that night abbe mouret slept very heavily. when he opened his eyes in the morning, later than usual, his face and hands were wet with tears. he had been weeping all through the night while he slept. he did not say his mass that day. in spite of his long rest, he had not recovered from his excessive weariness of the previous evening, and he remained in his bedroom till noon, sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed. the condition of stupor into which he more and more deeply sank, took all sensation of suffering away from him. he was conscious only of a great void and blank as he sat there overpowered and benumbed. even to read his breviary cost him a great effort. its latin seemed to him a barbarous language, which he would never again be able to pronounce.
having tossed the book upon his bed he gazed for hours through his open window at the surrounding country. in the far distance he saw the long wall of the paradou, creeping like a thin white line amongst the gloomy patches of the pine plantations to the crest of the hills. on the left, hidden by one of those plantations, was the breach. he could not see it, but he knew it was there. he remembered every bit of bramble scattered among the stones. on the previous night he would not have thus dared to gaze upon that dreaded scene. but now with impunity he allowed himself to trace the whole line of the wall, as it emerged again and again from the clumps of verdure which here and there concealed it. his blood pulsed none the faster for this scrutiny. temptation, as though disdaining his present weakness, left him free from attack. forsaken by the divine grace, he was incapable of entering upon any struggle, the thought of sin could no longer even impassion him; it was sheer stupor alone that now rendered him willing to accept that which he had the day before so strenuously refused.
at one moment he caught himself talking aloud and saying that, since the breach in the wall was still open, he would go and join albine at sunset. this decision brought him a slight feeling of worry, but he did not think that he could do otherwise. she was expecting him to go, and she was his wife. when he tried to picture her face, he could only imagine her as very pale and a long way off. then he felt a little uneasy as to their future manner of life together. it would be difficult for them to remain in the neighbourhood; they would have to go away somewhere, without any one knowing anything about it. and then, when they had managed to conceal themselves, they would need a deal of money in order to live happily and comfortably. he tried a score of times to hit upon some scheme by which they could get away and live together like happy lovers, but he could devise nothing satisfactory. now that he was no longer wild with passion, the practical side of the situation alarmed him. he found himself, in all his weakness, face to face with a complicated problem with which he was incompetent to grapple.
where could they get horses for their escape? and if they went away on foot, would they not be stopped and detained as vagabonds? was he capable of securing any employment by which he could earn bread for his wife? he had never been taught any kind of trade. he was quite ignorant of actual life. he ransacked his memory, and he could remember nothing but strings of prayers, details of ceremonies, and pages of bouvier's 'instruction theologique,' which he had learned by heart at the seminary. he worried too over matters of no real concern. he asked himself whether he would dare to give his arm to his wife in the street. he certainly could not walk with a woman clinging to his arm. he would surely appear so strange and awkward that every one would turn round to stare at him. they would guess that he was a priest and would insult albine. it would be vain for him to try to obliterate the traces of his priesthood. he would always wear that mournful pallor and carry the odour of incense about with him. and what if he should have children some day? as this thought suddenly occurred to him, he quite started. he felt a strange repugnance at the very idea. he felt sure that he should not care for any children that might be born to him. suppose there were two of them, a little boy and a little girl. he could never let them get on his knees; it would distress him to feel their hands clutching at his clothes. the thought of the little girl troubled him the most; he could already see womanly tenderness shining in the depths of her big, childish eyes. no! no! he would have no children.
nevertheless he resolved that he would flee with albine that evening. but when the evening came, he felt too weary. so he deferred his flight till the next morning. and the next morning he made a fresh pretext for delay. he could not leave his sister alone with la teuse. he would prepare a letter, directing that she should be taken to her uncle pascal's. for three days he was ever on the point of writing that letter, and the paper and pen and ink were lying ready on the table in his room. then, on the third day, he went off, leaving the letter unwritten. he took up his hat quite suddenly and set off for the paradou in a state of mingled stupor and resignation, as though he were unwillingly performing some compulsory task which he saw no means of avoiding. albine's image was now effaced from his memory; he no longer beheld her, but he was driven on by old resolves whose lingering influence, though they themselves were dead, still worked upon him in his silence and loneliness.
he took no pains to escape notice when he set foot out of doors. he stopped at the end of the village to talk for a moment to rosalie. she told him that her baby was suffering from convulsions; but she laughed, as she spoke, with the laugh that was natural to her. then he struck out through the rocks, and walked straight on towards the breach in the wall. by force of habit he had brought his breviary with him. finding the way long, he opened the book and read the regulation prayers. when he put it back again under his arm, he had forgotten the paradou. he went on walking steadily, thinking about a new chasuble that he wished to purchase to replace the old gold-broidered one, which was certainly falling into shreds. for some time past he had been saving up twenty-sous pieces, and he calculated that by the end of seven months he would have got the necessary amount of money together. he had reached the hills when the song of a peasant in the distance reminded him of a canticle which had been familiar to him at the seminary. he tried to recall the first lines of it, but his recollection failed him. it vexed him to find that his memory was so poor. and when, at last, he succeeded in remembering the words, he found a soothing pleasure in humming the verses, which came back to his mind one by one. it was a hymn of homage to mary. he smiled as though some soft breath from the days of his childhood were playing upon his face. ah! how happy he had then been! why shouldn't he be as happy again? he had not grown any bigger, he wanted nothing more than the same old happiness, unruffled peace, a nook in the chapel, where his knees marked his place, a life of seclusion, enlivened by the delightful puerilities of childhood. little by little he raised his voice, singing the canticle in flutelike tones, when he suddenly became aware of the breach immediately in front of him.
for a moment he seemed surprised. then, the smile dying from his face, he murmured quietly:
'albine must be expecting me. the sun is already setting.'
but just as he was about to push some stones aside to make himself a passage, he was startled by a snore. he sprang down again: he had only just missed setting his foot upon the very face of brother archangias, who was lying on the ground there sleeping soundly. slumber had overtaken him while he kept guard over the entrance to the paradou. he barred the approach to it, lying at full length before its threshold, with arms and legs spread out. his right hand, thrown back behind his head, still clutched his dogwood staff, which he seemed to brandish like a fiery sword. and he snored loudly in the midst of the brambles, his face exposed to the sun, without a quiver on his tanned skin. a swarm of big flies was hovering over his open mouth.
abbe mouret looked at him for a moment. he envied the slumber of that dust-wallowing saint. he wished to drive the flies away, but they persistently returned, and clung around the purple lips of the brother, who was quite unconscious of their presence. then the abbe strode over his big body and entered the paradou.
