at seventeen years of age, désirée still retained the child-like laugh of an 'innocent.' she was now a fine, tall girl, plump and well-developed, with the arms and shoulders of a full-grown woman. she grew like a healthy plant, happy in her growth, and quite untouched by the unhappiness which was wrecking and saddening the house.

'why do you never laugh?' she cried to her father one day. 'come and have a game at skipping! it's such fun!'

she had taken possession of one of the garden-beds, which she dug, planted with vegetables, and carefully watered. the hard work delighted her. then she desired to have some fowls, which devoured her vegetables and which she scolded with motherly tenderness. with these occupations of hers, gardening and fowl-keeping, she made herself dreadfully dirty.

'she's perfectly filthy!' cried rose. 'i won't have her coming into my kitchen any more; she dirties everything! it is no use your trying to keep her neatly dressed, madame. if i were you i should just let her mess about as she likes.'

marthe, now ever preoccupied, no longer took care even that désirée should change her under-linen regularly. the girl sometimes wore the same chemise for three weeks together; her stockings fell over her shoes, which were sadly worn down at the heels, and her tattered skirts hung about her like a beggar's rags. mouret was one day obliged to take up a needle himself, for the girl's dress was torn behind from top to bottom. she, however, laughed gleefully at her nakedness, at her hair that fell over her shoulders, and at her black hands and dirty face.

marthe came to feel a sort of disgust of her. when she returned home from mass, still retaining in her hair the[pg 192] vague perfume of the church, she quite shuddered at the strong scent of earth which exhaled from her daughter. she sent her into the garden again immediately lunch was over. she could not bear to have her near her, distressed, disquieted as she was by the girl's robust vigour and clear laugh, which seemed to find amusement in everything.

'oh, dear! how wearisome the child is!' she murmured sometimes, with an air of nerveless lassitude.

as mouret heard her complain, he exclaimed in an impulse of anger:

'if she's in your way, we will turn her out of the house, as we have done the other two.'

'indeed, i should be very glad if she were to go away,' marthe answered unhesitatingly.

one afternoon, about the end of the summer, mouret was alarmed at no longer being able to hear désirée, who, a few minutes previously, had been making a tremendous noise at the bottom of the garden. he ran to see what had happened to her, and found her lying on the ground. she had fallen from a ladder on to which she had climbed to gather some figs: fortunately the box-plants had broken the force of her fall. mouret, in a great fright, lifted her up in his arms and called for assistance. he thought she was dead; but she quickly came to herself, declared that she was none the worse for the accident, and wanted to climb the ladder again.

marthe, however, had meantime come into the garden. when she heard désirée laugh she seemed quite annoyed.

'that child will kill me one of these days,' she exclaimed. 'she doesn't know what to invent to alarm me. i'm sure that she threw herself down on purpose. i can't endure it any longer. i shall shut myself up in my own room, or go out in the morning and not return till evening. yes, you may laugh, you great goose! to think that i am the mother of such a ninny! you are making me pay for it very dearly!'

'yes, that she is!' cried rose, who had run down from the kitchen; 'she's a great burden, and, unfortunately, there's no chance of our ever being able to get her married.'

mouret looked at them and listened with a pang at the heart. he said nothing, but stayed with the girl at the bottom of the garden, and there they remained chatting affectionately till nightfall. the next day, marthe and rose were away from the house the whole morning. they went[pg 193] to hear mass at a chapel, a league from plassans, dedicated to saint-januarius, whither all the pious folks of the town made a pilgrimage on that particular day. when they returned, the cook hastily served up a cold lunch. marthe went on eating for a few minutes before she noticed that her daughter was not at table.

'isn't désirée hungry?' she asked. 'why hasn't she come to lunch?'

'désirée is no longer here,' answered mouret, who left his food almost untouched upon his plate; 'i took her this morning to her nurse at saint-eutrope.'

marthe laid down her fork, and turned a little pale, seeming both surprised and hurt.

'you might have consulted me,' she said.

her husband, without making any direct reply, continued:

'she is all right with her nurse. the good woman is very fond of her, and will look well after her, and the child will no longer be in your way, and everyone will be happy.'

then, as his wife said nothing, he added:

'if the house is not yet sufficiently quiet for you, just tell me, and i will go away myself.'

she half rose from her seat, and a light glistened in her eyes. mouret had wounded her so cruelly that she stretched out her hand as though she were going to throw the water-bottle at his head. in her long-submissive nature angry promptings were now being fanned into life, and she was growing to hate this man who was ever prowling round her. she made a show of eating again, but she said nothing further about her daughter. mouret had folded his napkin, and remained sitting in front of her, listening to the sound of her fork, and casting lingering glances round the dining-room, which had once been so merry with the chatter of the children, but was now so empty and mournful. the room seemed to him to be quite chilly, and tears were mounting to his eyes when marthe called to rose to bring in the dessert.

'you must be very hungry, i should think, madame,' said the cook, as she put a plateful of fruit upon the table. 'we had quite a long walk; and if the master, instead of playing the pagan, had come with us, he would not have left you to eat the mutton all by yourself.'

then she changed the plates, without pausing in her chatter.

[pg 194]

'it is very pretty is that chapel of saint-januarius, but it is too small. did you see that the ladies who came late were obliged to kneel down outside on the grass, in the open air? i can't understand why madame de condamin came in a carriage. there's no merit in making the pilgrimage if you come like that. we spent a delightful morning, didn't we, madame?'

'yes, a very delightful morning,' marthe replied. 'abbé mousseau, who preached, was very affecting.'

when rose in her turn noticed désirée's absence and learnt of the girl's departure, she exclaimed:

'well, really, it was a very good idea of the master's! she was always walking off with my saucepans to water her plants. we shall be able to have a little peace now.'

'yes, indeed,' said marthe, who was cutting a pear.

mouret was almost choking. he rose and left the dining-room without paying any attention to rose, who cried out to him that the coffee would be ready directly. marthe, now left alone in the room, quietly finished her pear.

just as the cook was bringing the coffee, madame faujas came downstairs.

'go in,' rose said to her; 'you will be company for madame, and you can have the master's coffee, for he has just rushed off like a madman.'

the old lady sat down in mouret's place.

'i thought you did not take coffee,' she remarked as she put some sugar into her cup.

'no, indeed, she didn't do so when the master kept the purse,' interposed rose. 'but madame would be very silly now to deny herself what she likes.'

they talked for a good hour together, and marthe ended by relating all her troubles to madame faujas, telling her how her husband had just inflicted a most painful scene upon her on account of her daughter, whom he had removed to her nurse's in a sudden pet. she defended herself, and told madame faujas that she was really very fond of the girl, and should go to fetch her back before long.

'well, she was rather noisy,' madame faujas remarked. 'i have often pitied you. my son was thinking about giving up going into the garden to read his breviary. she almost distracted him with the noise she made.'

from that day forward marthe and mouret took their meals in silence. the autumn was very damp, and the[pg 195] dining-room looked intensely melancholy with only two covers laid, one at each end of the big table. the corners were dark, and a chill seemed to fall from the ceiling. as rose would say, it looked as though a funeral were going on.

'well, indeed,' she often exclaimed, as she brought the plates into the room, 'you couldn't make much less noise, sir, however you tried! there isn't much danger of your wearing the skin of your tongue off! do try to be a little livelier, sir! you look as though you were following a corpse to the grave!—you will end by making madame quite ill. it is bad for the health to eat without speaking.'

when the first frosts came, rose, who sought in every way to oblige madame faujas, offered her the use of her cooking-stove. the old lady had begun by bringing down kettles to get her water boiled, as she had no fire, she said, and the abbé was in a hurry to shave. then she borrowed some flat-irons, begged the use of some saucepans, asked for the loan of the dutch-oven to cook some mutton, and finally, in the end, as she had no conveniently arranged fireplace upstairs, she accepted rose's repeated offers, and the cook lighted her a fire of vine branches, big enough to roast a whole sheep, in the kitchen.

'don't show any diffidence about it,' she said, as she herself turned the leg of mutton round; 'the kitchener is a large one, isn't it? and big enough for us both. i don't know how you've been able to do your cooking upstairs as long as you have, with only that wretched iron stove there. i should have been afraid of falling down in an apoplectic fit myself. monsieur mouret ought to know better than to let a set of rooms without any kitchen. you must be very enduring kind of people, and very easily satisfied.'

thus madame faujas gradually began to cook her lunch and dinner in the mourets' kitchen. on the first few occasions she provided her own coal and oil and spices. but afterwards, when she forgot to bring any article with her, rose would not allow her to go upstairs for it, but insisted upon supplying the deficiency from the house stores.

'oh, there's some butter there! the little bit which you will take with the tip of your knife won't ruin us. you know very well that everything here is at your service. madame would be quite angry with me if i didn't make you at home here.'

a close intimacy now sprang up between rose and[pg 196] madame faujas. the cook was delighted to have some one always at hand who was willing to listen to her while she stirred her sauces. she got on extremely well with the priest's mother, whose print dresses and rough face and unpolished demeanour put her almost on a footing of equality. they sat chatting together for hours before the fireplace, and madame faujas soon gained complete sway in the kitchen, though she still maintained her impenetrable attitude, and only said what she chose to say, while contriving to worm out all that she wanted to know. she settled the mourets' dinner, tasted the dishes which she had arranged they should have, and rose herself often made savoury little luxuries for the abbé's delectation, such as sugared apples or rice-cakes or fritters. the provisions of the two establishments often got mixed together, mistakes were made with the different pans, the two dinners being so intermingled that rose would cry out with a laugh:

'tell me, madame, are these poached eggs yours? really, i don't know. upon my word, it would be much better if you were all to dine together!'

it was on all saints day that abbé faujas lunched for the first time in the mourets' dining-room. he was in a great hurry, as he had to return to saint-saturnin's at once, and so, to give him as much time as possible, marthe asked him to sit down at their table, saying that it would save his mother from climbing a couple of flights of stairs. a week later it had become a regular thing; the faujases came downstairs at every meal and took their seats at table, just as if they were entering a restaurant. for the first few days their provisions were cooked and served separately, but rose declared this was a very silly arrangement, that she could easily cook for four persons, and that she would arrange it all with madame faujas.

'pray don't thank me,' she said to the abbé and his mother; 'it is a kindness on your part to come down and keep madame company. you will cheer her up a little. i scarcely dare go into the dining-room now; it is just like going into the chamber of death. it quite frightens me, it feels so desolate. if the master chooses to go on sulking, he will have to do so all by himself.'

they kept up a roaring fire, the room was very warm, and the winter proved a delightful one. rose had never before taken such pains to lay the tablecloth nicely. she placed his[pg 197] reverence's chair near the stove, so that he might have his back to the fire. she paid particular attention to his glass and his knife and fork, she took care that whenever the slightest stain made its appearance upon the cloth it should not be put on his side, and she paid him numberless other delicate little attentions.

when she had prepared any dish of which he was particularly fond, she gave him notice so that he might reserve himself for it; though sometimes, on the other hand, she made a surprise of it for him, and brought it into the room under a cover, smiling at the inquisitive glances directed towards it, and exclaiming with an air of triumph:

'this is for his reverence! it is a wild-duck stuffed with olives, just what he is so fond of. give his reverence the breast, madame. i cooked it specially for him.'

marthe carved the duck, and with beseeching looks pressed the choicest morsels upon the abbé. she always helped him the first, and searched the dish for him, while rose bent over her and pointed out what she thought the best parts. they occasionally even had little disputes as to the superiority of this or that part of a fowl or rabbit. then, too, rose used to push an embroidered hassock under the priest's feet, while marthe insisted that he should always have his bottle of bordeaux and his roll, specially ordering one of the latter for him from the baker every day.

'we can never do too much for you,' said rose, when the abbé expressed his thanks. 'who should be well looked after, if it isn't good kind hearts like yours? don't you trouble about it, the lord will pay your debt for you.'

madame faujas smiled at all these flattering civilities as she sat at table opposite her son. she was beginning to feel quite fond of marthe and rose. she considered their adoration only natural, and thought it a great happiness for them to be allowed to cast themselves in this way at the feet of her idol. it was really she with her square head and peasant manner who presided over the table, eating slowly but plentifully, noticing everything that happened without once setting down her fork, and taking care that marthe should play the part of servant to her son, at whom she was constantly gazing with an expression of content. she never opened her lips except to make known in as few words as possible the abbé's various tastes or to over-rule the polite refusals in which he still occasionally indulged. sometimes she[pg 198] shrugged her shoulders and pushed him with her foot. wasn't everything on the table at his service? he might eat the whole contents of the dish, if he liked, and the others would be quite happy to nibble their dry bread and look at him.

abbé faujas himself, however, seemed quite indifferent to all the tender care which was lavished upon him. of a very frugal disposition and a quick eater, his mind always occupied with other matters, he was frequently quite unconscious of the dainties which were specially reserved for him. he had yielded to his mother's entreaties in consenting to join the mourets, but the only satisfaction he experienced in the dining-room on the ground-floor was the pleasure of being set entirely free from the everyday cares of life. he manifested unruffled serenity, gradually grew accustomed to seeing his least wish anticipated and fulfilled, and ceased to manifest any surprise or express any thanks, lording it haughtily between the mistress of the house and the cook, who kept anxious watch over the slightest motions of his stern face.

mouret sat opposite his wife, quite forgotten and unnoticed. he let his hands rest upon the edge of the table, and waited, like a child, till marthe should be willing to attend to him. she helped him the last, scantily, and to whatever might happen to be left. rose stood behind her and warned her whenever by mistake she was going to give her husband some of the more delicate morsels in the dish.

'no, no; not that. the master likes the head, you know. he enjoys sucking the little bones.'

mouret, snubbed and slighted, ate his food with a sort of shame, as though he was subsisting unworthily on other people's bounty. he could see madame faujas watching him keenly as he cut his bread. he kept his eyes fixed on the bottle for a whole minute, full of doubtful hesitation, before he dare venture to help himself to wine. once he made a mistake and took a little of the priest's choice bordeaux. there was a tremendous fuss made about it, and for a whole month afterwards rose reproached him for those few drops of wine. whenever she made any sweet dish, she would say:

'i don't want the master to have any of that. he never thinks anything i make nice. he once told me that an omelet i had made was burnt, and then i said, "they shall be burnt altogether for you." don't give any of it to the master, i beg you, madame.'

[pg 199]

she also did all she could to worry and upset him. she gave him cracked plates, contrived that one of the table legs should come between his own, left shreds of the glass-cloth clinging to his glass, and placed the bread and wine and salt as far from him as possible. mouret was the only one in the family who liked mustard, and he used to go himself to the grocers and buy canisters of it, which the cook promptly caused to disappear, saying that they 'stank so.' the deprivation of mustard spoilt his enjoyment of his meals. but what made him still more miserable, and robbed him of all appetite, was his expulsion from his own seat, which he had always previously occupied, in front of the window, which was now given to the priest, as being the pleasantest in the room. mouret had to sit with his face towards the door, and he felt as though he were eating amongst strangers, now that he could not at each mouthful cast a glance at his fruit-trees.

marthe was not so bitter against him as rose was. she treated him at first like a poor relation, whose presence is just tolerated, and then gradually grew to ignore him, scarcely ever addressing a remark to him, and acting as though abbé faujas alone had the right to give orders in the house. mouret, however, showed no inclination to rebel. he occasionally exchanged a few polite phrases with the priest, though he generally ate in perfect silence, and only replied to the cook's attacks by looking at her. he always finished before any of the others, folded up his napkin tidily, and then left the room, frequently before the dessert was placed upon the table.

rose alleged that he was bursting with anger, and when she gossiped in the kitchen with madame faujas she discussed his conduct freely.

'i know him very well; i've never been afraid of him. before you came madame used to tremble before him, for he was always scolding and blustering and trying to appear very terrible. he used to worry our lives out of us, always poking about, never finding anything right, and trying to show us that he was master. now he is as docile as a lamb, isn't he? it's just because madame has asserted herself. ah! if he weren't a coward, and weren't afraid of what might happen, you would hear a pretty row. but he is afraid of your son; yes, he is afraid of his reverence the curé. anyone would say, to look at him, that he lost his senses every now and[pg 200] then. but after all, as long as he doesn't bother us any longer, he is welcome to act as he pleases; isn't he, madame?'

madame faujas replied that monsieur mouret seemed to her to be a very worthy man, and that his only fault was his lack of religion. but he would certainly adopt a better mode of life in time, she said. the old lady was gradually making herself mistress of the whole of the ground floor, going from kitchen to dining-room as she pleased, and ever bustling about in the hall and passages. when mouret met her he used to recall the day when the faujases first arrived; when, wearing that shabby black dress of hers, she had tenaciously clung to her basket with both hands and poked her head inquisitively into each room, with all the unruffled serenity of a person inspecting some property for sale.

since the faujases had begun to take their meals downstairs the trouches were left in possession of the second floor. they made a great deal of noise, and the constant moving of furniture, the stamping of feet and the violent banging of doors, were heard by those downstairs. madame faujas would then uneasily raise her head in the midst of her gossiping in the kitchen. rose, for the sake of putting her at her ease, used to say that poor madame trouche suffered a great deal of pain. one night the abbé, who had not yet gone to bed, heard a strange commotion on the stairs. he left his room with his candle in his hand, and saw trouche, disgracefully drunk, climbing up the stairs on his knees. he seized the sot in his strong arms and threw him into his room. olympe was in bed there, quietly reading a novel and sipping a glass of spirits and water that stood on a little table at the bedside.

'listen to me,' said abbé faujas, livid with rage; 'you will pack up your things in the morning and take yourselves off!'

'why? what for?' asked olympe, quite calmly; 'we are very comfortable here.'

the priest sternly interrupted her.

'hold your tongue! you are a wretched woman! you have never tried to do anything but injure me. our mother was right; i ought never to have rescued you from your state of wretchedness. i've just had to pick your husband up on the stairs. it is disgraceful. think of the scandal there would be if he were to be seen in this state. you will go away in the morning.'

[pg 201]

olympe sat up to sip her grog.

'no, no, indeed!' she said.

trouche laughed. he was drunkenly merry, and fell back into an armchair in a state of happy self-satisfaction.

'don't let us quarrel,' he stammered. 'it is a mere nothing; only a little giddiness. the air, which is very cold, made me dizzy, that's all. and your streets in this confounded town are so very confusing. i say, faujas, there are some very nice young fellows about here. there's doctor porquier's son. you know doctor porquier, don't you? well, i meet the son at a café behind the gaol. it is kept by a woman from arles, a fine handsome woman with a dark complexion.'

the priest crossed his arms and looked at him with a terrible expression.

'no, really, faujas, i assure you that it is quite wrong of you to be angry with me. you know that i have been well brought up, and that i know how to behave myself. why, in the day-time i wouldn't touch a drop of syrup for fear of compromising you. since i have been here i have gone to my office just like a boy going to school, with slices of bread and jam in a little basket. it's a very stupid sort of life, i can assure you, and i only do it to be of service to you. but at night, i'm not likely to be seen, and i can go about a little. it does me good, and, in fact, i should die if i always kept myself locked up here. there is no one in the streets, you know. what funny streets they are, eh?'

'sot!' growled the priest between his clenched teeth.

'you won't be friends, then? well, that's very wrong of you, old chap. i'm a jolly fellow myself, and i don't like sour looks, and if what i do doesn't please you, i'll leave you to get on with your pious ladies by yourself. that little condamin is the only decent one amongst them, and even she doesn't come up to the café-keeper from arles. oh, yes! you may roll your eyes about as much as you like. i can get on quite well without you. see! would you like me to lend you a hundred francs?'

he drew out a bundle of bank-notes and spread them on his knees, laughing loudly as he did so. then he swept them under the abbé's nose and threw them up in the air. olympe sprang out of bed, half naked, picked up the notes and placed them under the bolster with an expression of vexation. abbé faujas glanced around him with great[pg 202] surprise. he saw bottles of liqueurs ranged all along the top of the chest of drawers, a scarcely touched patty was on the mantelpiece, and there were some sweetmeats in an old box. the room was, indeed, full of recent purchases; dresses thrown over the chairs, an open parcel of lace, a magnificent new overcoat hanging from the window-catch, and a bearskin rug spread out in front of the bed. by the side of olympe's glass of grog on the little table there also lay a small gold lady's watch glittering in a porcelain tray.

'whom have they been plundering, i wonder?' thought the priest.

then he recollected having seen olympe kissing marthe's hands.

'you wretched people!' he cried; 'you have been thieving!'

trouche sprang up, but his wife pushed him down upon the sofa. 'keep quiet!' she said to him, 'go to sleep, you need it.'

then, turning to her brother, she continued:

'it is one o'clock, and you might let us go to sleep if you have only disagreeable things to say. it is certainly wrong of my husband to intoxicate himself, but that's no reason why you should abuse him. we have already had several explanations; this one must be the last, do you understand, ovide? we are brother and sister, are we not? well, then, as i have told you before, we must go halves. you gorge yourself downstairs, you have all kinds of dainty dishes provided for you, and you live a fat life between the landlady and the cook. well, you please yourself about that. we don't go and look into your plate or try to pull the dainty morsels out of your mouth. we let you manage your affairs as you like. very well then, just you leave us alone and allow us the same liberty. i don't think i am asking anything unreasonable.'

the priest made a gesture of impatience.

'oh yes, i understand,' she continued; 'you are afraid lest we should compromise you in your schemes. the best way to ensure our not doing so is to leave us in peace and cease from worrying us. ah! in spite of all your grand airs, you are not so very clever. we have the same interests as you have, we are all of the same family, and we might very well hunt together. it would be much the best plan, if you would only see it. but there, go to bed, now! i'll scold[pg 203] trouche in the morning, and i'll send him to you and you can give him your instructions.'

for a moment the priest, who was a little pale, remained thinking; then, without another word, he left the room, and olympe resumed the perusal of her novel, while trouche lay snoring on the sofa.

the next morning, trouche, who had recovered his wits, had a long interview with abbé faujas. when he returned to his wife, he informed her of the conditions upon which peace had again been patched up.

'listen to me, my dear,' olympe replied. 'give way to him and do what he asks. above all try to be useful to him, since he gives you the chance of being so. i put a bold face on the matter when he is here, but in my own heart i know very well that he would turn us out into the street like dogs if we pushed him too far, and i don't want to have to go away. are you sure that he will let us stay?'

'oh yes; don't be afraid,' replied the secretary. 'he has need of me, and he will leave us to feather our nest.'

from this time forward trouche used to go out every evening about nine o'clock, when the streets were quiet. he told his wife that he went into the old quarter of the town to further the abbé's cause. olympe was not at all jealous of his nightly absences, and laughed heartily whenever he brought her back some broad story. she preferred being left quietly to herself, to sip her glass and nibble her cakes in privacy, or to spend her long evenings snugly in bed, devouring the old novels of a circulating-library which she had discovered in the rue canquoin. trouche used to come back slightly under the influence of liquor, but he took off his boots in the hall so as to make no noise as he went upstairs. when he had drunk too much, and reeked of tobacco and brandy, his wife would not let him get into bed, but made him sleep on the sofa. if he became annoying, she caught hold of him, looked him sternly in the face, and said:

'ovide will hear you. ovide is coming.'

at this he was as frightened as a child that is threatened with a wolf, and went off to sleep, muttering excuses. in the morning he dressed himself in serious, sedate fashion, wiped from his face all the marks of the previous night's dissipation, and put on a certain cravat, which gave him, he said, quite the air of a parson. as he passed the cafés he bent his head to the ground. at the home of the virgin he was held in[pg 204] great respect. now and then, when the girls were playing in the courtyard, he raised a corner of his curtain and glanced at them with an affectation of fatherliness, though his eyes glistened beneath their lowered lids.

the trouches were still kept in check by madame faujas. the mother and the daughter were perpetually quarrelling, olympe complaining that she was sacrificed to her brother, and madame faujas treating her like a viper whom she ought to have crushed to death in her cradle. both grasping after the same prey, they kept a close watch on one another, anxious to know which would secure the larger share. madame faujas wanted to obtain everything in the house, and she tried to keep the very sweepings from olympe's clutching fingers. on seeing what large sums her daughter drew from marthe, she quite burst with anger. when her son shrugged his shoulders at it like a man who despises such matters, and is forced to close his eyes to them, she, on her side, had a stormy explanation with her daughter, whom she branded as a thief, as though the money had been taken from her own pocket.

'there, mother, that will do!' cried olympe impatiently. 'it isn't your purse, you know, that i have been lightening. besides, i have only been borrowing a little money; i don't make other people keep me.'

'what do you mean, you wicked hussy?' gasped madame faujas with indignation. 'do you suppose that we don't pay for our food? ask the cook, and she will show you our account book.'

olympe broke out into a loud laugh.

'oh, yes, that's very nice!' she cried; 'i know that account book of yours! you pay for the radishes and butter, don't you? stay downstairs by all means, mother; stay downstairs on the ground floor. i don't want to interfere with your arrangements. but don't come up here and worry me any more, or i shall make a row, and you know that ovide has forbidden any noise up here.'

at this madame faujas went downstairs muttering and growling. the threat of making a disturbance always compelled her to beat a retreat. olympe began to sing jeeringly as soon as her mother's back was turned. but whenever she went down into the garden the other took her revenge, keeping everlastingly at her heels, watching her hands, never ceasing to play the spy upon her. she would not allow her[pg 205] in the kitchen or dining-room for a moment. she embroiled her with rose about a saucepan that had been borrowed and never returned; but she did not dare to attempt to undermine marthe's friendship for her for fear of causing some scandal which might prove prejudicial to the priest.

'since you are so regardless of your own interests,' she said to her son one day, 'i must look after them for you. make yourself easy. i shan't do anything foolish; but if i were not here, your sister would snatch the very bread out of your hands.'

marthe had no notion of the drama that was being played around her. to her the house simply seemed more lively and cheerful, now that all these people thronged the hall and the stairs and the passages. the place was as noisy as an hotel, what with all the echoes of quarrelling, the banging of doors, the free and independent life of each of the tenants, and the flaming fire in the kitchen, where rose seemed to have a whole table d'h?te to provide for. there was a continual procession of tradesmen to the house. olympe, who became very particular about her hands and refused to risk spoiling them by washing plates and dishes, had everything sent from a confectioner's in the rue de la banne, who catered for the townspeople. marthe smiled and said she enjoyed the present bustle of the house. she now greatly disliked being left alone, and felt the necessity of occupation of some sort to allay the fever that was consuming her.

mouret, however, to escape from all the racket, used to shut himself up in a room on the first floor, which he called his office. he had overcome his distaste for solitude; he now scarcely ever went down into the garden, but kept himself locked up from morning till night.

'i should very much like to know what he finds to do in there,' said rose to madame faujas. 'one can't hear him move, and you might almost fancy he was dead. if he wants to hide himself in that way, it must be because he is doing something that's neither right nor proper; don't you think so, eh?'

when the summer came round once more, the house grew still livelier. abbé faujas received the guests of both the sub-prefect and the presiding judge beneath the arbour at the bottom of the garden. rose, by marthe's orders, purchased a dozen rustic chairs, so that the visitors might enjoy the fresh air without it being necessary to carry the dining-room[pg 206] chairs hither and thither. it was now the regular thing for the doors communicating with the little lane to remain open every tuesday afternoon, and the ladies and gentlemen came to salute abbé faujas like friendly neighbours, the men often in their slippers and with their coats carelessly unbuttoned, and the ladies in straw hats and with skirts looped up with pins. the visitors arrived one by one, and gradually the two sets of guests found themselves mixing together, gossiping and amusing themselves with perfect familiarity.

'aren't you afraid,' said monsieur bourdeu to monsieur rastoil one day, 'that these meetings with the sub-prefect's friends may be ill advised? the general elections are getting near.'

'why should they be ill advised?' asked monsieur rastoil. 'we don't go to the sub-prefecture; we keep on neutral ground. besides, my good friend, there is no ceremony about the matter. i keep my linen jacket on, and it's a mere private friendly visit. no one has any right to pass judgment upon what i do at the back of my house. in the front it's another matter. in the front we belong to the public. when monsieur péqueur and i meet each other in the streets we merely bow.'

'monsieur péqueur de saulaies improves much on acquaintance,' the ex-prefect ventured to remark after a short pause.

'certainly, certainly,' replied the presiding judge; 'i am delighted to have made his acquaintance. and what a worthy man abbé faujas is! no, no; i have no fear of any slander arising from our going to pay our respects to our excellent neighbour.'

since the general election had begun to be the subject of conversation, monsieur de bourdeu had felt very uneasy. he declared that it was the increasing warmth of the weather that affected him; but he was frequently assailed with doubts and scruples, which he confided to monsieur rastoil in order that the latter might reassure him. however, politics were never mentioned in the mourets' garden. one afternoon, monsieur de bourdeu, after vainly trying to devise some means of bringing political matters forward, exclaimed abruptly, addressing himself to doctor porquier:

'i say, doctor, have you seen the "moniteur" this morning? i see that the marquis has at last spoken! he uttered just thirteen words; i counted them. poor lagrifoul! he has made himself very ridiculous!'

[pg 207]

abbé faujas raised his finger with an arch look. 'no politics, gentlemen, no politics,' said he.

monsieur péqueur des saulaies was chatting with monsieur rastoil, and they both pretended that they had not heard what was said. madame de condamin smiled as she continued her conversation with abbé surin.

'aren't your surplices stiffened with a weak solution of gum?' she inquired.

'yes, madame, with a weak solution of gum,' replied the young priest. 'some laundresses use boiled starch, but it spoils the material and is worthless.'

'well,' rejoined the young woman, 'i never can get my laundress to use gum for my petticoats.'

thereupon abbé surin politely gave her the name and address of his own laundress upon the back of one of his visiting cards. then the company chatted about dress and the weather and the crops and the events of the week, spending a delightful hour together; and there were also games of shuttlecock in the alley. abbé bourrette frequently made his appearance, and told in his enthusiastic manner divers pious little stories to which monsieur maffre listened with the greatest attention. upon one occasion only had madame delangre met madame rastoil there; they had treated each other with the most scrupulous politeness, but in their faded eyes still flashed the sparks of their old-time rivalry. monsieur delangre for his part did not make himself too cheap, and though the paloques were constantly at the sub-prefecture, they contrived to be absent when monsieur péqueur des saulaies went to make one of his neighbourly calls upon abbé faujas. the judge's wife had been much perplexed in mind ever since her unfortunate expedition to the oratory at the home of the virgin. on the other hand, the person who was oftenest to be seen in the garden was certainly monsieur de condamin, who always wore the most perfect fitting gloves, and came thither to make fun of the company, telling fibs and indelicate stories with extraordinary coolness and unconcern, and deriving a perfect fund of amusement for the whole week from the little intrigues which he scented out. this tall old buck, whose coat fitted so closely to his slim figure, was devoted to youth; he scoffed at the 'old ones,' went off with the young ladies, and laughed gaily in the snug little corners of the garden.

[pg 208]

'this way, youngsters!' he would say, with a smile, 'let us leave the old ones together.'

one day he almost defeated abbé surin in a tremendous battle at shuttlecock. he was very fond of plaguing young people, and made a special victim of monsieur rastoil's son, a simple young fellow, to whom he told the most prodigious stories. he ended, indeed, by accusing him of making love to his wife, and rolled his eyes about in such a terrible way, that the wretched séverin broke out into a perspiration from very fear. the youth did, as it happened, actually fancy that he was in love with madame de condamin, in whose presence he behaved in a tender, simpering manner that extremely amused her husband.

the rastoil girls, for whom the conservator of rivers and forests manifested all the gallantry of a young widower, also supplied subjects of his raillery. although they were approaching their thirtieth birthdays, he spurred them on to indulge in childish games, and spoke to them as though they were yet schoolgirls. his great amusement was to gaze at them when lucien delangre, the mayor's son, was present. he would then take doctor porquier aside, and whisper in his ear, alluding to the former entanglement between monsieur delangre and madame rastoil:

'there's a young man there, porquier, who is very much embarrassed in his mind——is it angéline or is it aurélie whom he ought to choose? guess, if you can, and name, if you dare.'

meantime abbé faujas was very polite and amiable to all his visitors, even to the terrible condamin who caused so much disquietude. he effaced himself as much as possible, spoke but little, and allowed the rival sets of guests to coalesce, seemingly experiencing the quiet satisfaction of a host who is happy to be the means of bringing together a number of distinguished people intended by nature to be on good terms with one another. marthe had upon two occasions made her appearance, thinking that she would put the visitors more at their ease by doing so; but it distressed her to find the abbé in the midst of so many people; she much preferred to see him walking slowly and seriously in the quiet of the arbour. the trouches on their side had resumed their tuesday watchings behind their curtains, while madame faujas and rose craned their heads from the doorway[pg 209] and admired the graceful manner in which his reverence received the chief people of plassans.

'ah, madame!' said the cook, 'it is very easy to see that he is a distinguished man. look at him bowing to the sub-prefect. i admire his reverence the most; though, indeed, the sub-prefect is a fine man. why do you never go into the garden to them? if i were you, i would put on a silk dress and join them. you are his mother, you know, after all.'

but the old peasant woman shrugged her shoulders.

'oh! he isn't ashamed of me,' she said; 'but i should be afraid of putting him out. i prefer to watch him from here; and i enjoy it more.'

'yes, i can understand that. ah! you must be very proud of him. he isn't a bit like monsieur mouret, who nailed the door up, so that no one might open it. we never had a visitor, there was never a dinner to be prepared for anyone, and the garden was so desolate that it made one feel quite frightened in the evenings. monsieur mouret would certainly never have known how to receive visitors. he always pulled a sour face if one ever happened to come by chance. don't you think, now, that he ought to take an example from his reverence? if i were he, i should come down and amuse myself in the garden with the others, instead of shutting myself up all alone. i would take my proper place. but there he is, shut up in his room, as though he were afraid they would give him some nasty illness! by the way, shall we go up sometime and try to find out what he does?'

one tuesday they did go upstairs together. the visitors were very merry that afternoon, and the sound of their laughter floated into the house through the open windows, while a tradesman, who had brought a hamper of wine for the trouches, made a clatter on the second floor as he collected the empty bottles together. mouret was securely locked up in his office.

'the key prevents me from seeing,' said rose, who had applied her eye to the key-hole.

'wait a moment,' murmured madame faujas, and she carefully turned the end of the key, which protruded slightly through the lock. mouret was sitting in the middle of the room in front of a big empty table, covered with a thick layer of dust. there was not a single paper nor book upon it. he[pg 210] was lying back in his chair, his arms hanging listlessly beside him while he gazed blankly into space. he sat perfectly still, without the slightest movement.

the two women looked at him in silence, one after the other.

'he has made me feel cold to the very marrow,' exclaimed rose, as they went downstairs again. 'did you notice his eyes? and what a filthy state the room is in! he hasn't laid a pen on that desk for a couple of months past, and to think that i fancied he spent all his time there writing. fancy him amusing himself like that—shutting himself up all alone like a corpse, when the house is so bright and cheerful!'