one friday, as madame paloque was entering saint-saturnin's, she was greatly surprised to see marthe kneeling in front of saint-michael's chapel. the abbé faujas was hearing confessions.

'ah!' she muttered, 'has she succeeded in touching the abbé's heart? i must wait a little while and watch. it would be very fine if madame de condamin were to come.'

she took a chair a little in the rear, and, half kneeling, covered her face with her hands as though she was absorbed in earnest prayer; but she held her fingers apart so that she might glance between them. the church was very gloomy. marthe, with her head bent over her prayer-book, looked as though she were asleep. her figure snowed blackly against a white pillar. only her shoulders, heaving with deep-drawn sighs, seemed to be alive. she was, indeed, so profoundly overcome with emotion that she was constantly allowing her turn to be taken by some other of abbé faujas's penitents. the abbé waited for a few moments, and then, seemingly a little impatient, he began tapping the woodwork of the confessional. thereupon one of the women who were waiting, seeing that marthe showed no sign of moving, decided to take her place. the chapel gradually grew empty, and marthe still remained motionless as if in ecstasy.

'she seems in a terrible state,' thought madame paloque. 'it is really quite indecent to make such an exhibition of one's self in church. ah! here comes madame de condamin!'

madame de condamin was indeed just entering the church. she stopped for a moment before the holy-water[pg 174] basin, removed her glove, and crossed herself with a pretty gesture. her silk dress made a murmuring sound as she passed along the narrow space between the chairs. as she knelt down, she filled the lofty vault with a rustling of skirts. she had her usual affable expression, and smiled through the gloom. soon she and marthe were the only two penitents left. the priest grew more and more impatient, and tapped yet more loudly upon the woodwork of the confessional.

'it is your turn, madame; i am the last,' madame de condamin whispered politely, bending towards marthe, whom she had not recognised.

marthe raised her face, pinched and pale from her extreme emotion, and did not appear to understand. it was as though she were awakening from some ecstatic trance, and her eyelids trembled.

'come, ladies, come!' exclaimed abbé faujas, who had now half-opened the door of the confessional.

madame de condamin smilingly rose to obey the priest's summons; but marthe, recognising her, hastened into the chapel, to fall again upon her knees, however, a few paces away from the confessional-box.

madame paloque felt much amused. she hoped that the two ladies would seize each other by the hair. marthe could hear all that was said, for madame de condamin had a clear flute-like voice. she dallied over the recital of her sins, and quite animated the confessional with her pretty gossiping ways. once she even vented a little muffled laugh, at the sound of which marthe raised her pain-racked face. soon afterwards madame de condamin finished her confession, and rose as if to retire, but she quickly stepped back and commenced talking afresh, this time merely bending her head without kneeling down.

'that she-devil is making sport of madame mouret and the abbé,' thought the judge's wife to herself. 'it's all put on, is this.'

at last madame de condamin really withdrew. marthe watched her as if waiting till she disappeared. then she went forward, leant against the confessional-box, and fell heavily on her knees. madame paloque had slipped a little nearer and was craning out her head, but she could only see the penitent's dark dress spread out around her. for nearly half an hour there was not the slightest movement. now and then she thought she could detect some smothered sobs in the[pg 175] throbbing silence, which was also broken at times by a creak from the confessional-box. she began to feel a little weary of her watching, for all she would be able to do now would be to stare at marthe as she left the chapel.

abbé faujas was the first to leave, closing the door of the confessional-box with an appearance of annoyance. madame mouret lingered there for a long time, bent and motionless. when she at last went away, her face covered with her veil, she seemed quite broken down, and even forgot to cross herself.

'there has been a row; the abbé hasn't made himself pleasant,' thought madame paloque. then she followed marthe as far as the place de l'archevêché, where she stopped and seemed to hesitate for a moment. at last, having glanced cautiously around to make sure that nobody was watching her, she stealthily slipped into the house where abbé fenil resided, at one of the corners of the place.

marthe now almost lived at saint-saturnin's. she carried out her religious duties with the greatest fervour. even abbé faujas often had to remonstrate with her about her excessive zeal. he only allowed her to communicate once a month, fixed the hours which she should devote to pious exercises, and insisted that she should not entirely shut herself up in religious practices. she for a long time requested him to let her attend a low mass every morning before he would accede to her desire. one day, when she told him that she had lain for a whole hour on the cold floor of her room to punish herself for some fault she had committed, he was very angry with her, and declared that her confessor alone had the right to inflict penance. he treated her throughout very sternly, and threatened to send her back to abbé bourrette if she did not absolutely follow his directions.

'i was wrong to take you at all,' he often said; 'i do not like disobedient souls.'

she felt a pleasure in his harshness. that iron hand which bent her, and which held her back upon the edge of the adoration in the depths of which she would have liked to annihilate herself, thrilled her with ever-renewed desire. she remained like a neophyte, making but little advance in her journey of love, being constantly pulled up, and vaguely divining some yet greater bliss beyond. the sense of deep restfulness which she had first experienced in the church, that forgetfulness of herself and the outside[pg 176] world, now changed, however, into positive actual happiness. it was the happiness for which she had been vaguely longing since her girlhood, and which she was now, at forty years of age, at last finding; a happiness which sufficed her, which compensated her for all the past-away years, and made her egotistical, absorbed in the new sensations that she felt within her like sweet caresses.

'be kind to me,' she murmured to abbé faujas, 'be kind to me, for i stand in need of great kindness.'

and when he did show her kindness, she could have gone down upon her knees and thanked him. at these times he unbent, spoke to her in a fatherly way, and pointed out to her that her imagination was too excited and feverish. god, said he, did not like to be worshipped in that way, in wild impulses. she smiled, looking quite pretty and young again with her blushing face, and promised to restrain herself in the future. but sometimes she experienced paroxysms of devotion, which cast her upon the flag-stones in some dark corner, where, almost grovelling, she stammered out burning words. even her power of speech then died away, and she continued her prayers in feeling only, with a yearning of her whole being, an appeal for that divine kiss which seemed ever hovering about her brow without pressing it.

at home marthe became querulous, she who till now had been indifferent and listless, quite happy so long as her husband left her at peace. now, however, that he had begun to spend all his time in the house, had lost his old spirit of raillery, and had grown mopish and melancholy, she grew impatient with him.

'he is always hanging about us,' she said to the cook one day.

'oh, he does it out of pure maliciousness,' replied rose. 'he isn't a good man at heart. i haven't found that out to-day for the first time. he has only put on that woebegone look, he who is so fond of hearing his tongue wag, in order to try to make us pity him. he's really bursting with anger, but he won't show it, because he thinks that if he looks wretched we shall be sorry for him and do just what he wants. you are quite right, madame, not to let yourself be influenced by all those grimaces and pretences.'

mouret kept a hold upon the women with his purse. he did not care to wrangle and argue with them, for fear of making his life still less comfortable than it already was;[pg 177] but, though he no longer grumbled and meddled and interfered, he showed his displeasure by refusing a single extra crown piece to either marthe or rose. he gave the latter a hundred francs a month for the purchase of provisions; wine, oil, and preserves were in the house. the cook was obliged to make the sum stated last her till the end of the month, even if she had to pay for something out of her own pocket. as for marthe, she had absolutely nothing; her husband never even gave her a sou, and she was compelled to appeal to rose, and ask her to try to save ten francs out of the monthly allowance. she often found herself without a pair of boots to put on, and was obliged to borrow from her mother the money she needed to buy either a dress or a hat.

'but mouret must surely be going mad!' madame rougon cried. 'you can't go naked! i will speak to him about it.'

'i beg you to do nothing of the kind, mother,' marthe said. 'he detests you, and he would treat me even worse than he does already if he knew that i talked of these matters to you.'

she began to cry as she added:

'i have shielded him for a long time, but i really can't keep silent any longer. you remember that he was once most unwilling for me even to set foot in the street; he kept me shut up, and treated me like a mere chattel. now he behaves so unkindly because he sees that i have escaped from him, and that i won't submit any longer to be a mere servant. he is a man utterly without religion, selfish and bad-hearted.'

'he doesn't strike you, does he?'

'no; but it will come to that. at present he contents himself with refusing me everything. i have not bought any chemises for the last five years, and yesterday i showed him those i have. they are quite worn out, so patched and mended that i am ashamed of wearing them. he looked at them and examined them and said that they would do perfectly well till next year. i haven't a single centime of my own. the other day i had to borrow two sous from rose to buy some thread to sew up my gloves, which were splitting all over.'

she gave her mother many other details of the straits to which she was reduced—how she had to make laces for her boots out of blackened string, how she had to wash her[pg 178] ribbons in tea to make her hat look a little fresher, and how she had to smear the threadbare folds of her only silk dress with ink to conceal the signs of wear. madame rougon expressed great pity for her, and advised her to rebel. mouret was a monster, said she. rose asserted that he carried his avarice so far as to count the pears in the store-room and the lumps of sugar in the cupboard, while he also kept a close eye on the preserves, and ate himself all the remnants of the loaves.

it was a source of especial distress to marthe that she was not able to contribute to the offertories at saint-saturnin's. she used to conceal ten-sou pieces in scraps of paper and carefully preserve them for high mass on sundays. when the lady patronesses of the home of the virgin made some offering to the cathedral, such as a pyx, or a silver cross, or a banner, she felt quite ashamed, and kept out of the way, affecting ignorance of their intentions. the ladies felt much pity for her. she would have robbed her husband if she could have found the key of his desk, so keenly was she tortured at being able to do nothing for the honour of the church to which she was so passionately attached. she felt all the jealousy of a deceived woman when abbé faujas used a chalice which had been presented by madame de condamin; whereas on the days when he said mass in front of the altar cloth which she herself had embroidered she was filled with fervent joy, and said her prayers with ecstatic thrills, as though some part of herself lay beneath the priest's extended hands. she would have liked to have had a whole chapel of her own; and even dreamt of expending a fortune upon one, and of shutting herself up in it and receiving the deity alone by herself at her own altar.

rose, of whom she made a confidant, had recourse to all sorts of plans to obtain money for her. that year she secretly gathered the finest fruit in the garden and sold it, and she also disposed of a lot of old furniture that was stowed away in an attic, managing her sales so well that she succeeded in getting together a sum of three hundred francs, which she handed to marthe with great triumph. the latter kissed the old cook.

'oh! how good you are!' she said to her, affectionately. 'are you quite sure that he knows nothing about what you have done? i saw the other day, in the rue des orfèvres, two little cruets of chased silver, such dear little things; they[pg 179] are marked two hundred francs. now, you'll do me a little favour, won't you? i don't want to go and buy them myself, because someone would certainly see me going into the shop. tell your sister to go and get them. she can bring them here after dark, and can give them to you through the kitchen window.'

this purchase of the cruets seemed like a clandestine intrigue to marthe, and thrilled her with the sweetest pleasure. for three days she kept the cruets at the bottom of a chest, hidden away beneath layers of linen; and when she gave them to abbé faujas in the sacristy of saint-saturnin's she trembled so much that she could scarcely speak. the abbé scolded her in a kindly fashion. he was not fond of presents, and spoke of money with the disdain of a strong-minded man who only cares for power and authority. during his earlier years of poverty, even at times when he and his mother had no food beyond bread and water, he had never thought of borrowing even a ten-franc piece from the mourets.

marthe found a safe hiding-place for the hundred francs which were still left her. she also was becoming a little miserly; and she schemed how she should best expend this money, making some fresh plan every morning. while she was still in a state of hesitation, rose told her that madame trouche wished to see her privately. olympe, who used to spend hours in the kitchen, had become rose's intimate friend, and often borrowed a couple of francs of her to save herself from going upstairs at times when she said that she had forgotten to bring down her purse.

'go upstairs and see her there,' said the cook; 'you will be better able to talk there. they are good sort of people, and they are very fond of his reverence. they have had a lot of trouble. madame olympe has quite made my heart ache with all the things she has told me.'

when marthe went upstairs she found olympe in tears. they, the trouches, were too soft-hearted, said she, and their kindness was always being abused. then she entered upon an explanation of their affairs at besan?on, where the rascality of a partner had saddled them with a heavy burden of debt. to make matters worse, their creditors were getting angry, and she had just received an insulting letter, the writer of which threatened to communicate with the mayor and the bishop of plassans.

[pg 180]

'i don't mind what happens to me,' she sobbed, 'but i would give my head to save my brother from being compromised. he has already done too much for us, and i don't want to speak to him on the matter, for he is not rich, and he would only distress himself to no purpose. good heavens! what can i do to keep that man from writing? my brother would die of shame if such a letter were sent to the mayor and the bishop. yes, i know him well; he would die of shame!'

tears rushed to marthe's eyes. she was quite pale, and fervently pressed olympe's hands. then, without the latter having preferred any request, she offered her the hundred francs she had.

'it is very little, i know; but perhaps it might be sufficient to avert the danger,' she said with an expression of great anxiety.

'a hundred francs, a hundred francs!' exclaimed olympe. 'oh, no! he would never be satisfied with a hundred francs.'

marthe lost all hope. she swore that she had not a centime more. she so far forgot herself as to speak of the cruets. if she had not bought them she would have been able to give three hundred francs. madame trouche's eyes sparkled.

'three hundred francs, that is just what he demands,' she said. 'ah! you would have rendered my brother a much greater service by not giving him that present, which, by the way, will have to remain in the church. what a number of beautiful things the ladies of besan?on presented to him! but he isn't a bit the better off for them to-day! don't give him anything more; it is really nothing but robbery! consult me about what you do; there is so much hidden misery—no! a hundred francs will certainly not be sufficient!'

at the end of half an hour spent in lamentation, however, she accepted the hundred francs when she saw that marthe really had no more.

'i will send them so as to pacify the man a little,' she said, 'but he won't leave us at peace long. whatever you do, i beg of you not to mention anything about it to my brother. it would nearly kill him. and i think it would be better, too, if my husband knew nothing of what has passed between us; he is so proud that he would be sure to be doing something rash to be able to acquit himself of our[pg 181] obligation to you. we women can understand each other, you know.'

this loan was a source of much pleasure to marthe, who henceforth had a fresh care, that of warding off from abbé faujas the danger that threatened him without his being aware of it. she frequently went upstairs to the trouches' rooms and stayed there for hours, discussing with olympe the best means of discharging the debts. the latter had told her that a good many promissory notes had been endorsed by the priest, and that there would be a terrible scandal if they should ever be sent to any bailiff in plassans to be protested. the sum total of their liabilities was so great, she said, that for a long time she refused to disclose it, only weeping the more bitterly when marthe pressed her. one day, however, she mentioned the sum of twenty thousand francs. marthe was quite frozen upon hearing this. she would never be able to procure anything like twenty thousand francs, and thought that she would certainly have to wait for mouret's death before she could hope to have any such sum at her disposal.

'i say twenty thousand francs in all,' olympe hastily added, disquieted by marthe's grave appearance: 'but we should be quite satisfied if we were able to pay by small instalments spread over half a score of years. the creditors would wait for any length of time, if they were only sure of getting their instalments regularly. it is a great pity that we can't find anyone who has sufficient confidence in us to make the small necessary advances.'

this matter became an habitual topic of conversation. olympe also frequently spoke of abbé faujas, whom she seemed almost to worship. she gave marthe all kinds of private details about the priest: such as, for instance, that he could not bear anything that tickled him, that he could sleep on his left side, and that he had a strawberry-mark on his right shoulder, which turned red in may like the natural fruit. marthe smiled and never tired of hearing of these little matters; and she questioned the young woman about her childhood and that of her brother. when the subject of the money cropped up she seemed painfully overcome by her inability to do anything, and she even complained bitterly of mouret, to whom olympe, emboldened by marthe's language, now always referred in her presence as the 'old miser.' sometimes when trouche returned from his office[pg 182] he found the two women still talking together, but at his appearance they checked themselves and changed the subject. trouche conducted himself in the most satisfactory way, and the lady patronesses of the home of the virgin were highly pleased with him. he was never seen in any of the cafés in the town.

in order to be able to render some assistance to olympe, who sometimes talked about throwing herself out of the window, marthe made rose take all the useless old odds and ends that were lying about the house to a second-hand dealer at the market. at first the two women were a little timid about the matter, and only disposed of broken-down chairs and tables when mouret was out of the way, but afterwards they began to lay hands upon more important articles, and sold ornaments, pieces of china, and anything else they could remove without its absence appearing too conspicuous. they were slipping down a fatal incline, and would have ended by carting off all the furniture in the house and leaving nothing but the bare walls, if mouret had not one day charged rose with thieving and threatened to send for the police.

'what, sir! a thief! i!' she cried. 'just because you happened to see me selling one of madame's rings. be careful of what you are saying! the ring was mine; madame gave it to me. madame isn't such a mean wretch as you are. you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving your wife without a sou! she hasn't even a pair of shoes to put on! the other day i had to pay the milkman myself! yes, i did sell the ring, and what of that? isn't madame's ring her own? she is obliged to turn it into money, since you won't give her any. if i were she, i would sell the whole house! the whole house, do you hear? it distresses me beyond everything to see her going about as naked as saint john the baptist!'

mouret now began to keep a close watch at all times. he locked up the cupboards and drawers, and kept the keys in his own possession. whenever rose went out he would look at her hands distrustfully, and even feel at her pockets if he saw any suspicious swelling beneath her skirt. he brought certain articles back from the second-hand dealer's and restored them to their places, dusting and wiping them ostentatiously in marthe's presence in order to remind her of what he called rose's thefts. he never directly accused his[pg 183] wife. there was a cut-glass water-bottle which he turned into a special instrument of torture. rose, having sold it for twenty sous, had pretended to mouret that it was broken. but now he made her bring it and put it on the table at every meal. one day, at lunch, she quite lost her temper over it, and purposely let it fall.

'there, sir, it's really broken this time, isn't it?' she cried, laughing in his face.

as he threatened to dismiss her, she exclaimed:

'you had better! i've been in your service for five-and-twenty years. if i went madame would go with me!'

marthe, reduced to extremities and egged on by rose and olympe, at last rebelled. she was desperately in want of five hundred francs. for the last week olympe had been crying and sobbing, asserting that if she could not get five hundred francs by the end of the month one of the bills which had been endorsed by abbé faujas would be published in one of the plassans newspapers. the threatened publication of this bill, this terrible threat which she did not quite understand, threw marthe into a state of dreadful alarm, and she resolved to dare everything. in the evening, as they were going to bed, she asked mouret for the five hundred francs, and when he looked at her in amazement she began to speak of the fifteen years which she had spent behind a counter at marseilles, with a pen behind her ear like a clerk.

'we made the money together,' she said; 'and it belongs to us both. i want five hundred francs.'

mouret thereupon broke his long maintained silence in the most violent fashion, and all his old raillery burst forth again.

'five hundred francs!' he cried. 'do you want them for your priest? i play the simpleton now and keep my peace for fear i might say too much; but you must not imagine that you can go on for ever making a fool of me! five hundred francs! why not say the whole house? the whole house certainly does seem to belong to him! he wants some money, does he? and he has told you to ask me for it? i might be among a lot of robbers in a wood instead of being in my own home! i shall have my very handkerchief stolen out of my pocket before long! i'll be bound that if i were to go and search his room i should find his drawers full of my property. there are seven pairs of my socks missing, four or five shirts, and three pairs[pg 184] of pants. i was going over the things yesterday. everything i have is disappearing, and i shan't have anything left very soon! no, not a single sou will i give you, not a single sou!'

'i want five hundred francs; half of the money belongs to me,' marthe tranquilly replied.

for a whole hour mouret stormed and fumed and repeated the same reproaches. his wife was no longer the same, he said. he did not know her now. before the priest's arrival, she had loved him and obeyed him and looked after the house. those who set her to act in opposition to him must be very wicked persons. then his voice grew thick, and he let himself fall into a chair, broken down and as weak as a child.

'give me the key of your desk!' said marthe.

he got up from his chair and gathered his strength together for a last cry of protest.

'you want to strip me of everything, eh? to leave your children with nothing but straw for a bed? you won't even leave us a loaf of bread? well! well! clear out everything, and send for rose to fill her apron! there's the key!'

he threw the key at marthe and she placed it under her pillow. she was quite pale after this quarrel, the first violent quarrel that she had ever had with her husband. she got into bed, but mouret passed the night in an easy-chair. towards morning marthe heard him sobbing. she would then have given him back the key, if he had not wildly rushed into the garden, though it was still pitch dark.

peace again seemed to be re-established between them. the key of the desk remained hanging upon a nail near the mirror. marthe, who was quite unaccustomed to the sight of large sums, felt a sort of fear of the money. she was very bashful and shamefaced at first whenever she went to open the drawer in which mouret always kept some ten thousand francs in cash to pay for his purchases of wine. she strictly confined herself to taking only what was necessary. olympe, too, gave her the most excellent advice, and told her that now she had the key she ought to be careful and economical; and, indeed, seeing the trembling nervousness which she exhibited at the sight of the hoard of money, she ceased for some time to speak to her of the besan?on debts.

mouret meantime relapsed into his former moody silence. serge's admission to the seminary had been another severe blow to him. his friends of the cours sauvaire, the retired[pg 185] traders who promenaded there regularly between four o'clock and six, began to feel very uneasy about him, when they saw him arrive with his arms swaying about and his face wearing a stupefied expression. he hardly made any reply to their remarks and seemed a prey to some incurable disease.

'he's breaking up; he's breaking up,' they murmured to each other; 'and he's only forty-four; it's scarcely credible. he will end by having softening of the brain.'

mouret no longer seemed to hear the malicious allusions which were made before him. if he was questioned directly about abbé faujas, he coloured slightly as he replied that the priest was an excellent tenant and paid his rent with great punctuality. when his back was turned, the retired shopkeepers grinned as they sat and basked in the sun on one of the seats on the cours.

'well, after all, he is only getting what he deserves,' said a retired almond-dealer. 'you remember how hotly he stood up for the priest, how he sang his praises in the four corners of plassans; but when one talks to him on that subject now rather an odd expression comes over his face.'

these worthy gentlemen then regaled themselves with certain scandalous stories which they whispered into each other's ears, passing them on in this way from one end of the bench to the other.

'well,' said a master-tanner in a half whisper, 'there isn't much pluck about mouret; if i were in his place i would soon show the priest the door.'

thereupon they all repeated that mouret was certainly a very timid fellow, he who had formerly jeered so much at those husbands who allowed their wives to lead them by the nose.

these stories, however, in spite of the persistence with which certain persons kept them afloat, never got beyond a particular set of idle gossiping people, and the reason which the curé himself gave for not taking up his residence at the parsonage, namely, his liking for the mourets' beautiful garden, where he could read his breviary in such perfect peace, was generally accepted as the true one. his great piety, his ascetic life and his contempt for all the frivolities and coquetries which other priests allowed themselves placed him beyond suspicion. the members of the young men's club accused abbé fenil of trying to ruin him. all the new part of the town was on his side, and it was only the saint-marc quarter[pg 186] that was against him, its aristocratic inhabitants treating him with great reserve whenever they met him in monseigneur rousselot's saloons. however, in spite of his popularity, he shook his head when old madame rougon told him that he might now dare everything.

'nothing is quite safe and solid yet,' he said. 'i am not sure of anyone. the least touch might bring the whole edifice toppling down.'

marthe had been causing him anxiety for some time past. he felt that he was incapable of calming the fever of devotion which was raging within her. she escaped his control and disobeyed him, and advanced further than he wished her to do. he was afraid lest this woman, this much-respected patroness, who was so useful, might yet bring about his ruin. there was a fire burning within her which seemed to discolour her flesh, and redden her eyes and make them heavy. it was like an ever-growing disease, an infatuation of her whole being, that was gradually weakening her heart and brain. she often seemed to lapse into some ecstatic trance, her hands were shaken by a nervous trembling, and a dry cough occasionally shook her from head to foot without consciousness apparently on her part of how it was rending her. the curé then showed himself sterner to her than before, tried to crush the passion which was dawning within her, and even forbade her to come to saint-saturnin's.

'the church is very cold,' he said, 'and you cough so much there. i don't want you to do anything to make yourself worse.'

she protested that there was nothing the matter with her beyond a slight irritation of the throat, but at last she yielded and accepted his prohibition as a well-deserved punishment which closed the doors of heaven upon her. she wept, believed that she was damned, and dragged herself listlessly through the blank weary days; and then, in spite of herself, like a woman returning to some forbidden love, when friday came she humbly glided into saint-michael's chapel and laid her burning brow against the woodwork of the confessional-box. she did not speak a word, but simply knelt there, completely crushed, quite overwhelmed. at this abbé faujas, who was greatly irritated, treated her as harshly as though she was some unworthy woman, and hastily ordered her away. then she left the church, feeling happy and consoled.

the priest was afraid of the effect of the gloomy darkness[pg 187] of saint-michael's chapel. he spoke upon the subject to doctor porquier, who persuaded marthe to go to confession at the little oratory of the home of the virgin in the suburb. abbé faujas promised to be there to hear her every other saturday. this oratory, which had been established in a large whitewashed room with four big windows, was bright and cheerful, and would, he thought, have a calming effect upon the excited imagination of his penitent. there, he thought, he would be able to bring her under control, reduce her to obedience, without possible fear of any scandal. as a guard against all calumnious gossip, he asked his mother to accompany marthe, and while he confessed the latter madame faujas remained outside the door. as the old lady did not like to waste her time, she used to take her knitting with her and work away at a stocking.

'my dear child,' she often said to marthe, as they were returning together to the rue balande, 'i could hear very well what ovide was saying to you to-day. you don't seem to be able to please him. you can't care for him. ah! i wish i were in your place to be able to kiss his feet! i shall grow to hate you, if you go on causing him nothing but annoyance.'

marthe bent her head. she felt deep shame in madame faujas's presence. she did not like her, she felt jealous of her at finding her always coming between herself and the priest. the old lady's dark eyes, too, troubled her when they constantly bent upon her, full as they seemed of strange and disquieting thoughts.

marthe's weak state of health sufficed to account for her meetings with abbé faujas at the oratory of the home of the virgin. doctor porquier stated that she went there simply in obedience to his orders, and the promenaders on the cours were vastly amused by this saying of the doctor's.

'well, all the same,' remarked madame paloque to her husband one day, as she watched marthe going down to the rue balande, accompanied by madame faujas, 'i should like to be in some corner and watch the vicar and his sweetheart. it is very amusing to hear her talk of her bad cold! as though a bad cold was any reason why one shouldn't make one's confession in church! i have had colds, but i never made them an excuse for shutting myself up in a little chapel with a priest.'

'it is very wrong of you to interfere in abbé faujas's[pg 188] affairs,' the judge replied to his wife. 'i have been spoken to about him. he is a man with whom we must keep on good terms, and you will prevent us from doing so; you are too spiteful.'

'stuff!' she retorted angrily; 'they have trampled me under foot and i will let them know who i am! your abbé faujas is a big imbecile! don't you suppose that abbé fenil would be very grateful to me if i could catch the vicar and his sweetheart? ah! he would give a great deal to have a scandal like that! just you leave me alone; you don't understand anything about such matters.'

a fortnight later, madame paloque watched marthe go out on the saturday. she was standing ready dressed, hiding her hideous face behind her curtains, but keeping watch over the street through a hole in the muslin. when the two women disappeared round the corner of the rue taravelle, she sniggered, and leisurely drawing on her gloves went quietly on to the place of the sub-prefecture, and walked slowly round it. as she passed in front of madame de condamin's little house, she thought for a moment of going in and taking her with her, but she reflected that the other might, perhaps, have some scruples. and, all considered, it was better she should be without witnesses, and manage the business by herself.

'i have given them time,' she thought, after a quarter of an hour's promenade. 'i think i may present myself now.'

thereupon she quickened her pace. she frequently went to the home of the virgin to discuss the accounts with trouche, but that day, instead of repairing to the secretary's office, she went straight along the corridor towards the oratory. madame faujas was quietly knitting on a chair in front of the door.

the judge's wife had foreseen that obstacle, and went straight on to the door with the hasty manner of a person who has important business on hand. but before she could reach out her hand to turn the handle the old lady had risen from her chair and pushed her aside with extraordinary energy.

'where are you going?' she asked in her blunt peasant-woman's tones.

'i am going where i have business,' madame paloque replied, her arm smarting and her face convulsed with anger. 'you are an insolent, brutish woman! let me pass! i am[pg 189] the treasurer of the home of the virgin, and i have a right to go anywhere here i want.'

madame faujas, who stood leaning against the door, straightened her spectacles upon her nose, and with unruffled tranquillity resumed her knitting.

'well,' she said bluntly, 'you can't go in there.'

'can't, indeed! and may i ask why?'

'because i don't wish that you should.'

the judge's wife felt that her plan was frustrated, and she almost choked with spleen and anger. she was positively frightful to look at as she gasped and stammered:

'i don't know who you are, and i don't know what you are doing here. if i were to call out, i could have you arrested, for you have struck me. there must be some great wickedness going on at the other side of that door for you to have been put there to keep people from entering. i belong to the house, i tell you! let me pass, or i shall call for help.'

'call for anyone you like,' replied the old lady, shrugging her shoulders. 'i have told you that you shall not go in, that i won't let you. how am i to know that you belong to the house? but it makes no difference whether you do or you don't. no one can go in. i won't let them.'

thereupon madame paloque lost all control of herself, raised her voice, and shrieked out:

'i have no occasion to go in now! i have learnt quite sufficient! you are abbé faujas's mother, are you not? this is a very decent and pretty part for you to be playing! i wouldn't enter the room now; i wouldn't mix myself up with all this wickedness!'

madame faujas laid her knitting upon the chair, and, bending slightly forward, gazed with glistening eyes through her spectacles at madame paloque, holding her hands the while a little in front of her, as though she were about to spring upon the angry woman and silence her. she was, indeed, going to throw herself forward, when the door suddenly opened and abbé faujas appeared on the threshold. he was in his surplice and looked very stern.

'well, mother,' he asked, 'what is going on here?'

the old lady bent her head, and stepped back like a dog that is taking its place at its master's heels.

'ah! is it you, dear madame paloque?' the curé continued; 'do you want to speak to me?'

by a supreme effort of will, the judge's wife forced her[pg 190] face into a smile. she answered the priest in a tone that was terrible in its amiability and mingled irony.

'ah! you were inside were you, your reverence? if i had known that, i would not have insisted upon entering. but i want to see the altar-cloth, which must, i think, be getting into a bad condition. i am a careful superintendent here, you know, and i keep an eye upon all these little details. but, of course, if you are engaged in the oratory, i wouldn't think of disturbing you. pray go on with what you are doing; the house is yours. if madame had only just dropped me a word, i would have left her quietly to continue guarding you from being disturbed.'

madame faujas allowed a growl to escape her, but a glance from her son reduced her to silence.

'come in, i beg you,' he said; 'you won't disturb me in the least. i was confessing madame mouret, who is not very well. come in, by all means. the altar-cloth might very well be changed, i think.'

'oh, no! i will come some other time,' madame paloque replied. 'i am quite distressed to have interrupted you. pray go on, your reverence, pray go on!'

notwithstanding her protestations, however, she entered the room. while she was examining the altar-cloth with marthe, the priest began to chide his mother in a low voice:

'why did you prevent her coming in, mother? i never told you to allow no one to enter.'

she gazed straight in front of her with her obstinate determined glance. 'she would have had to walk over my body before she got inside,' she muttered.

'but why?'

'because——. listen to me, ovide; don't be angry; you know that it pains me to see you angry. you told me to accompany our landlady here, didn't you? well, i thought you wanted me to stop inquisitive people's curiosity. so i took my seat out here, and no one should have entered, be sure of that.'

but the priest caught hold of his mother's hands and shook her, exclaiming:

'why, mother, you couldn't have supposed——'

'i suppose nothing,' she replied, with sublime indifference. 'you are free to do whatever pleases you. you are my child; i would steal for you, i would.'

the priest was no longer listening to her. he had let[pg 191] her hands drop, and, as he gazed at her, he seemed to be lost in reflections, which made his face look sterner and more austere than ever.

'no, never!' he exclaimed with lofty pride. 'you are greatly mistaken, mother. it is only the chaste who are powerful.'