eye caught sight of Catherine, whom Vincent had joined. They were bending anxiously over the ants’ nest. Catherine was poking a long straw into the hole so roughly, that a swarm of frightened ants had rushed out upon the floor. Vincent declared, however, that she must get her straw right to the bottom if she wished to find the queen.

‘Ah! you young imps!’ cried La Teuse, ‘what are you after there? Can’t you leave the poor little things alone? That is Mademoiselle Desiree’s ants’ nest. She would be nicely pleased if she saw you!’

At this the children promptly took to their heels.

II

Abbe Mouret, now wearing his cassock but still bareheaded, had come back to kneel at the foot of the altar. In the grey light that streamed through the window, his tonsure showed like a large livid spot amidst his hair; and a slight quiver, as if from cold, sped down his neck. With his hands tightly clasped he was praying earnestly, so absorbed in his devotions that he did not hear the heavy footsteps of La Teuse, who hovered around without daring to disturb him. She seemed to be grieved at seeing him bowed down there on his knees. For a moment, she thought that he was in tears, and thereupon she went behind the altar to watch him. Since his return, she had never liked to leave him in the church alone, for one evening she had found him lying in a dead faint upon the flagstones, with icy lips and clenched teeth, like a corpse.

‘Come in, mademoiselle!’ she said to Desiree, who was peeping through the vestry-doorway. ‘He is still here, and he will lay himself up. You know you are the only person that he will listen to.’

‘It is breakfast-time,’ she replied softly, ‘and I am very hungry.’

Then she gently sidled up to the priest, passed an arm round his neck, and kissed him.

‘Good morning, brother,’ she said. ‘Do you want to make me die of hunger this morning?’

The face he turned upon her was so intensely sad, that she kissed him again on both his cheeks. He was emerging from agony. Then, on recognising her, he tried to put her from him, but she kept hold of one of his hands and would not release it. She would scarcely allow him to cross himself, but insisted upon leading him away.

‘Come! Come! for I am very hungry. You must be hungry too.’

La Teuse had laid out the breakfast beneath two big mulberry trees, whose spreading branches formed a sheltering roof at the bottom of the little garden. The sun, which had at last succeeded in dissipating the stormy-looking vapours of early morning, was warming the beds of vegetables, while the mulberry-trees cast a broad shadow over the rickety table, on which were laid two cups of milk and some thick slices of bread.

‘You see how nice it looks,’ said Desiree, delighted at breakfasting in the fresh air.

She was already cutting some of the bread into strips, which she ate with eager appetite. And as she saw La Teuse still standing in front of them, she said, ‘Why don’t you eat something?’

‘I shall, presently,’ the old servant answered. ‘My soup is warming.’

Then, after a moment’s silence, looking with admiration at the girl’s big bites, she said to the priest: ‘It is quite a pleasure to see her. Doesn’t she make you feel hungry, Monsieur le Cure? You should force yourself.’

Abbe Mouret smiled as he glanced at his sister. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured; ‘she gets on famously, she grows fatter every day.’

‘That’s because I eat,’ said Desiree. ‘If you would eat you would get fat, too. Are you ill again? You look very melancholy. I don’t want to have it all over again, you know. I was so very lonely when they took you away to cure you.’

‘She is right,’ said La Teuse. ‘You don’t behave reasonably, Monsieur le Cure. You can’t expect to be strong, living, as you do, on two or three crumbs a day, as though you were a bird. You don’t make blood; and that’s why you are so pale. Don’t you feel ashamed of keeping as thin as a lath when we are so fat; we who are only women? People will begin to think that we gobble up everything and leave you nothing but the empty plates.’

Then both La Teuse and Desiree, brimful of health and strength, scolded him affectionately. His eyes seemed very large and bright, but empty, expressionless. He was still gently smiling.

‘I am not ill,’ he said; ‘I have nearly finished my milk.’ He had swallowed two mouthfuls of it, but had not touched the bread.

‘The animals, now,’ said Desiree, thoughtfully, ‘seem to get on much more comfortably than we do. The fowls never have headaches, have they? The rabbits grow as fat as ever one wants them to be. And you never saw my pig looking sad.’

Then, turning towards her brother, she went on with an air of rapture:

‘I have named it Matthew, because it is so like that fat man who brings the letters. It is growing so big and strong. It is very unkind of you to refuse to come and look at it as you always do. You will come to see it some day, won’t you?’

While she was thus talking she had laid hold of her brother’s share of bread, and was eating away at it. She had already finished one piece, and was beginning the second, when La Teuse became aware of what she was doing.

‘That doesn’t belong to you, that bread! You are actually stealing his food from him now!’

‘Let her have it,’ said Abbe Mouret, gently. ‘I shouldn’t have touched it myself. Eat it all, my dear, eat it all.’