The Grip of Desire. Hector France

was obliged, compelled to perform her religious duties, and one does not break off in a couple of days the habits of ten years like that. Give her time to reach it. I reason with her; hang it, I can't do everything in a day. When she goes from time to time to Mass, on Sunday, it does not follow that she is becoming religious. I am a free-thinker, but I am a father also, and what would you have a father do when two pretty arms take hold of your neck and a sweet little coaxing voice whispers to you, "Let me go there, my darling papa." Hang it, one is not made of wood, after all!

      —Neither is the Curé made of wood.

      —You make one shiver. Can my daughter have anything in common with your peasants' Curé? I say again that it is purely for diversion that she goes to Mass. And I understand it. Where can she show her new dress? And what place is more favourable for this little display than going into and coming out of church?

      —Then the Church is a spectacle like another. There are chants, music, tapers, perfumes, flowers, the half-light which comes through the coloured windows.

      —Without speaking of the fellows covered with gold-tinsel who repeat in unknown language the pater-nosters to which no one listens. It is enough to make one burst with laughing, and, if I had not my cabbages to plant, I would go myself now and again and entertain myself at these masquerades which are as good as the theatres at the fair, and to complete the resemblance, it only costs a couple of sous.

      —But the principal person of the troop attracts the looks, and the danger is there.

      —Your priestling is young then?

      —And vigorous. Strong appetites. When I see him rambling in the village, I begin to say: "Good people, the cock is loose, take care of your hens." It is like your Curé of Djidjelly.

      —I am easy on that ground. The black cock will not come and rub his wings here. He knows now that he has mistaken the door; they have informed him regarding me, and he will not be so rude as to come again.

      But just at that moment the servant came into the room quite scared, and said:

      —Here is Monsieur le Curé.

      —Who? what? said Durand; and turning towards me, Shall I receive him?

       Well, we shall have a laugh!

      He was still undecided, when Marcel glided into the room.

XIX.

       Table of Contents

      HARD WORDS.

      "I will speak, Madame, with the liberty of a soldier who knows but ill how to varnish the truth."

      RACINE (Britannicus).

      The old soldier, upright, with his hand leaning on the back of his arm-chair, let the priest come forward with all the agreeableness of a mastiff which is making ready to bite.

      The latter bowed gravely, and, although he felt himself to be in hostile quarters, took the seat offered him with an easy air.

      Meanwhile his bearing and pleasant look produced their usual effect.

      Imbued with the theories of the army, which of all surroundings is that in which one judges most by the appearance, where a good carriage is the first condition of success, where in fact they salute the stripes and not the man, the Captain was, in presence of this handsome young fellow, recalled to less aggressive sentiments.

      —Hang it! he said to himself, what a splendid cuirassier this fellow would have made! What devil of an idea has shoved him into a cassock?

      War being the most sublime of arts, as Maurice de Saxe remarked, there are few old officers who understand how a man can choose another profession by inclination.

      —I come, Monsieur le Capitaine, said Marcel, to pay you my visit as pastor, although perhaps a little late. But you are aware doubtless that I have had the honour of knocking once already at your door.

      —You should not have troubled yourself, my dear sir, and you should adhere to that; I belong so little to the holy flock.

      —I owe myself to all, said Marcel smiling, to the bad sheep—I mean to the wandering sheep, just as to the good ones; to watch over the one, to bring back and cure the others.

      —Oh! Oh! Well, sir shepherd, you are losing your time finely, for I am a worn-out goat.

      —There will be more joys in heaven over one sinner that repenteth. …

      —That is the story of the 99 just persons that you are going to tell us; we know it, and, let me tell you, it is not encouraging for the 99 just persons.

      The Curé, seeing himself on dangerous ground, hastened to leap elsewhere.

      —This is a charming little house, Captain; it is a sweet retreat after toilsome and glorious years, for you have had numerous campaigns, have you not?

      —Fifteen years in Africa, thirty-two campaigns, thirty years' service, two wounds, one of them received at Rome when we fought for that old bully Pius IX.

      Marcel had gone astray again; he quickly seized hold of the wounds.

      —Ah! two wounds! And are they still painful?

      —Sometimes, when the weather is stormy. And yours?

      —Mine, Captain! but I have none. I have not had like you the honour of shedding any blood for our Holy Father.

      —A pretty cuckoo. It doesn't matter, you may have got a wound somewhere else.

      —Where? enquired Marcel simply.

      —How do I know? We get them right and left, when we are least thinking of it.

      —Like all accidents.

      —Well, if you had been the chaplain of my regiment, you would have had a famous accident. He was a right worthy apostle. He wanted to teach the catechism to the daughter of our cantinière, a bud of sixteen, and the little one put so much ardour into the study that the Holy Spirit made her hatch. Her parents beat her unmercifully, and the poor girl died of grief. Our hero, who knew how to get himself out of it with unction as white as snow, did not all the same betake himself to Paradise. A pretty Italian gave him his reckoning. Quinte, quatorze and the point. Game finished. He died in the hospital pulling an ugly face. That was the best action of his life. Well, old boy, what do you say to that?

      —I have not exactly understood, replied Marcel, trying to keep his countenance.

      —You are very hard of understanding. I will tell you another story and I will be clearer. I see what you want—the dots on the i's.

      Marcel rose up alarmed.

      —No, no, cried Durand. Don't get up. Don't go away. Since you are here, we must talk a little. Stay, it will not be long. It is the story of a cousin of mine, or rather a cousin of my wife. Another of your confraternity. He was curate or deacon, or canon, in fact I don't know what rank in your regiment. At any rate, a bitter hypocrite; you will see. Under pretence of relationship, he used to pay us frequent visits. You can think if that suited me, who already adored the cassock! Besides, on principle, I detested cousins. It is the sore of households, gentlemen; you must avoid it like the plague. Monsieur le Curé, if you have a pretty servant, beware of cousins. I only say that. My wife used to say to me: "What has this poor boy done to you that you receive him so badly? Are you jealous of him? Ah! I know very well, it is because he belongs to my family, and you cannot endure my poor relations." So to have peace I tolerated my cousin. He, convinced that little presents maintain friendship, used to make us little presents. There were tickets for sacred concerts, lotteries for the benefit of the little Chinese, rosaries blessed by the pope, pebbles from Jerusalem. Nothing wrong so far. My wife availed herself of the concert tickets; the rosaries were put into a drawer, and I threw the pebbles into the garden.