The Grip of Desire. Hector France
as if she already felt the wings of seraphim hanging on her shoulders; she did not speak, she murmured unctuous words with a soft, low, mysterious voice like a prayer. When she said: "Would Monsieur le Curé he pleased to come to breakfast? Perhaps Monsieur le Curé could eat a boiled egg?" or "Ah! the sermon which Monsieur le Curé has been pleased to give has gone to my heart!" it was in the same tone as she would say: "Lamb of God which takest away the sins of the world. … " and one was tempted to answer: Kyrie eleison.
And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long, silent look.
She said so well: "my duty," "I wish to do my duty," that one felt filled with admiration for this holy maid.
Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold.
Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by her austere deportment and her substantial charms. More than one buxom village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon this delicate subject with her.
But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune of her pastor.
She approached the hearth with slow steps, blew on the embers, relighted the lamp, and placing it so as to throw the light on her master's face, she said to him anxiously:
—You are in pain, are you not?
—You were there then? said the Curé dissatisfied.
—Yes, she answered him with the affectionate tone of a mother, I was there, pardon me; I was going to bed, and I heard you talking aloud, there was no light; I feared you were ill, and I ventured to come in.
—And you have heard?
—I have heard that you were not happy, that is all.
—No one is happy in this world, Veronica.
—Yes, we are so only in the other, I know that. And yet happiness is so easy.
The Curé put his head between his hands without replying.
The servant went on:
—Can it be that I, your servant, a poor ignorant village girl, should say that to you, Monsieur le Curé?
—What, Veronica?
—But what matters our condition on earth? We are in a state of transition.
Holy Mary, she too, was a poor servant and now she is far above a queen.
—Without doubt, said the Curé.
—We must then despise nobody. Under the most humble appearance, God often conceals his most faithful servants.
—Most certainly. But what are you driving at?
—At this, Monsieur le Curé; that we must be good and indulgent to everybody: that the great sometimes have need of the little, and that when we are able to render a service to our neighbour we must do it without hesitation.
—It is Jesus who commands it, Veronica. But explain yourself, I pray.
—Well! yes, I will speak, she replied, for I am pained to see you thus, and the more so as it is certainly allowed me to tell you so, me who am destined, please God, to live with you. I have only known you since you were our Curé, but you have been so good to me that I love you like … a sister. I was all alone here, like a poor forsaken creature, after the death of my old master, the Abbé Fortin—may God keep his soul—and you consented to keep me when taking the parsonage. It is good of you, for you might have brought with you your former servant, or again some niece, as many do.
—I have no niece, Veronica.
—A niece, or a sister, or a relation. After all you have kept me, although you could have found a better than myself. Oh, very easily, I know … and I thank you from the bottom of my heart, yes, from the bottom of my heart. But could you have found one more devoted, more discreet? I believe not; as much, perhaps; but more, I believe not. Ah! I tell you here, Monsieur le Curé, you can do everything you want, nobody shall ever know anything of it.
The Curé looked at his servant with amazement.
—What do you mean by that, Veronica? he asked in a stern voice.
—Oh! nothing, I mean nothing. I mean that you can have entire confidence in your poor servant.
—I thank you, Veronica, but I don't know what you mean.
—I explain myself badly doubtless, Monsieur le Curé. Ah! pardon me, I was forgetting … here, there is a letter which I have just found and which has been slipped under the door at night.
He looked at the address. It was an elegant and bold hand, the hand of a woman.
XXIII.
THE LETTER
"The beauty then, to end this war,
Offers but a single way which we can hardly guess."
R. IMBERT (Nouvelles).
A sweet perfume was exhaled from it.
He opened it with a trembling hand.
That strange intuition of the heart which is named presentiment, told him that it came from Suzanne.
Pale with emotion he read:
"MONSIEUR L'ABBÉ,
"I do not wish the day to pass without coming to ask your pardon for my father's conduct towards you, and assure you that he does not think a single one of his wicked words.
"Do not keep, I pray, an evil memory of me, and believe that I should he grieved if a single doubt were to remain in your mind as to the sympathy and respect which you inspire in
"Suzanne Durand.
"P.S. I have much need of your counsels."
Marcel, full of a delicious trouble, read and re-read this letter. He did not take careful note of his sensations, but he felt an ineffable joy overflow his heart, and at the same time a vague anxiety.
His servant's voice recalled Him to himself.
—Doubtless it is a sick person who asks for religious aid, she said.
Was there a slight irony in that question?
The priest thought he saw it. He called out sharply:
—You are still there, Veronica? Who has called you? I don't want you any longer.
—Pardon me, Monsieuur le Curé, she answered humbly and softly, I was waiting. … I thought that perhaps you were going out to visit this sick person and that then I could be useful to you in some way.
—You cannot be useful to me in any way, Veronica, But truly you astonish me. What have you then to say to me? Come, explain yourself at once.
—No, Monsieur le Curé, there is midnight striking. It is time to repose, I wish you good-night, sir.
—Good-night, Veronica.
"What a strange woman," said Marcel to himself, "what can she want with me. One would say that she had a secret to confide to me and that she does not dare. … Could she have any suspicion? No, it is impossible. How could she know what I want to hide from myself. She has caught two or three words perhaps; but what could she understand, and what have I let drop to compromise me? She has evidently heard others, for she was here before me, and these old walls have been witnesses, I am sure,