'At any rate, you saw the furniture, I suppose? Did you notice what there was?'

'Certainly, sir. I had posted myself by the door, and it all went past me, which didn't seem to please Madame Faujas very much. Wait a moment and I'll tell you everything there was. First of all they brought up an iron bedstead, then a chest of drawers, then two tables and four chairs; and that was the whole lot of it. And it wasn't new either. I wouldn't have given thirty crowns for the whole collection.'

'But you should have told madame; we cannot let the rooms under such conditions. I shall go at once to talk to Abbé Bourrette about the matter.'

He was fuming with irritation, and was just setting off, when Marthe brought him to a sudden halt by saying:

'Oh! I had forgotten to tell you. They have paid me six months' rent in advance.'

'What! They have paid you?' he stammered out, almost in a tone of annoyance.

'Yes, the old lady came down and gave me this.'

She put her hand into her work-bag, and gave her husband seventy-five francs in hundred-sou-pieces, neatly wrapt up in a piece of newspaper. Mouret counted the money, and muttered:

'As long as they pay, they are free to stop. But they are strange folks, all the same. Everyone can't be rich, of course, but that is no reason why one should behave in this suspicious manner, when one's poor.'

'There is something else I have to tell you,' Marthe continued, as she saw him calm down. 'The old lady asked me if we were disposed to part with the folding-bed to her. I told her that we made no use of it, and that she was welcome to keep it as long as she liked.'

'You did quite right. We must do what we can to oblige them. As I told you before, what bothers me about these confounded priests is that one never can tell what they are thinking about, or what they are up to. Apart from that, you will often find very honourable men amongst them.'

The money seemed to have consoled him. He joked and teased Serge about his book on the Chinese missions, which the boy happened to be reading just then. During dinner he affected to feel no further curiosity about the tenants of the second floor; but, when Octave mentioned that he had seen Abbé Faujas leaving the Bishop's residence, he could not restrain himself. Directly the dessert was placed on the table he resumed his chatter of the previous evening, though after a time he began to feel a little ashamed of himself. His commercial pursuits had made him stolid and heavy, but he really had a keen mind; he was possessed of no little common sense and accuracy of judgment which often enabled him to pick out the truth from the midst of all the gossip of the neighbourhood.

'After all,' he said, as he went off to bed, 'one has no business to go prying into other people's affairs. The Abbé is quite at liberty to do as he pleases. It is getting wearisome to be always talking about these people, and I, for my part, shall say nothing more about them.'

A week passed away. Mouret had resumed his habitual life. He prowled about the house, lectured his children, and spent his afternoons away from home, amusing himself by transacting various bits of business, of which he never spoke; and he ate and slept like a man for whom life is an easy downhill journey, without any jolts or surprises of any kind. The whole place sank back into all its old monotony. Marthe occupied her accustomed seat on the terrace, with her little work-table in front of her. Désirée played by her side. The two lads came home at the usual time, and were as noisy as ever; and Rose, the cook, grumbled and growled at everyone; while the garden and the dining-room retained all their wonted sleepy calm.

'You see now,' Mouret often repeated to his wife, 'you were quite mistaken in thinking that our comfort would be interfered with, by our letting the second-floor. We are as quiet and happy as ever we were, and the house seems smaller and cosier.'

He occasionally raised his eyes towards the second-floor windows, which Madame Faujas had hung with thick cotton curtains, on the day after her arrival. These curtains were never drawn aside. There was a conventual look about their stern, cold folds, and they seemed to tell of deep, unbroken silence, cloistral stillness lurking behind them. At distant intervals the windows were set ajar, and allowed the high, shadowy ceilings to be seen between the snowy whiteness of the curtains. But it was all to no purpose that Mouret kept on the watch, he could never catch sight of the hand which opened or closed them, and he never even heard the grating of the window fastening. Never did a sound of human life come down from the second floor.

The first week was at an end and Mouret had not yet had another glimpse of Abbé Faujas. That man who was living in his house, without he ever being able to catch sight even of his shadow, began to affect him with a kind of nervous uneasiness. In spite of all the efforts he made to appear indifferent, he relapsed into his old questionings, and started an inquiry.

'Have you seen anything of him?' he asked his wife.

'I fancy I caught a glimpse of him yesterday, as he was coming in, but I am not sure. His mother always wears a black dress, and it might have been she that I saw.'

And as he continued to press her with questions, Marthe told him all she knew.

'Rose says that he goes out every day, and stays away a long time. As for his mother, she is as regular as a clock. She comes down at seven o'clock in the morning to go out and do her marketing. She has a big basket, which is always closed, and in which she must bring everything back with her, coal, bread, wine and provisions, for no tradesman ever calls with anything for them. They are very courteous and polite; and Rose says that they always bow to her when they meet her. But as a rule she does not even hear them come down the stairs.'

'They must go in for a funny sort of cooking up there,' said Mouret, to whom all these details conveyed none of the information he wanted.

On another evening, when Octave mentioned that he had seen Abbé Faujas entering Saint-Saturnin's, his father asked him about the priest's appearance, what effect he had made upon the passers-by, and what he could be going to do in the church.

'Ah! you are really much too curious!' cried the young man, with a laugh. 'He didn't look very fine in the sunshine with his rusty cassock, I can vouch for that much. I noticed, too, that, as he walked along, he kept in the shadow of the houses, which made his cassock look a little blacker. He didn't seem at all proud of himself, but hurried along with his head bent down. Two girls began to laugh as he crossed the Place. The Abbé raised his head and looked at them with an expression of great softness—didn't he, Serge?'

Thereupon Serge related how on several occasions, as he was returning from the college, he had at a distance followed the Abbé, who was on his way back from Saint-Saturnin's. He passed through the streets without speaking to anyone; he seemed to know nobody and to be rather hurt by the suppressed titters and jeers which he heard around him.

'Do they talk of him, then, in the town?' asked Mouret, whose interest was greatly aroused.

'No one has ever spoken to me about him,' Octave replied.

'Yes,' said Serge,' they do talk of him. Abbé Bourrette's nephew told me that he wasn't a favourite at the church. They are not fond of these priests who come from a distance; and besides he has such a miserable appearance. When people get accustomed to him, they will leave the poor man alone, but just at first it is only natural that he should attract notice.'

Marthe thereupon advised the two young fellows not to gratify any outsider's curiosity about the Abbé.

'Oh, yes! they may answer any questions,' Mouret exclaimed. 'Certainly nothing that we know of him could be likely to compromise him in any way.'

From that time forward, with the best faith in the world and without meaning the least harm, Mouret turned his sons into a couple of spies. He told Octave and Serge that they must repeat to him all that was said about the priest in the town, and he even instructed them to follow him whenever they came across him. But the information that was to be derived from such sources was quickly exhausted. The talk occasioned by the arrival of a strange curate in the diocese died away; the town seemed to have extended its pardon to the 'poor fellow,' who glided about in the shade in such a rusty old cassock, and its only apparent feeling for him now was one of disdain. The priest, on the other hand, always went straight to the cathedral and so returned from it, invariably passing through the same streets. Octave said, laughingly, that he was sure he counted the paving-stones.

Then Mouret bethought himself of enlisting the help of Désirée in the task of collecting information. In the evening he took her to the bottom of the garden and listened to her chatter about what she had done and what she had seen during the day, and he always tried to lead her on to the subject of the tenants of the second floor.

'Now, just listen to what I tell you,' he said to her one day. 'To-morrow, when the window is open, just throw your ball into the room, and then go up and ask for it.'

The next day the girl threw her ball into the room, but she had scarcely reached the steps of the house before the ball, returned by an invisible hand, bounced up from the terrace. Her father, who had reckoned on the child's taking ways leading to a renewal of the intercourse which had been interrupted since the day of the priest's arrival, now lost all hope. It was quite clear that the Abbé had made up his mind to keep to himself. This rebuff, however, only made Mouret's curiosity all the keener. He even condescended to go gossiping in corners with the cook, to the great displeasure of Marthe, who reproached him for his want of self-respect; but at this he became angry with her and defended himself by lies. However, as he felt that he was in the wrong, it was only in secret that he henceforth talked to Rose about the Faujases.

One morning she beckoned to him to follow her into the kitchen.

'Oh, sir!' she said, as she shut the door, 'I have been watching for you to come down from your room for more than an hour.'

'Have you found out something then?'

'Well, you shall hear. Yesterday evening I was chatting with Madame Faujas for more than an hour!'

Mouret felt a thrill of joy. He sat down on an old tattered rush-bottom chair, in the midst of the dirty cloths and vegetable parings left from the previous day, and exclaimed:

'Go along! make haste!'

'Well,' continued the cook, 'I was at the street-door saying good-night to Monsieur Rastoil's servant, when Madame Faujas came downstairs to empty a pail of dirty water in the gutter. Instead of immediately going back again, without even turning her head, as she generally does, she stopped there for a moment to look at me. Then it struck me that she wanted to speak to me, and I said to her that it had been a beautiful day, and that it would be good for the grapes. She said, "Yes, yes," in an unconcerned sort of way, just like a woman who has no land and has no interest in such matters. But she put down her pail and made no attempt to go away; she even came and leant against the wall beside me—'

'Well! well! what did she say to you?' cried Mouret, tortured by his impatience.

'Well, of course, you understand I wasn't silly enough to begin to question her. She would have gone straight off if I had. Without seeming to intend anything, I suggested things to her which I thought might set her talking. The Curé[3] of Saint-Saturnin's, that worthy Monsieur Compan, happened to pass by, and I told her he was very ill and wasn't long for this world, and that there would be great difficulty in filling his place at the cathedral. She was all ears at once, I can tell you. She even asked me what was the matter with Monsieur Compan. Then, going on from one thing to another, I gradually got talking about our bishop. Monseigneur Rousselot was a most excellent and worthy man, I told her. She did not know his age, so I told her that he was sixty, very delicate also, and that he let himself be led by the nose. There is a good deal of talk about the vicar-general, Monsieur Fenil, who is all powerful with the bishop. The old lady was quite interested in that, and she would have stayed out in the street all night, listening.'

An expression of desperation passed over Mouret's face. 'But what you're telling me is what you said yourself,' he cried. 'What was it that she said? That's what I want to hear.'

'Wait a little and let me finish,' Rose replied very calmly. 'I was gradually gaining my purpose. To win her confidence, I ended by talking to her about ourselves. I told her that you were Monsieur François Mouret, a retired merchant from Marseilles, and that you had managed in fifteen years to make a fortune out of wines and oils and almonds. I added that you had preferred to come and settle down and live on your means in Plassans, a quiet town, where your wife's relations lived. I even contrived to let her know, too, that madame was your cousin, that you were forty years old and that she was thirty-seven, and that you lived very happily together; in fact, I told her all about you. She seemed to be very much interested, and kept saying, "Yes, yes," in her deliberate way; and, when I stopped for a moment, she nodded her head as though to tell me she was listening and that I might go on. So we went on talking in this way, with our backs against the wall, like a couple of old friends, till it was quite dark.'

Mouret bounced from his chair in angry indignation.

'What!' he cried, 'is that all? She led you on to gossip to her for an hour, and she herself told you nothing!'

'When it got dark, she said to me: "The air is becoming quite chilly." And then she took up her pail and went back upstairs.'

'You are nothing but an idiot! That old woman up there is more than a match for half a score such as you. Ah! they'll be laughing finely now that they have wormed out of you all that they wanted to know about us. Do you hear me, Rose? I tell you that you are nothing but an idiot!'

The old cook waxed very indignant, and began to bounce excitedly up and down the kitchen, knocking the pots and pans about noisily, and crumpling up the dusters and flinging them down.

'It was scarcely worth your while, sir,' she hissed, 'to come into my kitchen to call me insulting names. You had better take yourself off. What I did, I did to please you. If madame finds us here together talking about those people, she will be angry with me, and quite rightly, because it is wrong for us to be doing so. And after all, I couldn't drag words from the old lady's lips if she wasn't willing to talk. I did as any one else would have done under the same circumstances. I talked and told her about your affairs, and it was no fault of mine that she didn't tell me about hers. Go and ask her about them yourself, since you are anxious to know about them. Perhaps you won't make such an idiot of yourself as I have done.'

She had raised her voice, and was talking so loudly that Mouret thought it would be more prudent to retire, and he did so, closing the kitchen door after him, in order to prevent his wife from hearing the servant. But Rose immediately pulled it open again, and cried after him down the passage:

'I shall bother myself about it no longer; do you hear? You may get somebody else to do your underhand business for you!'

Mouret was quite vanquished. He showed some irritation at his defeat, and tried to console himself by saying that those second-floor tenants of his were mere nobodies. Gradually he succeeded in making this opinion of his that of his acquaintances, and then that of the whole town. Abbé Faujas came to be looked upon as a priest without means and without ambition, who was completely outside the pale of the intrigues of the diocese. People imagined that he was ashamed of his poverty, that he was glad to perform any unpleasant duties in connection with the cathedral, and tried to keep himself in obscurity as much as possible. There was only one matter of curiosity left in connection with him, and that was the reason of his having come to Plassans from Besançon. Queer stories were circulated about him, but they all seemed very improbable. Mouret himself, who had played the spy over his tenants simply for amusement and in order to pass the time, just as he would have played a game at cards or bowls, was even beginning to forget that he had a priest living in his house, when an incident occurred which revived all his curiosity.

One afternoon as he was returning home, he saw Abbé Faujas going up the Rue Balande in front of him. Mouret slackened his pace and examined the priest at his leisure. Although Abbé Faujas had been lodging in his house for a month, this was the first time that he had thus seen him in broad daylight. The Abbé still wore his old cassock, and he walked slowly, with his hat in his hand and his head bare in spite of the chilly air. The street, which was a very steep one, with the shutters of its big, bare houses always closed, was quite deserted. Mouret, who quickened his pace, was at last obliged to walk on tip-toes for fear lest the priest should hear him and make his escape. But as they neared Monsieur Rastoil's house, a group of people turning out of the Place of the Sub-Prefecture entered it. Abbé Faujas made a slight détour to avoid these persons. He watched the door close, and then, suddenly stopping, he turned round towards his landlord, who was now close up to him.

'I am very glad to have met you,' said he, with all his wonted politeness, 'otherwise I should have ventured to disturb you this evening. The last time it rained, the wet came through the ceiling of my room, and I should much like to show it you.'

Mouret remained standing in front of him, and stammered in confusion that he was entirely at the Abbé's service. Then, as they went indoors together, he asked him at what time he should go to look at the ceiling.

'Well, I should like you to come at once,' the Abbé replied, 'if it wouldn't be troubling you too much.'

Mouret went up the stairs after him so excited that he almost choked, while Rose followed them with her eyes from the kitchen doorway quite dazed with astonishment.

IV

When Mouret reached the second floor he was more perturbed than a youth at his first assignation. The unexpected satisfaction of his long thwarted desires, and the hope of seeing something quite extraordinary, almost prevented him from breathing. Abbé Faujas slipped the key which he carried, and which he quite concealed in his big fingers, into the lock without making the faintest noise, and the door opened as silently as if it had been hung upon velvet hinges. Then the Abbé, stepping back, mutely motioned to Mouret to enter.

The cotton curtains at the two windows were so thick that the room lay in a pale, chalky dimness like the half-light of a convent cell. It was a very large room, with a lofty ceiling, and a quiet, neat wall-paper of a faded yellow. Mouret ventured forward, advancing with short steps over the tiled floor, which was as smooth and shiny as a mirror, and so cold that he seemed to feel a chill through the soles of his boots. He glanced furtively around him and examined the curtainless iron bedstead, the sheets of which were so straightly stretched that it looked like a block of white stone lying in the corner. The chest of drawers, stowed away at the other end of the room, a little table in the middle, and two chairs, one before each window, completed the furniture. There was not a single paper on the table, not an article of any kind on the chest of drawers, not a garment hanging against the walls. Everything was perfectly bare except that over the chest of drawers there was suspended a big black wooden crucifix, looking like a dark splotch amidst the bare greyness of the room.

'Come this way, sir, will you?' said the Abbé. 'It is in this corner that the ceiling is stained.'

But Mouret did not hurry, he was enjoying himself. Although he saw none of the extraordinary things that he had vaguely expected to see, there seemed to him to be a peculiar odour about the room. It smelt of a priest, he thought; of a man with different ways from other men. But it vexed him that he could see nothing on which he might base some hypothesis carelessly left on any of the pieces of furniture or in any corner of the apartment. The room was just like its provoking occupant, silent, cold, and inscrutable. He was extremely surprised, too, not to find any appearance of poverty as he had expected. On the contrary, the room produced upon him much the same impression as he had felt when he had once entered the richly furnished drawing-room of the prefect of Marseilles. The big crucifix seemed to fill it with its black arms.

Mouret felt, however, that he must go and look at the corner which Abbé Faujas was inviting him to inspect.

'You see the stain, don't you?' asked the priest. 'It has faded a little since yesterday.'

Mouret rose upon tip-toes and strained his eyes, but at first he could see nothing. When the Abbé had drawn back the curtains, he was able to distinguish a slight damp-stain.

'It's nothing very serious,' he said.

'Oh, no! but I thought it would be better to tell you of it. The wet must have soaked through near the edge of the roof.'

'Yes, you are right; near the edge of the roof.'

Mouret made no further remark; he was again examining the room, now clear and distinct in the full daylight. It looked less solemn than before, but it remained as taciturn as ever. There was not even a speck of dust lying about to tell aught of the Abbé's life.

'Perhaps,' continued the priest, 'we may be able to discover the place from the window. Just wait a moment.'

He proceeded to open the window, but Mouret protested against him troubling himself any further, saying that the workmen would easily be able to find the leak.

'It is no trouble at all, I assure you,' replied the Abbé with polite insistence. 'I know that landlords like to know how matters are going on. Inspect everything, I beg of you. The house is yours.'

As he spoke these last words he smiled, a thing he did but rarely; and then as Mouret and himself leaned over the rail that crossed the window, and turned their eyes towards the guttering, he launched out into various technical details, trying to account for the appearance of the stain.

'I think there has been a slight depression of the tiles, perhaps even a breakage; unless, indeed, that crack which you can see up there in the cornice extends into the retaining-wall.'

'Yes, yes, that is very possible,' Mouret replied; 'but I must confess, Monsieur l'Abbé, that I really don't understand anything about these matters. However, the masons will see to it.'

The priest said nothing further on the subject, but quietly remained where he was, gazing out upon the garden beneath him. Mouret, who was leaning by his side, thought it would be impolite to hurry away. He was quite won over when his tenant, after an interval of silence, said to him in his soft voice:

'You have a very pretty garden, sir.'

'Oh! it's nothing out of the common,' replied Mouret. 'There used to be some fine trees which I was obliged to cut down, for nothing would grow in their shade, and we have to pay attention to utility, you know. This plot is quite large enough for us and keeps us in vegetables all through the season.'

The Abbé seemed surprised, and asked Mouret for details. The garden was an old-fashioned country garden, surrounded with arbours, and divided into four regular square plots by tall borders of box. In the middle was a shallow basin, but there was no fountain. Only one of the squares was devoted to flowers. In the other three, which were planted at their edges with fruit-trees, one saw some magnificent cabbages, lettuces, and other vegetables. The paths of yellow gravel were kept extremely neat.

'It is a little paradise,' said Abbé Faujas.

'There are several disadvantages, all the same,' replied Mouret, who felt extremely delighted at hearing his ground so highly praised. 'You will have noticed, for instance, that we are on a slope, and that the gardens hereabouts are on different levels. Monsieur Rastoil's is lower than mine, which, again, is lower than that of the Sub-Prefecture. The consequence is that the rain often does a great deal of damage. Then, too, a still greater disadvantage is that the people in the Sub-Prefecture overlook me, and the more so now that they have made that terrace which commands my wall. It is true that I overlook Monsieur Rastoil's garden, but that is very poor compensation I can assure you, for a man who never troubles himself about his neighbour's doings.'

The priest seemed to be listening out of mere complaisance, just nodding his head occasionally but making no remarks. He followed with his eyes the motions of his landlord's hand.

'And there is still another inconvenience,' continued Mouret, pointing to a path that skirted the bottom of the garden. 'You see that little lane between the two walls? It is called the Impasse des Chevillottes, and leads to a cart-entrance to the grounds of the Sub-Prefecture. Well, all the neighbouring properties have little doors giving access to the lane, and there are all sorts of mysterious comings and goings. For my part, being a family man with children, I fastened my door up with a couple of stout nails.'

He looked at the Abbé and winked, hoping that the priest would question him about the mysterious comings and goings to which he had just alluded. But Abbé Faujas seemed quite unconcerned; he merely glanced at the alley without showing any curiosity on the subject. Then he again gazed placidly upon the Mourets' garden. Marthe was in her customary place near the edge of the terrace, hemming napkins. She had raised her head on first hearing voices, and then had resumed her work again, full of surprise at seeing her husband at one of the second-floor windows in the company of the priest. She now appeared to be quite unconscious of their presence. Mouret, however, had raised his voice from a sort of instinctive braggartism, proud of being able to show his wife that he had at last made his way into that room which had so persistently been kept private. The Abbé, on his side, every now and then let his calm eyes rest upon the woman, though all that he could see of her was the back of her bent neck and her black coil of hair.

They were both silent again, and Abbé Faujas still seemed disinclined to leave the window. He now appeared to be examining their neighbour's flower beds. Monsieur Rastoil's garden was arranged in the English fashion, with little walks and grass plots broken by small flower-beds. At the bottom there was a circular cluster of trees, underneath which a table and some rustic chairs were set.

'Monsieur Rastoil is very wealthy,' resumed Mouret, who had followed the direction of the Abbé's eyes. 'His garden costs him a large sum of money. The waterfall—you can't see it from here, it is behind those trees—ran away with more than three hundred francs. There isn't a vegetable about the place, nothing but flowers. At one time the ladies even talked of cutting down the fruit-trees; but that would have really been wicked, for the pear-trees are magnificent specimens. Well, I suppose a man has a right to lay out his ground so as to please his own fancy, if he can afford to do so.'

Then, as the Abbé still continued silent, he continued: 'You know Monsieur Rastoil, don't you? Every morning, from eight o'clock till nine, he walks about under his trees. He is a heavy man, rather short, bald, and clean shaven, with a head as round as a ball. He completed his sixtieth year at the beginning of last August, I believe. He has been president of our civil tribunal for nearly twenty years. Folks say he is a very good fellow, but I see very little of him. "Good-morning," and "Good-evening," that's about all that ever passes between us.'

He stopped speaking as he saw several people coming down the steps of the neighbouring house and making their way towards the clump of trees.

'Ah, yes!' he resumed, lowering his voice, 'to-day's Tuesday. There is a dinner party at the Rastoils'.

The Abbé had not been able to restrain a slight start, and had then bent forward to see better. Two priests who were walking beside a couple of tall girls seemed particularly to interest him.

'Do you know who those gentlemen are?' Mouret inquired.

And, when the priest only replied by a vague gesture, he added:

'They were crossing the Rue Balande just as we met each other. The taller and younger one, the one who is walking between Monsieur Rastoil's two daughters, is Abbé Surin, our bishop's secretary. He is said to be a very amiable young man. The old one, who is walking a little behind, is one of our grand-vicars, Abbé Fenil. He is at the head of the seminary. He is a terrible man, flat and sharp, like a sabre. I wish he would turn round so that you might see his eyes. I am quite surprised that you don't know those gentlemen.'

'I go out very little,' said the Abbé, 'and there is no house in the town that I visit.'

'Ah! that isn't right. You must often feel very dull. To do you justice, Monsieur l'Abbé, you are certainly not of an inquisitive disposition. Just fancy! you've been here a month now, and you didn't even know that Monsieur Rastoil had a dinner-party every Tuesday! Why, it's right before your eyes there from this window!'

Mouret laughed slightly. He was forming a rather contemptuous opinion of the Abbé. Then in confidential tones he went on:

'You see that tall old man who is with Madame Rastoil—the thin one I mean, with broad brims to his hat? Well, that is Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect of the Drôme, a prefect who was turned out of office by the revolution of 1848. He's another one that you don't know, I'll be bound. But Monsieur Maffre there, the justice of the peace, that white-headed old gentleman who is coming last, with Monsieur Rastoil, don't you know him? Well, that is really inexcusable. He is an honorary canon of Saint-Saturnin's! Between ourselves, he is accused of having killed his wife by his harshness and miserliness.'

Mouret stopped short, looked the Abbé in the face and said abruptly, with a smile:

'I beg your pardon, but I am not a very devout person, you know.'

The Abbé again waved his hand with that vague gesture which did duty as an answer and saved him the necessity of making a more explicit reply.

'No, I am not a very devout person,' Mouret repeated smilingly. 'But everyone should be left free, is it not so? The Rastoils, now, are a religious family. You must have seen the mother and daughters at Saint-Saturnin's. They are parishioners of yours. Ah! those poor girls! The elder, Angéline, is fully twenty-six years old, and the other, Aurélie, is getting on for twenty-four. And they're no beauties either, quite yellow and shrewish-looking. The parents won't let the younger one marry before her sister; but I dare say they'll both end by finding husbands somewhere, if only for the sake of their dowries. Their mother there, that fat little woman who looks as innocent and mild as a sheep, has given poor Rastoil some pretty experiences.'

He winked his left eye, a common habit of his whenever he indulged in any pleasantry approaching broadness. The Abbé lowered his eyes, as if waiting for Mouret to go on, but, as the latter remained silent, he raised them again and watched the people in the garden as they seated themselves round the table under the trees.

At last Mouret resumed his explanatory remarks.

'They will stay out there, enjoying the fresh air, till dinner-time,' said he. 'It is just the same every Tuesday. That Abbé Surin is a great favourite. Look how he is laughing there with Mademoiselle Aurélie. Ah! Abbé Fenil has observed us. What eyes he has! He isn't very fond of me, you know, as I've had a dispute with a relation of his. But where has Abbé Bourrette got to? We haven't seen anything of him, have we? It is very extraordinary. He never misses Monsieur Rastoil's Tuesdays. He must be ill. You know him, don't you? What a worthy man he is! A most devoted servant of God!'

Abbé Faujas was no longer listening. His eyes were constantly meeting those of Abbé Fenil, whose scrutiny he bore with perfect calmness, never once diverting his glance. He was even leaning more fully against the iron rail, and his eyes seemed to have grown bigger.

'Ah! here come the young people!' resumed Mouret as three young men arrived on the scene. 'The oldest one is Rastoil's son; he has just been called to the Bar. The two others are the sons of Monsieur Maffre; they are still at college. By-the-by, I wonder why those young scamps of mine haven't come back yet.'

At that very moment Octave and Serge made their appearance on the terrace. Leaning against the balustrade they began to tease Désirée, who had just sat down by her mother's side. However, when the young folks caught sight of their father at the second-floor window, they lowered their voices and quietly laughed.

'There you see all my little family!' said Mouret complacently. 'We stay at home, we do; and we have no visitors. Our garden is a closed paradise, which the devil can't enter to tempt us.'

He smiled as he spoke, for he was really amusing himself at the Abbé's expense. The latter had slowly brought his eyes to bear upon the group formed by his landlord's family under the window. He gazed down there for a moment; then looked round upon the old-fashioned garden with its beds of vegetables edged with borders of box; then again turned his eyes towards Monsieur Rastoil's pretentious grounds; and last of all, as though he wanted to get the plan of the whole surroundings into his head, directed his attention to the garden of the Sub-Prefecture. There was nothing to be seen here but a large central lawn, a gently undulating carpet of grass, with clusters of evergreen shrubs, and some tall thickly-foliaged chestnut trees which gave a park-like appearance to this patch of ground hemmed in by the neighbouring houses.

Abbé Faujas glanced under the chestnut-trees, and at last remarked:

'These gardens are quite lively. There are some people, too, in the one on the left.' Mouret raised his eyes.

'Oh, yes!' he said unconcernedly, 'it's like that every afternoon. They are the friends of Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies, our sub-prefect. In the summer-time they meet in the evenings in the same way round the basin on the left, which you can't see from here. Ah! so Monsieur de Condamin has got back! That fine old man there, who is so well preserved and has such a bright colour; he is our conservator of rivers and forests; a jovial old fellow, who is constantly to be seen, gloved and tightly breeched, on horseback. And the tales he can tell, too! He doesn't belong to this neighbourhood, and he has lately married a very young woman. However, that's fortunately no business of mine!'

He bent his head again as he heard Désirée, who was playing with Serge, break out into one of her childish laughs. But the Abbé, whose face was now slightly flushed, recalled his attention by asking:

'Is that the sub-prefect, that fat gentleman with the white tie?'

This question seemed to amuse Mouret exceedingly.

'Oh, no!' he replied, with a laugh. 'It is very evident that you don't know Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies. He isn't forty yet; he's a tall, handsome, very distinguished-looking young man. That fat gentleman is Doctor Porquier, the fashionable medical man of Plassans. He is a very well-to-do man, I can assure you, and he has only one trouble, his son Guillaume. Do you see those two people sitting on the bench with their backs towards us? They are Monsieur Paloque, the assistant judge, and his wife. They are the ugliest couple in the town. It is difficult to say which is the worse-looking, the husband or the wife. Fortunately they have no children.'

Mouret began to laugh more loudly; he was growing excited, and kept on striking the window-rail.

'I can never look at the assemblies in those grounds,' he continued, motioning with his head, first towards Monsieur Rastoil's garden and then towards the sub-prefect's, 'without being highly amused. You don't take any interest in politics, Monsieur l'Abbé, or I could tell you some things which would tickle you immensely. Rightly or wrongly, I myself pass for a republican. Business matters take me a good deal about the country; I am a friend of the peasantry, and people have even talked about proposing me for the Council-General—in short, I am a well-known man. Well, on my right here, at Monsieur Rastoil's, we have the cream of the Legitimists, and on the left, at the Sub-Prefecture, we have the big-wigs of the Empire. And so, you see, my poor old-fashioned garden, my little happy nook, lies between two hostile camps. I am continually afraid lest they should begin throwing stones at each other, for the stones, you see, might very well fall into my garden.'

Mouret appeared to be quite delighted with this witticism and drew closer to the Abbé, like some old gossip who is just going to launch out into a long story.

'Plassans is a very curious place from a political point of view. The Coup d'État succeeded here because the town is conservative. But first of all it is Legitimist and Orleanist; so much so, indeed, that at the outset of the Empire it wanted to dictate conditions. As its claims were disregarded, the town grew annoyed and went over to the opposition; yes, Monsieur l'Abbé, to the opposition. Last year we elected for our deputy the Marquis de Lagrifoul, an old nobleman of mediocre abilities, but one whose election was a very bitter pill for the Sub-Prefecture.—Ah, look! there is Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies! He is with the mayor, Monsieur Delangre.'

The Abbé glanced keenly in the direction indicated by Mouret. The sub-prefect, a very dark man, was smiling beneath his waxed moustaches. He was irreproachably dressed, and preserved a demeanour which suggested both that of a fashionable officer and that of a good-natured diplomatist. The mayor was by his side, talking and gesticulating rapidly. He was a short man, with square shoulders, and a sunken face that was rather Punch-like in appearance. He seemed to be garrulously inclined.

'Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies,' continued Mouret, 'had felt so confident of the return of the official candidate that the result of the election nearly made him ill. It was very amusing. On the evening of the election, the garden of the Sub-Prefecture remained as dark and gloomy as a cemetery, while in the Rastoils' grounds there were lamps and candles burning under the trees, and joyous laughter and a perfect uproar of triumph. Our people don't let things be seen from the street, but they throw off all restraint and give full vent to their feelings in their gardens. Oh, yes! I see singular things sometimes, though I don't say anything about them.'

He checked himself for a moment, as though he was unwilling to say more, but his gossiping propensities were too strong for him.

'I wonder what course they will now take at the Sub-Prefecture?' he continued. 'They will never get their candidate elected again. They don't understand the people about here, and besides they are very weak. I was told that Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies was to have had a prefecture if the election had gone off all right. Ah! he will remain a sub-prefect for a long time yet, I imagine! What stratagem will they devise, I wonder, to overthrow the Marquis? They will certainly have recourse to one of some kind or other; they will do their best somehow to effect the conquest of Plassans.'

He turned his eyes upon the Abbé, at whom he had ceased to look for the last few moments, and he suddenly checked himself as he caught sight of the priest's eager face, his glistening eyes, and his ears that seemed to have grown bigger. All Mouret's bourgeois prudence then reasserted itself, and he felt that he had said too much. So he hastily added:

'But, after all, I really know nothing about it. People tell so many ridiculous stories. All I care about is to be allowed to live quietly in my own house.'

He would then have liked to leave the window, but he dared not go away so suddenly after gossiping in such an unrestrained and familiar fashion. He was beginning to think that if one of them had been having his laugh at the other, it certainly was not he.

The Abbé, for his part, was again glancing alternately at the two gardens in a calm, unconcerned manner, and did not make the slightest attempt to induce Mouret to continue talking. Mouret was already wishing, somewhat impatiently, that his wife or one of his children would call to him to come down, when he was greatly relieved by seeing Rose appear on the steps outside the house. She raised her head towards him.

'Well, sir!' she cried, 'aren't you coming at all to-day? The soup has been on the table for the last quarter of an hour!'

'All right, Rose! I'll be down directly,' he replied.

Then he made his apologies to the Abbé, and left the window. The chilly aspect of the room, which he had forgotten while his back had been turned to it, added to the confusion he felt. It seemed to him like a huge confessional-box, with its awful black crucifix, which must have heard everything he had said. When the Abbé took leave of him with a silent bow, this sudden finish of their conversation so disturbed him, that he again stepped back and, raising his eyes to the ceiling, said:

'It is in that corner, then?'

'What is?' asked the Abbé in surprise.

'The damp stain that you spoke to me about.'

The priest could not restrain a smile, but he again pointed out the stain to Mouret.

'Ah! I can see it quite plainly now,' said the latter. 'Well, I'll send the workmen up to-morrow.'

Then he at last left the room, and before he had reached the end of the landing, the door was noiselessly closed behind him. The silence of the staircase irritated him extremely, and as he went down, he muttered:

'The confounded fellow! He gets everything out of one without asking a single question!'

V

The next morning old Madame Rougon, Marthe's mother,[4] came to pay a visit to the Mourets. It was quite an event, for there was a coolness between Mouret and his wife's relations which had increased since the election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul, whose success the Rougons attributed to Mouret's influence in the rural districts. Marthe used to go alone when she went to see her parents. Her mother, 'that black Félicité,' as she was called, had retained at sixty-six years of age all the slimness and vivacity of a girl. She always wore silk dresses, covered with flounces, and was particularly partial to yellows and browns.

When she arrived, only Marthe and Mouret were in the dining-room.

'Hallo!' cried the latter in great surprise, as he saw her coming, 'here's your mother! I wonder what she wants! She was here less than a month ago. She's scheming after something or other, I know.'

The Rougons, whose assistant Mouret had been prior to his marriage, when their shabby little shop in the old quarter of the town had ever suggested bankruptcy, were the objects of his constant suspicions. They returned the feeling with bitter and deep-seated animosity, their rancour being especially aroused by the speedy success which had attended him in business. When their son-in-law said, 'I simply owe my fortune to my own exertions,' they bit their lips and understood quite well that he was accusing them of having gained theirs by less honourable means. Notwithstanding the fine house she now had on the Place of the Sub-Prefecture, Félicité silently envied the peaceful little home of the Mourets, with all the bitter jealousy of a retired shopkeeper who owed her fortune to something else than the profits of her business.

Félicité kissed Marthe on the forehead and then gave her hand to Mouret. She and her son-in-law generally affected a mocking tone in their conversations together.

'Well,' she said to him with a smile, 'the gendarmes haven't been for you yet then, you revolutionist?'

'No, not yet,' he replied with a responsive smile; 'they are waiting till your husband gives them the order.'

'It's very nice and polite of you to say that!' exclaimed Félicité, whose eyes were beginning to glisten.

Marthe turned a beseeching glance upon Mouret. He had gone too far; but his feelings were roused and he added:

'Good gracious! What are we thinking of to receive you in the dining-room? Let us go into the drawing-room, I beg you.'

This was one of his usual pleasantries. He affected all Félicité's fine airs whenever he received a visit from her. It was to no purpose that Marthe protested that they were very comfortable where they were; her husband insisted that she and her mother should follow him into the drawing-room. When they got there, he bustled about, opening the shutters and drawing out the chairs. The drawing-room, which was seldom entered, and the shutters of which were generally kept closed, was a great wilderness of a room, with furniture swathed in white dust-covers which were turning yellow from the proximity of the damp garden.

'It is really disgraceful!' muttered Mouret, wiping the dust from a small console; 'that wretched Rose neglects everything abominably.'

Then, turning towards his mother-in-law, he said with ill-concealed irony:

'You will excuse us for receiving you in this way in our poor dwelling. We cannot all be wealthy.'

Félicité was choking with rage. She scanned Mouret for a moment, and almost indulged in a burst of anger; but she made an effort to restrain herself and slowly dropped her eyes. When she again raised them she spoke in a pleasant tone.

'I have just been calling upon Madame de Condamin,' she said, 'and I thought I would look in here and see how you all were. The children are well, I hope, and you, too, my dear Mouret?'

'Yes, we are all wonderfully well,' he replied, quite astonished by this amiability.

But the old lady gave him no time to import any fresh unpleasantness into the conversation, for she began to question Marthe affectionately about all sorts of trifles, playing the part of a fond grandmother and scolding Mouret for not sending the dear children to see her oftener, for she was always so delighted to have them with her, said she.

'Well, here we are in October again,' she remarked carelessly, after awhile, 'and I shall be having my day again, Thursdays, as in former seasons. I shall count upon seeing you, my dear Marthe, of course; and you too, Mouret, you will look in occasionally, won't you, and not go on sulking with us for ever?'

Mouret, who was growing a little suspicious of all his mother-in-law's affectionate chatter, was at a loss how to reply. He had not expected such a thrust, but there was nothing in it to which he could take exception; so he merely said:

'You know very well that I can't go to your house; you receive a lot of people who would be delighted to have an opportunity of making themselves disagreeable to me. And, besides, I don't want to mix myself up with politics.'

'You are quite mistaken, Mouret, quite mistaken!' Félicité replied. 'My drawing-room is not a club; I would never allow it to become one. All the town knows that I do all I can to make my house as pleasant as possible; and if political matters ever are discussed there, it is only in corners, I assure you. Ah! believe me, I had quite enough of politics long ago. What makes you say such a thing?'

'Why, you receive all the Sub-Prefecture set,' Mouret said shortly.

'The Sub-Prefecture set!' she repeated, 'the Sub-Prefecture set! Certainly I receive those gentlemen. But I don't think that Monsieur Péqueur des Saulaies will be found very often in my house this winter. My husband has told him pretty plainly what he thought of his conduct in connection with the last elections. He allowed himself to be tricked like a mere nincompoop. But his friends are very pleasant men. Monsieur Delangre and Monsieur de Condamin are extremely amiable, and that worthy Paloque is kindness itself, while I'm sure you can have nothing to say against Doctor Porquier.'

Mouret shrugged his shoulders.

'Besides,' she continued, with ironic emphasis, 'I also receive Monsieur Rastoil's circle, worthy Monsieur Maffre and our clever friend Monsieur de Bourdeu, the former prefect. So you see we are not at all bigoted or exclusive, the representatives of all opinions find a welcome among us. Of course when I am inviting a party of people, I don't ask those to meet each other who would be likely to quarrel. But wit and cleverness are welcome in whomsoever they are found, and we pride ourselves upon having at our gatherings all the most distinguished persons in Plassans. My drawing-room is neutral ground, remember that, Mouret; yes, neutral ground that is the right expression.'

She had grown quite animated whilst talking. Her drawing-room was her great glory, and it was her desire to reign there, not as a chief of a party, but as a queen of society. It is true that her friends said that she was adopting conciliatory tactics merely in conformity with the advice of her son Eugène, the minister,[5] who had charged her to personify at Plassans the gentleness and amiability of the Empire.

'You may say what you like,' Mouret growled, 'but that Maffre of yours is a bigot, and your Bourdeu is a fool, and most of all the others are a pack of rascals. That's my opinion of them. I am much obliged to you for your invitation, but it would disturb my habits too much to accept it. I like to go to bed in good time, and I prefer stopping at home.'

Félicité rose from her seat, and turning her back upon Mouret, she said to her daughter:

'Well, at any rate I may expect you, mayn't I, my dear?'

'Of course you may,' replied Marthe, who wished to soften the bluntness of her husband's blunt refusal.

The old lady was just going to leave, when a thought seemed to strike her, and she asked if she might kiss Désirée, whom she had seen playing in the garden. She would not let them call the girl into the house, but insisted on going herself to the terrace, which was still damp from a slight shower which had fallen in the morning. When she found Désirée, she was profuse in her caresses of the girl, who seemed rather frightened of her. Then she raised her head as if by chance and looked at the curtains at the second-floor windows.

'Ah! you have let the rooms, then? Oh, yes! I remember now; to a priest, isn't it? I've heard it spoken of. What sort of a person is he, this priest of yours?'

Mouret looked at her keenly. A sudden suspicion flashed through his mind, and he began to guess that it was entirely on account of Abbé Faujas that his mother-in-law had favoured them with this visit.

'Upon my word,' he replied, without taking his eyes off her, 'I really know nothing about him. But perhaps you are able to give me some information concerning him yourself?'

'I!' she cried, with an appearance of great surprise. 'Why, I've never even seen him! Stay, though, I know he is one of the curates at Saint-Saturnin; Father Bourrette told me that. By the way, that reminds me that I ought to ask him to my Thursdays. The director of the seminary and the bishop's secretary are already amongst my circle of visitors.'

And, turning to Marthe, she added:

'When you see your lodger you might sound him, so as to be able to tell me whether an invitation from me would be acceptable.'

'We scarcely ever see him,' Mouret hastily interposed. 'He comes in and goes out without ever opening his mouth. And, besides, it is really no business of ours.'

He still kept his eyes fixed suspiciously upon her. He felt quite sure that she knew much more about Abbé Faujas than she was willing to admit. However, she did not once flinch beneath his searching gaze.

'Very well, it's all the same to me,' she said, with an appearance of unconcern. 'I shall be able to find out some other way of inviting him, if he's the right sort of person, I've no doubt. Good-bye, my children.'

As she was mounting the steps again, a tall old man appeared on the hall threshold. He was dressed very neatly in blue cloth, and had a fur cap pressed over his eyes. In his hand he carried a whip.

'Hallo! why there's Uncle Macquart!' cried Mouret, casting a curious glance at his mother-in-law.

An expression of extreme annoyance passed over Félicité's face. Macquart, Rougon's illegitimate brother, had, by the latter's aid, returned to France after he had compromised himself in the rising of 1851. Since arriving from Piedmont he had been leading the life of a sleek and well-to-do citizen. He had purchased, though where the money had come from no one knew, a small house at the village of Les Tulettes, about three leagues from Plassans. And by degrees he had fitted up an establishment there, and had now even become possessed of a horse and trap, and was constantly to be met on the high roads, smoking his pipe, enjoying the sunshine, and sniggering like a tamed wolf. Rougon's enemies whispered that the two brothers had perpetrated some black business together, and that Pierre Rougon was keeping Antoine Macquart.

'Good day, Uncle!' said Mouret affectedly; 'have you come to pay us a little visit?'

'Yes, indeed,' Macquart replied, in a voice as guileless as a child's. 'You know that whenever I come to Plassans——Hallo, Félicité! I didn't expect to find you here! I came over to see Rougon. There was something I wanted to talk to him about.'

'He was at home, wasn't he?' she exclaimed with uneasy haste.

'Yes, he was at home,' Uncle Macquart replied tranquilly. 'I saw him, and we had a talk together. He is a good fellow, is Rougon.'

He laughed slightly, and while Félicité stamped her feet with restless anxiety, he went on talking in his drawling voice, which made it seem as if he was always laughing at those whom he addressed.

'Mouret, my boy, I have brought you a couple of rabbits,' he said. 'They are in a basket over there. I have given them to Rose. I brought another couple with me for Rougon. You will find them at home, Félicité, and you must tell me how they turn out. They are beautifully plump; I fattened them up for you. Ah, my dears! it pleases me very much to be able to make you these little presents.'

Félicité turned quite pale, and pressed her lips tightly, while Mouret continued to look at her with a quiet smile. She would have been glad to get away, if she had not been afraid of Macquart gossiping as soon as her back should be turned.

'Thank you, Uncle,' said Mouret. 'The plums that you brought us the last time you came were very good. Won't you have something to drink?'

'Well, that's an offer I really can't refuse.'

When Rose had brought him out a glass of wine, he sat down on the balustrade of the terrace and slowly sipped the beverage, smacking his tongue and holding up the glass to the light.

'This comes from the district of Saint-Eutrope,' he said. 'I'm not to be deceived in matters of this kind. I know the different districts thoroughly.'

He wagged his head and again sniggered.

Then Mouret, with an intonation that was full of meaning, suddenly asked him:

'And how are things getting on at Les Tulettes?'

Macquart raised his eyes and looked at them all. Then giving a final cluck of his tongue and putting down the glass on the stone-work by his side, he said, quite unconcernedly:

'Oh! very well. I heard of her the day before yesterday. She is still just the same.'

Félicité had turned her head away. For a moment no one spoke. Mouret had just put his finger upon one of the family's sore places, by alluding to old Adelaide, the mother of Rougon and Macquart, who for several years now had been shut up as a mad woman in the asylum at Les Tulettes. Macquart's little property was near the mad-house, and it seemed as though Rougon had posted the old scamp there to keep watch over their mother.

'It is getting late,' Macquart said at last, rising from his seat on the balustrade, 'and I want to get back again before night. I shall expect to see you over at my house one of these days, Mouret, my boy. You have promised me several times to come, you know.'

'Oh, yes! I'll come, Uncle, I'll come.'

'Ah! but that isn't enough. I want you all to come; all of you, do you hear? I am very dull out there all by myself. I will give you some dinner.'

Then, turning to Félicité, he added:

'Tell Rougon that I shall expect him and you, too. You needn't stop from coming just because the old mother happens to be near there. She is going on very well, I tell you, and is properly looked after. You may safely trust yourselves to me, and I will give you some wine from one of the slopes of La Seille, a light wine that will warm you up famously.'

He began to walk towards the gate as he spoke. Félicité followed him so closely that it almost seemed as if she were pushing him out of the garden. They all accompanied him to the street. While he was untethering his horse, which he had fastened by the reins to one of the house shutters, Abbé Faujas, who was just returning home, passed the group with a slight bow. He glided on as noiselessly as a black shadow, but Félicité quickly turned and watched him till he reached the staircase. Unfortunately she had not had time to catch sight of his face. Macquart on perceiving the priest had shaken his head in utter surprise.

'What! my boy,' said he, 'have you really got priests lodging with you now? That man has very strange eyes. Take care! take care! cassocks bring ill luck with them!'

Then he took his seat in his trap and clucked his horse on, going down the Rue Balande at a gentle trot. His round back and fur cap disappeared at the corner of the Rue Taravelle. As Mouret turned round again, he heard his mother-in-law speaking to Marthe.

'I would rather you do it,' she was saying; 'the invitation would seem less formal. I should be very glad if you could find some opportunity of speaking to him.'

She checked herself when she saw that she was overheard; and having kissed Désirée effusively, she went away, giving a last look round to make quite sure that Macquart was not likely to come back to gossip about her.

'I forbid you to mix yourself up in your mother's affairs, you know,' Mouret said to his wife as they returned into the house. 'She has always got some business or other on hand that no body can understand. What in the world can she want with the Abbé? She wouldn't invite him for his own sake, I'm sure. She must have some secret reason for doing so. That priest hasn't come from Besançon to Plassans for nothing. There is some mystery or other at the bottom of it all!'

Marthe had again set to work at the everlasting repairs of the family-linen which kept her busy for days together. But her husband went on chattering:

'Old Macquart and your mother amuse me very much. How they hate each other! Did you notice how angry she was when she saw him come? She always seems to be in a state of fear lest he should make some unpleasant revelation——I dare say that he'd willingly do so. But they'll never catch me in his house. I've sworn to keep clear of all that business. My father was quite right when he said that my mother's family, those Rougons and Macquarts, were not worth a rope to hang them with——They are my relations as well as yours, so you needn't feel hurt at what I am saying. I say it because it is true. They are wealthy people now, but their money hasn't made them any better—rather the contrary.'

Then he set off to take a turn along the Cours Sauvaire, where he met his friends and talked to them about the weather and the crops and the events of the previous day. An extensive transaction in almonds, which he undertook on the morrow, kept him busy for more than a week and made him almost forget all about Abbé Faujas. He was beginning, besides, to feel a little weary of the Abbé, who did not talk enough and was far too secretive. On two separate occasions he purposely avoided him, imagining that the priest only wanted to see him in order to make him relate the stories of the remainder of the Sub-Prefecture circle and Monsieur Rastoil's friends. Rose had informed him that Madame Faujas had tried to get her to talk, and this had made him vow that he would in future keep his mouth shut. This resolve furnished fresh amusement for his idle hours, and now, as he looked up at the closely drawn curtains of the second-floor windows, he would mutter:

'All right, my good fellow! Hide yourself as much as you like! I know very well that you're watching me from behind those curtains, but you won't be much the wiser for your trouble, and you'll find yourself much mistaken if you expect to get any more information out of me about our neighbours!'

He derived great pleasure from the thought that the Abbé Faujas was secretly watching, and he took every precaution to avoid falling into any trap that might be laid for him. One evening as he was coming home he saw Abbé Bourrette and Abbé Faujas standing before Monsieur Rastoil's gate. So he concealed himself behind the corner of a house and spied on them. The two priests kept him waiting there for more than a quarter of an hour. They talked with great animation, parted for a moment, and then joined each other again, and resumed their conversation. Mouret thought he could detect that Abbé Bourrette was trying to persuade Abbé Faujas to accompany him to the judge's; and that Faujas was making excuses for not going, and at last refusing to do so with some show of impatience. It was a Tuesday, the day of the weekly dinner. Finally Bourrette entered Monsieur Rastoil's house, and Faujas went off in his quiet fashion to his own rooms. Mouret stood for awhile thinking. What could be Abbé Faujas's reason for refusing to go to Monsieur Rastoil's? All the clergy of Saint-Saturnin's dined there, Abbé Fenil, Abbé Surin, and all the others. There was not a single priest in Plassans who had not enjoyed the fresh air by the fountain in the garden there. The new curate's refusal to go seemed a very extraordinary thing.

When Mouret got home again, he hurried to the bottom of his own garden to reconnoitre the second-floor windows. And after a moment or two he saw the curtain of the second window move to the right. He felt quite sure that Abbé Faujas was behind it, spying upon what might be going on at Monsieur Rastoil's. Then Mouret thought that he could discover by certain movements of the curtain that the Abbé was in turn inspecting the gardens of the Sub-Prefecture.

The next day, a Wednesday, Rose told him just as he was going out that Abbé Bourrette had been with the second-floor people for at least an hour. Upon this he came back into the house and began to rummage about in the dining-room. When Marthe asked him what he was looking for, he replied sharply that he was trying to find a paper without which he could not go out. He even went upstairs, as if to see whether he had left it there. After waiting for a long time behind his bedroom door, he thought he could hear some chairs moving on the second floor, and thereupon he slowly went downstairs, stopping for a moment or two in the hall to give Abbé Bourrette time to catch him up.

'Ah! is that you, Monsieur l'Abbé? This is a fortunate meeting! You are going to Saint-Saturnin's, I suppose, and I am going that way too. We will keep each other company, if you have no objection.'

Abbé Bourrette replied that he would be delighted, and they both walked slowly up the Rue Balande towards the Place of the Sub-Prefecture. The Abbé was a stout man, with an honest, open face, and big, child-like blue eyes. His wide silk girdle which was drawn tightly round him threw his well-rounded stomach into relief. His arms were unduly short and his legs heavy and clumsy, and he walked with his head thrown slightly back.

'So you've just been to see our good Monsieur Faujas?' said Mouret, going to the point at once. 'I must really thank you for having procured me such a lodger as is rarely to be found.'

'Yes, yes,' said the priest, 'he is a very good and worthy man.'

'He never makes the slightest noise, and we can't really tell that there is anyone in the house. And he is so polite and courteous, too. I've heard it said, do you know, that he is a man of unusual attainments, and that he has been sent here as a sort of compliment to the diocese.'

They had now reached the middle of the Place of the Sub-Prefecture. Mouret stopped short and looked at Abbé Bourrette keenly.

'Ah, indeed!' the priest merely replied, with an air of astonishment.

'So I've been told. The Bishop, it is said, intends to do something for him later on. In the meantime, the new curate has to keep himself in the background for fear of exciting jealousy.'

Abbé Bourrette went on walking again, and turned the corner of the Rue de la Banne.

'You surprise me very much,' he quietly remarked. 'Faujas is a very unassuming man; in fact, he is far too humble. For instance, at the church he has taken upon himself the petty duties which are generally left to the ordinary staff. He is a saint, but he is not very sharp. I scarcely ever see him at the Bishop's, and from the first he has always been very cold with Abbé Fenil, though I strongly impressed upon him that it was necessary he should be on good terms with the Grand-Vicar if he wished to be well received at the Bishop's. But he didn't seem to see it, and I'm afraid that he's deficient in judgment. He shows the same failing, too, by his continual visits to Abbé Compan, who has been confined to his bed for the last fortnight, and whom I'm afraid we are going to lose. Abbé Faujas's visits are most ill-advised, and will do him a deal of harm. Compan has always been on bad terms with Fenil, and it's only a stranger from Besançon who could be ignorant of a fact that is known to the whole diocese.'

Bourrette was growing animated, and in his turn he stopped short as they reached the Rue Canquoin and took his stand in front of Mouret.

'No, no, my dear sir,' he said, 'you have been misinformed: Faujas is as simple as a new-born babe. I'm not an ambitious man myself, and God knows how fond I am of Compan, who has a heart of gold, but, all the same, I keep my visits to him private. He said to me himself: "Bourrette, my old friend, I am not much longer for this world. If you want to succeed me, don't be seen too often knocking at my door. Come after dark and knock three times, and my sister will let you in." So now, you understand, I wait till night before I go to see him. One has plenty of troubles as it is, without incurring unnecessary ones!'

His voice quavered, and he clasped his hands across his stomach as he resumed his walk, moved by a naïve egotism which made him commiserate himself, while he murmured: