Abbé Faujas stood quite impassive, letting this flood of words pass without reply.

'Ah! So there is nothing else! there is nothing else!' she continued, in a burst of indignation; 'then you have deceived me! Down there on the terrace, on those star-lit evenings, you promised me heaven, and I believed your promises. I sold myself, and gave myself up. I was quite mad during those first transports of prayer. To-day the bargain holds no longer. I shall return to my old ways, and resume my old peaceful quiet. I will turn everybody out of the house, and make it as it used to be; I will again sit in my old corner on the terrace, and mend the linen. Needlework never wearies me. And I will have Désirée back to sit beside me on her little stool. She used to sit there, the dear innocent, and laugh and make dolls——'

Then she burst into a fit of sobbing:

'I want my children! They were my safeguard. Since they left I have lost my head, I have done things that I ought not to have done. Why did you take them from me? They went away from me one by one, and the house became like a strange house to me. My heart was no longer wrapped up in it, I was glad when I left it for an afternoon; and when I came back in the evening, I seemed to have fallen amongst strangers. The very furniture seemed cold and unfriendly. I quite hated the house. But I will go and fetch them again, the poor darlings. Everything will become as it used to be directly they return. Oh! if I could only sink down again into my old sleepy quiet!'

She was growing more and more excited. The priest tried to calm her by a method which he had often before found efficacious.

'Be calm, my dear lady, be calm,' he said, trying to take her hands, and hold them between his own.

'Don't touch me!' she cried, recoiling from him. 'I don't want you to do so. When you hold me I am as weak as a child. The warmth of your hands takes all my resolution and strength away. The trouble would only begin again to-morrow; for I cannot go on living like this, and you only assuage me for an hour.'

A deep shadow passed over her face as she continued:

'No! I am damned now! I shall never love my home again. And if the children come, they would ask for their father—Oh! it is that which is killing me! I shall never be forgiven till I have confessed my crime to a priest.'

Then she fell upon her knees.

'I am a guilty woman. That is why God turns His face from me.'

Abbé Faujas tried to make her rise from her knees.

'Be silent!' he cried loudly. 'I cannot hear your confession here. Come to Saint-Saturnin's to-morrow.'

'Father,' she said entreatingly, 'have pity upon me. To-morrow I shall not have the strength for it.'

'I forbid you to speak,' he cried more violently than before. 'I won't listen to anything; I shall turn my head away and close my ears.'

He stepped backward and crossed his arms, trying to check the confession that was on Marthe's lips. They looked at each other for a moment in silence, with the lurking anger that came from their conscious complicity.

'It is not a priest who listens to you,' said the Abbé in a huskier voice. 'Here there is only a man to judge and condemn you.'

At this she rose from her knees, and continued feverishly: 'A man! I prefer it, for I am not confessing; I am simply telling you of my wrong-doing. After the children had gone, I allowed their father to be put away too. He had never struck me, the unhappy man. It was I myself who was mad.... Oh, you cannot guess what frightful nightmares overwhelmed me and made me hurl myself upon the floor. All hell seemed to be racking my brain with its torments. He, poor man, with his chattering teeth, excited my pity. It was he who was afraid of me. When you had left the room he dared not venture near me; he passed the night on a chair.'

Again did Abbé Faujas try to stop her.

'You are killing yourself,' he exclaimed. 'Don't stir up these recollections. God will take count of your sufferings.'

'It was I who sent him to Les Tulettes,' she continued, silencing the priest with an energetic gesture. 'You all told me that he was mad. Oh, the unendurable life I have led! I have always been terrified by the thought of madness. When I was quite young, I used to feel as though my skull were being opened and my head were being emptied. I seemed to have a block of ice within my brow. Ah! I felt that awful coldness again, and I was perpetually in fear of going mad. They took my husband away. I let them take him. I didn't know what I was doing. But, ever since that day, I have been unable to close my eyes without seeing him over yonder. It is that which makes me behave so strangely, which roots me for hours to the same spot, with my eyes wide open. I know the place; I can see it. My uncle Macquart showed it to me. It is as gloomy as a prison, with its black windows.'

She seemed to be choking. She raised her handkerchief to her lips, and when she took it away again it was spotted with blood. The priest, with his arms rigidly crossed in front of him, waited till the attack was over.

'You know it all, don't you?' she resumed, in stammering accents. 'I am a miserable guilty woman, I sinned for you. But give me life, give me happiness, I entreat you!'

'You lie,' said the priest slowly. 'I know nothing; I was ignorant that you were guilty of that wickedness.'

She recoiled, clasping her hands, stammering, and gazing at him with a look of terror. And at last, utterly unable to restrain herself, she broke out wildly and recklessly:

'Hear me, Ovide, I love you, and you know that I do, do you not? I have loved you, Ovide, since the first day you came here. I refrained from telling you so, for I saw it displeased you; but I knew quite well that you were gaining my whole heart. Then it was that I emptied the house for your sake. I dragged myself on my knees, and became your slave. You surely cannot go on being cruel for ever. Now that I am ill and abandoned, and my heart is broken and my head seems empty, you surely cannot reject me. It is true that we have said nothing openly before; but surely my love spoke to you, and your silence made answer. Oh! I love you, Ovide, I love you, and it is killing me.'

She burst into another fit of sobbing. Abbé Faujas had braced himself up to his full height. He stepped towards Marthe and poured out upon her all his scorn of woman.

'Oh, miserable creature!' he said. 'I hoped that you would be reasonable, and that you would never lower yourself to the shame of uttering all that vileness. Ah! it is the eternal struggle of evil against will. You are the temptation from below that leads men to base back-sliding and final overthrow. The priest has no worse enemy than such as you; you ought to be driven from the churches as impure and accursed!'

'I love you, Ovide,' she again stammered; 'I love you; help me.'

'I have already come too near you,' the priest continued. 'Go away and depart from me; you are Satan! I will beat you if it be necessary to force the evil spirit from your body.'

She sank into a crouching posture against the wall, silent with terror at the priest's threatening fist. Her hair became unloosened, and a long white lock fell over her brow. As she looked about the room for a refuge, she espied the big black crucifix, and she still had strength left to stretch her hands towards it with a passionate gesture.

'Do not implore the Cross!' cried the priest in wild anger. 'Jesus lived chastely, and it was that which enabled Him to die.'

At that same moment Madame Faujas came into the room, carrying on her arm a big provision basket. She put it down at once on seeing her son so wrathful, and threw her arms around him.

'Ovide, my child, calm yourself,' she said, as she caressed him.

Then, turning upon the cowering Marthe an annihilating glance, she cried:

'Can you never leave him at peace? Are you not ashamed of yourself? Go downstairs; it is quite impossible for you to remain here. This is no place for such as you!'

Marthe did not move. Madame Faujas had to lift her up and push her towards the door. The old woman stormed at her, charging her with having waited till she had gone out, and making her promise that she would never again come upstairs to make such scenes. And finally she banged the door violently behind her.

Marthe went on, reeling down the stairs. She had ceased sobbing, and kept repeating to herself:

'François will come back again; François will turn them all out into the street.'

XXI

The Toulon coach, which passed through Les Tulettes, where it changed horses, left Plassans at three o'clock. Marthe, goaded on by a fixed, unswerving resolve, was anxious not to lose a moment. She put on her shawl and hat, and ordered Rose to dress immediately.

'I can't tell what madame's after,' said the cook to Olympe: 'but I fancy we're going away for some days.'

Marthe left the keys in the cupboard doors; she was in a hurry to be off. Olympe, who went with her to the front door, vainly tried to ascertain where she was going and how long she would be away.

'Well, make yourself quite easy,' she said to her in her pleasant way, as they parted; 'I will look after everything, you will find things all right when you come back. Don't hurry yourself, take the time to do all you want. If you go to Marseilles, bring us back some fresh shell-fish.'

Before Marthe had turned the corner of the Rue Taravelle, Olympe had taken possession of the whole house. When Trouche came home he found his wife banging the doors and examining the contents of the drawers and closets, as she hummed and sang and rushed about the rooms.

'She's gone off and taken that beast of a cook with her,' she cried to him as she lolled into an easy-chair. 'What luck it would be if they should both get upset into a ditch and stop there! Well, we must enjoy ourselves for as long as we have the chance. It's very nice being alone, isn't it, Honoré? Come and give me a kiss! We are quite by ourselves now, and we can do just as we like.'

Marthe and Rose reached the Cours Sauvaire only just in time to catch the Toulon coach. The coupé was disengaged. When the cook heard her mistress tell the conductor to set them down at Les Tulettes, she took her place with an expression of vexation, and before the coach had got out of the town she had begun grumbling in her cross-grained fashion.

'Well, I did think that you were at last going to behave sensibly! I felt sure that we were going to Marseilles to see Monsieur Octave. We could have brought back a lobster and some oysters. Ah! I shouldn't have hurried myself so if I had known. But it's just like you. You are always hunting after troubles, and always doing things that upset you.'

Marthe was lying back in her corner in a semi-conscious condition. Now that she was no longer stiffening herself against the pains which oppressed her heart, a death-like faintness was creeping over her. But the cook did not even look towards her.

'Did anyone ever hear of such an absurd idea as going to see the master?' she continued. 'A cheerful sort of sight it will be for us. We sha'n't be able to sleep for a week after it. You may be as frightened as you like at nights, now; you won't get me to come and look under the furniture for you. It isn't as though your going to see him could do the master any good. He's just as likely to fly at your face as not! I hope to goodness that they won't let you see him. It's against the rules, I know. I ought not to have got into the coach when I heard you mention Les Tulettes, for I don't think you would have ventured to go on such a foolish errand all by yourself.'

A deep sigh from Marthe checked her flow of words. She turned round to her mistress, saw her pale and suffocating, and grew still angrier than before as she opened the window to let in some fresh air.

'There now, you'll have to come and lie in my arms! Don't you think you'd have been ever so much better in bed, taking care of yourself? To think that you have had the good fortune to be surrounded by pious, holy people without being the least bit grateful to God Almighty for it! You know it's only the truth I'm saying. His reverence the Curé and his mother and sister, and even Monsieur Trouche himself, are all attention towards you. They would throw themselves into the fire for you; they are ready to do anything at any hour of the day or night. I saw Madame Olympe crying—yes, crying—the last time you were ill. And what sort of gratitude do you show them for all their kindness and attention? Why, you do all you can to distress them, and set off on the sly to see the master, although you know quite well that you will grieve them dreadfully by doing so, for it's impossible that they should be fond of the master, who treated you so cruelly. I'll tell you what, madame—marriage has done you no good; you've got infected with all the master's bad nature. There are times when you are every bit as bad as he is.'

All the way to Les Tulettes she continued in this strain, eulogising the Faujases and the Trouches, and accusing her mistress of every kind of wrong-doing. And she concluded by saying:

'Ah, they are the sort of people who would make excellent masters if they could only afford to keep servants. But fortune merely comes in the way of bad-hearted folks!'

Marthe, who was now calmer, made no reply. She gazed out of the window, watching the scraggy trees and the wide-stretching fields which spread out like great lengths of brown cloth. Rose's growlings were lost amidst the noisy jolting of the coach.

When they reached Les Tulettes, Marthe hastened towards the house of her uncle Macquart, followed by the cook, who had now subsided into silence, contenting herself by shrugging her shoulders and biting her lips.

'Hallo! is that you?' cried the uncle in great surprise. 'I thought you were in your bed. I heard that you were very ill. Well, my little dear, you really don't look very strong. Have you come to ask me for some dinner?'

'I should like to see François, uncle,' said Marthe.

'François?' repeated Macquart, looking her in the face. 'You would like to see François? It is a very kind thought of yours. The poor fellow has been crying for you a great deal. I have seen him from the end of my garden knocking his fist against the walls while he called for you to come to him. And so it is to see him that you have come, eh? I really thought that you had forgotten all about him over yonder.'

Big tears welled into Marthe's eyes.

'It will not be very easy to see him to-day,' Macquart continued. 'It is getting on for four o'clock, and I'm not at all sure that the manager will give you leave. Mouret hasn't been very quiet lately. He smashes everything that he can lay his hands on, and talks about burning the place down. Those madmen are not in a pleasant humour every day.'

Marthe trembled as she listened to her uncle; she was going to question him, but instead of doing so she merely stretched out her hands supplicatingly.

'I beseech you to help me,' said she. 'I have come on purpose. It is absolutely necessary that I should speak to François to-day, at once. You have friends in the asylum, and you can obtain me admission.'

'No doubt, no doubt,' he replied, without committing himself further.

He appeared to be in a state of great perplexity, unable to divine the real cause of Marthe's sudden journey, and revolving the matter in his own mind from a point of view known only to himself. He glanced inquisitively at the cook, who turned her back upon him. At last a slight smile began to play about his lips.

'Well,' he said, 'since you wish it, I will see what I can do for you. Only, remember, that if your mother is displeased about it, you must tell her that I was not able to dissuade you. I am afraid that you may do yourself harm; it isn't a pleasant place to visit.'

Rose absolutely declined to accompany them to the asylum. She had seated herself in front of a fire of vine-stocks, which was blazing on the great hearth.

'I don't want to have my eyes torn out,' she said snappishly. 'The master isn't over fond of me. I would rather stop here and warm myself.'

'It would be very good of you if you were to get us some mulled wine ready,' Macquart whispered in her ear. 'The wine and sugar are in the cupboard yonder. We shall want it when we come back.'

Macquart did not take his niece to the principal gate of the asylum. He went round to the left and inquired at a little door for warder Alexandre, with whom, on his appearance, he exchanged a few words in a low voice. Then they all three silently entered the seemingly interminable corridors. The warder walked in front.

'I will wait for you here,' said Macquart, coming to a halt in a little courtyard. 'Alexandre will remain with you.'

'I would rather be left alone,' said Marthe.

'Madame would very quickly have enough of it, if she were,' Alexandre replied, with a tranquil smile. 'I'm running a good deal of risk as it is.'

He took Marthe through another court, and stopped in front of a little door. As he softly turned the key, he said in a low voice:

'Don't be afraid. He has been quieter to-day, and they have been able to take the strait-waistcoat off. If he shows any violence you must step out backwards, and leave me alone with him.'

Marthe trembled as she passed through the narrow doorway. At first she could only see something lying in a heap against the wall in one of the corners. The daylight was waning, and the cell was merely lighted by a pale glimmer which fell from a grated window.

'Well, my fine fellow!' Alexandre exclaimed familiarly, as he stepped up to Mouret and tapped him on the shoulder; 'I am bringing you a visitor. I hope you will behave properly.'

Then he returned and leant against the door, keeping his eyes fixed upon the madman. Mouret slowly rose to his feet. He did not show the slightest sign of surprise.

'Is it you, my dear?' he said in his quiet voice. 'I was expecting you; I was getting uneasy about the children.'

Marthe's knees trembled under her, and she looked at him anxiously, rendered quite speechless by his affectionate reception. He did not appear changed at all. If anything, he looked better than he had done before. He was sleek and plump, and cleanly shaved. His eyes, too, were bright; all his former little mannerisms had reappeared, and he rubbed his hands and winked, and stalked about with his old bantering air.

'I am very well indeed, my dear. We can go back home together. You have come for me, haven't you? I hope the garden has been well looked after. The slugs were dreadfully fond of the lettuces, and the beds were quite eaten up with them, but I know a way of destroying them. I have some splendid ideas in my head that I'll tell you of. We are very comfortably off, and we can afford to pay for our fancies. By the way, have you seen old Gautier of Saint-Eutrope while I've been absent? I bought thirty hogsheads of common wine from him for blending. I must go and see him to-morrow. You never recollect anything.'

He spoke in a jesting way, and shook his finger at her playfully.

'I'll be bound that I shall find everything in dreadful disorder,' he continued. 'You never look after anything. The tools will be all lying about, the cupboard doors will be open, and Rose will be dirtying the rooms with her broom. Why hasn't Rose come with you? Ah, what a strange creature she is! Do you know, she actually wanted to turn me out of the house one day? Really, she seems to think that the whole place belongs to her. She goes on in the most amusing way possible. But you don't tell me anything about the children. Désirée is still with her nurse, I suppose. We will go and kiss her and see if she is tired of staying there. And I want to go to Marseilles as well, for I am a little uneasy about Octave. The last time I was there I found him leading a wild life. As for Serge, I have no anxiety about him; he is almost too quiet and steady. He will sanctify the whole family. Ah! I quite enjoy talking about the house and the children.'

He rattled along at great length, inquiring about every tree in his garden, going into the minutest details of the household arrangements, and showing an extraordinary memory of a host of insignificant matters. Marthe was deeply touched by the gentle affection which he manifested for her. She thought she could detect a loving delicacy in the care which he took to say nothing that savoured of reproach, to make no allusion, however slight, to all that had passed. She felt, indeed, that she was forgiven, and she vowed that she would atone for her crime by becoming the submissive servant of this man who was so sublime in his good nature. Big silent tears rolled down her cheeks, and her knees bent under her in her gratitude.

'Take care!' the warder whispered in her ear. 'I don't like the look of his eyes.'

'But he isn't mad!' she stammered; 'I swear to you that he isn't mad! I must speak to the manager. I want to take him away with me at once.'

'Take care!' the warder repeated sharply, pulling her by her arm.

Mouret had suddenly stopped short in the midst of his chatter, and was now crouching upon the floor. Then, all at once, he began to crawl along beside the wall, on his hands and knees.

'Wow! wow!' he barked in hoarse, prolonged notes.

He gave a spring into the air and fell upon his side. Then a dreadful scene ensued. He began to writhe like a worm, beat his face with his fist, and tore his flesh with his nails. In a short time he was half naked, his clothes in rags, and himself bruised and lacerated and groaning.

'Come away, madame, come away!' cried the warder.

Marthe stood rooted to the floor. She recognised in the scene before her her own writhings at home. It was in that way that she had thrown herself upon the floor of her bedroom; it was in that way that she had beaten and torn herself. She even recognised the very tones of her voice. Mouret vented the same rattling groan. It was she who had brought the poor man into this miserable state.

'He is not mad!' she stammered; 'he cannot be mad, it would be too horrible! I would rather die!'

The warder put his arm round her and pushed her out of the cell, but she remained leaning against the door on the other side. She could hear a terrible struggle going on within, screams like those of a pig being slaughtered; then a dull fall like that of a bundle of damp linen, and afterwards death-like silence. When the warder came out of the cell, the night had nearly fallen. Through the partially open doorway, Marthe could see nothing.

'Well, upon my word, madame,' cried the warder, 'you are a very queer person to say that he is not mad. I nearly left my thumb behind me; he got firmly hold of it between his teeth. However, he's quieted now for a few hours.'

And as he took her back to her uncle, he continued:

'You've no idea how cunning they all are. They are as quiet as can be for hours together, and talk to you in quite a sensible manner; and then, without the least warning, they fly at your throat. I could see very well that he was up to some mischief or other just now when he was talking to you about the children, for there was such a strange look in his eyes.'

When Marthe got back to Macquart, in the small courtyard, she exclaimed feverishly in a weak, broken voice:

'He is mad! he is mad!'

'There's no doubt he's mad,' said her uncle with a snigger. 'Why, what did you expect to find? People are not brought here for nothing. And the place isn't healthy either. If I were to be shut up there for a couple of hours, I should go mad myself.'

He was watching her askance, and he noted her nervous start and shudder. Then, in his good-natured way, he said:

'Perhaps you would like to go and see the grandmother?'

Marthe made a gesture of terror, and hid her face in her hands.

'It would be no trouble to anyone,' he said. 'Alexandre would be glad to take us. She is over yonder, on that side, and there is nothing to be afraid of with her. She is perfectly quiet. She never gives any trouble, does she, Alexandre? She always remains seated and gazing in front of her. She hasn't moved for the last dozen years. However, if you'd rather not see her, we won't go.'[7]

As the warder was taking his leave of them, Macquart invited him to come and drink a glass of mulled wine, winking the while in a certain fashion which seemed to induce Alexandre to accept the invitation. They were obliged to support Marthe, whose legs sank beneath her at each step. When they reached the house, they were actually carrying her. Her face was convulsed, her eyes were staring widely, and her whole body was rigidly stiffened by one of those nervous seizures which kept her like a dead woman for hours at a time.

'There! what did I tell you?' cried Rose, when she saw them. 'A nice state she's in! How are we to get home, I should like to know? Good heavens! how can people take such absurd fancies into their heads? The master ought to have given her neck a twist, and it would have taught her a lesson, perhaps.'

'Pooh!' said Macquart; 'I'll lay her down on my bed. It won't kill us if we have to sit up round the fire all night.'

He drew aside a calico curtain which hung in front of a recess. Rose proceeded to undress her mistress, growling as she did so. The only thing they could do, she said, was to put a hot brick at her feet.

'Now that she's all snug, we'll have a drop to drink,' resumed Macquart, with his wolfish snigger. 'That wine of yours smells awfully nice, old lady!'

'I found a lemon on the mantelpiece,' Rose said, 'and I used it.'

'You did quite right. There is everything here that is wanted. When I make a brew, there's nothing missing that ought to be in the place, I assure you.'

He pulled the table in front of the fire, and then he sat down between Rose and Alexandre, and poured the hot wine into some big yellow cups. When he had swallowed a couple of mouthfuls with great gusto, he smacked his lips and cried:

'Ah! that's first-rate. You understand how to make it. It's really better than what I make myself. You must leave me your recipe.'

Rose, greatly mollified by these compliments, began to laugh. The vine-wood fire was now a great mass of glowing embers. The cups were filled again.

'And so,' said Macquart, leaning on his elbows and looking Rose in the face, 'it was a sudden whim of my niece to come here?'

'Oh, don't talk about it,' replied the cook; 'it will make me angry again. Madame is getting as mad as the master. She can no longer tell who are her friends and who are not. I believe she had a quarrel with his reverence the Curé before she set off; I heard them shouting.'

Macquart laughed noisily.

'They used, however, to get on very well together,' said he.

'Yes, indeed; but nothing lasts long with such a brain as madame has got. I'll be bound that she's now regretting the thrashings the master used to give her at nights. We found his stick in the garden.'

Macquart looked at her more keenly, and, as he drank his hot wine, he said:

'Perhaps she came to take François back with her.'

'Oh, Heaven forbid!' cried Rose, with an expression of horror. 'The master would go on finely in the house; he would kill us all. The idea of his return is one of my greatest dreads; I'm in a constant worry lest he should make his escape and get back some night and murder us all. When I think about it when I'm in bed, I can't go to sleep. I fancy I can see him stealing in through the window with his hair bristling and his eyes flaming like matches.'

This made Macquart very merry, and he rapped his cup on the table.

'It would be very unpleasant,' he said, 'very unpleasant. I don't suppose he feels very kindly towards you, least of all towards the Curé who has stepped into his place. The Curé would only make a mouthful for him, big as he is, for madmen, they say, are awfully strong. I say, Alexandre, just imagine poor François suddenly making his appearance at home! He would make a pretty clean sweep there, wouldn't he? It would be a fine sight, eh?'

He cast glances at the warder, who went on quietly drinking his mulled wine and made no reply beyond nodding his head assentingly.

'Oh! it's only a fancy; it's all nonsense,' added Macquart, as he observed Rose's terrified looks.

Just at that moment, Marthe began to struggle violently behind the calico curtain; and she had to be held for some minutes in order that she might not fall upon the floor. When she was again stretched out in corpse-like rigidity, her uncle came and warmed his legs before the fire, reflecting and murmuring as if without paying heed to what he said:

'The little woman isn't very easy to manage, indeed.' Then he suddenly exclaimed:

'The Rougons, now, what do they say about all this business? They take the Curé's side, don't they?'

'The master didn't make himself pleasant enough for them to regret him,' replied Rose. 'There was nothing too bad for him to say against them.'

'Well, he wasn't far wrong there,' said Macquart. 'The Rougons are wretched skinflints. Just think that they refused to buy that cornfield over yonder, a magnificent speculation which I undertook to manage. Félicité would pull a queer face if she saw François come back!'

He began to snigger again, and took a turn round the table. Then, with an expression of determination, he lighted his pipe.

'We mustn't forget the time, my boy,' he said to Alexandre, with another wink. 'I will go back with you; Marthe seems quiet now. Rose will get the table laid by the time I return. You must be hungry, Rose, eh? As you are obliged to stay the night here, you shall have a mouthful with me.'

He went off with the warder, and fully half an hour elapsed. Rose, who began to tire of being alone, at last opened the door and went out to the terrace, where she stood watching the deserted road in the clear night air. As she was going back into the house, she fancied she could see two dark shadows in the middle of a path behind a hedge.

'It looks just like the uncle,' thought she; 'he seems to be talking to a priest.'

A few minutes later Macquart returned. That blessed Alexandre, said he, had been chattering to him interminably.

'Wasn't it you who were over there just now with a priest?' asked Rose.

'I, with a priest!' he cried. 'Why, you must have been dreaming; there isn't a priest in the neighbourhood.'

He rolled his little glistening eyes. Then, as if rather uneasy about the lie he had told, he added:

'Well, there is Abbé Fenil, but it's just the same as if he wasn't here, for he never goes out.'

'Abbé Fenil isn't up to much,' remarked the cook.

This seemed to annoy Macquart.

'Why do you say that? Not up to much, eh? He does a great deal of good here, and he's a very worthy sort of fellow. He's worth a whole heap of priests who make a lot of fuss.'

His irritation, however, promptly disappeared, and he began to laugh upon observing that Rose was looking at him in surprise.

'I was only joking, you know,' he said. 'You are quite right; he's like all the other priests, they are all a set of hypocrites. I know now who it was that you saw me with. I met our grocer's wife. She was wearing a black dress, and you must have mistaken that for a cassock.'

Rose made an omelet, and Macquart placed some cheese upon the table. They had not finished eating when Marthe sat up in bed with the astonished look of a person awaking in a strange place. When she had brushed aside her hair and recollected where she was, she sprang to the floor and said she must be off at once. Macquart appeared very much vexed at her awaking.

'It's quite impossible,' said he, 'for you to go back to Plassans to-night. You are shivering with fever, and you would fall ill on the road. Rest here, and we will see about it to-morrow. To begin with, there is no conveyance.'

'But you can drive me in your trap,' said Marthe.

'No, no; I can't.'

Marthe, who was dressing with feverish haste, thereupon declared that she would walk to Plassans rather than stay the night at Les Tulettes. Her uncle seemed to be thinking. He had locked the door and slipped the key into his pocket. He entreated his niece, threatened her, and invented all kinds of stories to induce her to remain. But she paid no attention to what he said, and finished by putting on her bonnet.

'You are very much mistaken if you imagine you can persuade her to give in,' exclaimed Rose, who was quietly finishing her cheese. 'She would get out through the window first. You had better put your horse to the trap.'

After a short interval of silence, Macquart, shrugging his shoulders, angrily exclaimed:

'Well, it makes no difference to me! Let her lay herself up if she likes! I was only thinking about her own good. Come along; what will happen will happen. I'll drive you over.'

Marthe had to be carried to the gig; she was trembling violently with fever. Her uncle threw an old cloak over her shoulders. Then he gave a cluck with his tongue and set off.

'It's no trouble to me,' he said, 'to go over to Plassans this evening; on the contrary, indeed, there's always some amusement to be had there.'

It was about ten o'clock. In the sky, heavy with rain clouds, there was a ruddy glimmer that cast a feeble light upon the road. All the way as they drove along Macquart kept bending forward and glancing at the ditches and the hedges. When Rose asked him what he was looking for, he replied that some wolves had come down from the ravines of La Seille. He had quite recovered his good humour. However, when they were between two and three miles from Plassans the rain began to fall. It poured down, cold and pelting. Then Macquart began to swear, and Rose would have liked to beat her mistress, who was moaning underneath the cloak. When at last they reached Plassans the rain had ceased, and the sky was blue again.

'Are you going to the Rue Balande?' asked Macquart.

'Why, of course,' replied Rose in astonishment.

Macquart thereupon began to explain that as Marthe seemed to him to be very ill, he had thought it might perhaps be better to take her to her mother's. After much hesitation, however, he consented to stop his horse at the Mourets' house. Marthe had not even thought of bringing a latchkey with her. Rose, however, fortunately had her own in her pocket, but when she tried to open the door it would not move. The Trouches had shot the bolts inside. She rapped upon it with her fist, but without rousing any other answer than a dull echo in the hall.

'It's of no use your giving yourself any further trouble,' said Macquart with a laugh. 'They won't disturb themselves to come down. Well, here you are shut out of your own home. Don't you think now that my first idea was a good one? We must take the poor child to the Rougons'. She will be better there than in her own room; I assure you she will.'

Félicité was overwhelmed with alarm when she saw her daughter arrive at such a late hour, drenched with rain and apparently half dead. She put her to bed on the second floor, set the house in great commotion, and called up all the servants. When she grew a little calmer, as she sat by Marthe's bedside, she asked for an explanation.

'What has happened? How is it that you have brought her to me in such a state as this?'

Then Macquart, with a great show of kindness, told her about 'the dear child's' expedition. He defended himself, declared that he had done all that he could to dissuade her from going to see François, and ended by calling upon Rose to confirm him, for he saw that Félicité was scanning him narrowly with her suspicious eyes. Madame Rougon, however, continued to shake her head.

'It is a very strange story!' she said; 'there is something more in it than I can understand.'

She knew Macquart, and she guessed that there must be some rascality in it all from the expression of delight which she could detect in his eyes.

'You are a strange person,' said he, pretending to get vexed in order to bring Madame Rougon's scrutiny to an end; 'you are always imagining something extraordinary. I can only tell you what I know. I love Marthe more than you do, and I have never done anything that wasn't for her good. Shall I go for the doctor? I will at once, if you like.'

Madame Rougon watched him closely. She even questioned Rose at great length, without succeeding, however, in learning anything further. After all, she seemed glad to have her daughter with her, and spoke with great bitterness of people who would leave you to die on your own doorstep without even taking the trouble to open the door. And meantime Marthe, with her head thrown back upon her pillow, was indeed dying.

XXII

It was perfectly dark in the cell at Les Tulettes. A draught of cold air awoke Mouret from the cataleptic stupor into which his violence earlier in the evening had thrown him. He remained lying against the wall in perfect stillness for a few moments, his eyes staring widely; then he began to roll his head gently on the cold stone, wailing like a child just awakened from sleep. But the current of chill damp air swept against his legs, and he rose and looked around him to see whence it came. In front of him he saw the door of his cell wide open.

'She has left the door open,' said he aloud; 'she will be expecting me. I must be off.'

He went out, and then came back and felt his clothes after the manner of a methodical man who is afraid of forgetting something, and finally he carefully closed the door behind him. He passed through the first court with an easy unconcerned gait as though he were merely taking a stroll. As he was entering the second one, he caught sight of a warder who seemed to be on the watch. He stopped and deliberated for a moment. But, the warder having disappeared, he crossed the court and reached another door, which led to the open country. He closed it behind him without any appearance of astonishment or haste.

'She is a good woman all the same,' he murmured. 'She must have heard me calling her. It must be getting late. I will go home at once for fear they should feel uneasy.'

He struck out along a path. It seemed quite natural to him to find himself among the open fields. When he had gone a hundred yards he had altogether forgotten that Les Tulettes was behind him, and imagined that he had just left a vine-grower from whom he had purchased fifty hogsheads of wine. When he reached a spot where five roads met, he recognised where he was, and began to laugh as he said to himself:

'What a goose I am! I was going up the hill towards Saint-Eutrope; it is to the left I must turn. I shall be at Plassans in a good hour and a half.'

Then he went merrily along the high-road, looking at each of the mile-stones as at an old acquaintance. He stopped for a moment before certain fields and country-houses with an air of interest. The sky was of an ashy hue, streaked with broad rosy bands that lighted up the night like dying embers. Heavy drops of rain began to fall; the wind was blowing from the east and was full of moisture.

'Hallo!' said Mouret, looking up at the sky uneasily, 'I mustn't stop loitering. The wind is in the east, and there's going to be a pretty downpour. I shall never be able to reach Plassans before it begins; and I'm not well wrapped up either.'

He gathered round his breast the thick grey woollen waistcoat which he had torn at Les Tulettes. He had a bad bruise on his jaw, to which he raised his hand without heeding the sharp pain which it caused him. The high-road was quite deserted, and he only met a cart going down a hill at a leisurely pace. The driver was dozing, and made no response to his friendly good-night. The rain did not overtake him till he reached the bridge across the Viorne. It distressed him very much, and he went to take shelter under the bridge, grumbling that it was quite impossible to go on through such weather, that nothing ruined clothes so much as rain, and that if he had known what was coming he would have brought an umbrella. He waited patiently for a long half-hour, amusing himself by listening to the streaming of the downpour; then, when it was over, he returned to the high-road, and at last reached Plassans, ever taking the greatest care to keep himself from getting splashed with mud.

It was nearly midnight, though Mouret calculated that it could scarcely yet be eight o'clock. He passed through the deserted streets, feeling quite distressed that he had kept his wife waiting such a long time.

'She won't be able to understand it,' he thought. 'The dinner will be quite cold. Ah! I shall get a nice reception from Rose.'

At last he reached the Rue Balande and stood before his own door.

'Ah!' he said, 'I have not got my latchkey.'

He did not knock at the door, however. The kitchen window was quite dark, and the other windows in the front were equally void of all sign of life. A sense of deep suspicion then took possession of the madman; with an instinct that was quite animal-like, he scented danger. He stepped back into the shadow of the neighbouring houses, and again examined the house-front; then he seemed to come to a decision, and went round into the Impasse des Chevillottes. But the little door that led into the garden was bolted. At this, impelled by sudden rage, he threw himself against it with tremendous force, and the door, rotted by damp, broke into two pieces. For a moment the violence of the shock almost stunned Mouret, and rendered him unconscious of why he had broken down the door, which he tried to mend again by joining the broken pieces.

'That's a nice thing to have done, when I might so easily have knocked,' he said with a sudden pang of regret. 'It will cost me at least thirty francs to get a new door.'

He was now in the garden. As he raised his head and saw the bedroom on the first floor brightly lighted, he came to the conclusion that his wife was going to bed. This caused him great astonishment, and he muttered that he must certainly have dropped off to sleep under the bridge while he was waiting for the rain to stop. It must be very late, he thought. The windows of the neighbouring houses, Monsieur Rastoil's as well as those of the Sub-Prefecture, were in darkness. Then he again fixed his eyes upon his own house as he caught sight of the glow of a lamp on the second floor behind Abbé Faujas's thick curtains. That glow was like a flaming eye, and seemed to scorch him. He pressed his brow with his burning hands, and his head grew dizzy, racked by some horrible recollection like a vague nightmare, in which nothing was clearly defined, but which seemed to apply to some long-standing danger to himself and his family—a danger which grew and increased in horror, and threatened to swallow up the house unless he could do something to save it.

'Marthe, Marthe, where are you?' he stammered in an undertone. 'Come and bring away the children.'

He looked about him for Marthe. He could no longer recognise the garden. It seemed to him to be larger; to be empty and grey and like a cemetery. The big box-plants had vanished, the lettuces were no longer there, the fruit-trees had disappeared. He turned round again, came back, and knelt down to see if the slugs had eaten everything up. The disappearance of the box-plants, the death of their lofty greenery, caused him an especial pang, as though some of the actual life of the house had departed. Who was it that had killed them? What villain had been there uprooting everything and tearing away even the tufts of violets which he had planted at the foot of the terrace? Indignation arose in him as he contemplated all this ruin.

'Marthe, Marthe, where are you?' he called again.

He looked for her in the little conservatory to the right of the terrace. It was littered with the dead dry corpses of the box-plants. They were piled up in bundles amidst the stumps of the fruit-trees. In one corner was Désirée's bird-cage, hanging from a nail, with the door broken off and the wire-work sadly torn. The madman stepped back, overwhelmed with fear as though he had opened the door of a vault. Stammering, his throat on fire, he went back to the terrace and paced up and down before the door and the shuttered windows. His increasing rage gave his limbs the suppleness of a wild beast's. He braced himself up and stepped along noiselessly, trying to find some opening. An air-hole into the cellar was sufficient for him. He squeezed himself together and glided inside with the nimbleness of a cat, scraping the wall with his nails as he went. At last he was in the house.

The cellar door was only latched. He made his way through the darkness of the hall, groping past the walls with his hands, and pushing the kitchen door open. Some matches were on a shelf at the left. He went straight to this shelf, and struck a light to enable him to get a lamp which stood upon the mantelpiece without breaking anything. Then he looked about him. There appeared to have been a big meal there that evening. The kitchen was in a state of festive disorder. The table was strewn with dirty plates and dishes and glasses. There was a litter of pans, still warm, on the sink and the chairs and the very floor. A coffee-pot that had been forgotten was also boiling away beside the stove, slightly tilted like a tipsy man. Mouret put it straight and then tidily arranged the pans. He smelt them, sniffed at the drops of liquor that remained in the glasses, and counted the dishes and plates with growing irritation. This was no longer his quiet orderly kitchen; it seemed as if a hotelful of food had been wasted there. All this guzzling disorder reeked of indigestion.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he again repeated as he returned into the passage, carrying the lamp as he went; 'answer me, tell me where they have shut you up. We must be off, we must be off at once.'

He searched for her in the dining-room. The two cupboards to the right and left of the stove were open. From a burst bag of grey paper on the edge of a shelf some lumps of sugar had fallen upon the floor. Higher up Mouret could see a bottle of brandy with the neck broken and plugged with a piece of rag. Then he got upon a chair to examine the cupboards. They were half empty. The jars of preserved fruits had been attacked, the jam-pots had been opened and the jam tasted, the fruit had been nibbled, the provisions of all kinds had been gnawed and fouled as though a whole army of rats had been there. Not being able to find Marthe in the closets, Mouret searched all over the room, looking behind the curtains and even underneath the furniture. Fragments of bone and pieces of broken bread lay about the floor; there were marks on the table that had been left by sticky glasses. Then he crossed the hall and went to look for Marthe in the drawing-room. But, as soon as he opened the door, he stopped short. This could not really be his own drawing-room. The bright mauve paper, the red-flowered carpet, the new easy-chairs covered with cerise damask, filled him with amazement. He was afraid to enter a room that did not belong to him, and he closed the door.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he stammered again in accents of despair.

He went back to the middle of the hall, unable to quiet the hoarse panting which was swelling in his throat. Where had he got to, that he could not recognise a single spot? Who had been transforming his house in such a way? His recollections were quite confused. He could only recall some shadows gliding along the hall; two shadows, at first poverty-stricken, soft-spoken, self-suppressing, then tipsy and disreputable-looking; two shadows that leered and sniggered. He raised his lamp, the wick of which was burning smokily, and thereupon the shadows grew bigger, lengthened upon the walls, mounted aloft beside the staircase and filled and preyed upon the whole house. Some horrid filth, some fermenting putrescence had found its way into the place and had rotted the woodwork, rusted the iron and split the walls. Then he seemed to hear the house crumbling like a ceiling from dampness, and to see it melting like a handful of salt thrown into a basin of hot water.

But up above there sounded peals of ringing laughter which made his hair stand on end. He put the lamp down and went upstairs to look for Marthe. He crept up noiselessly on his hands and knees with all the nimbleness and stealth of a wolf. When he reached the landing of the first floor, he knelt down in front of the door of the bedroom. A ray of light streamed from underneath it. Marthe must be going to bed.

'What a jolly bed this is of theirs!' Olympe was just exclaiming; 'you can quite bury yourself in it, Honoré; I am right up to my eyes in feathers.'

She laughed and stretched herself and sprang about amidst the bed-clothes.

'Ever since I've been here,' she continued, 'I've been longing to sleep in this bed. It made me almost ill wishing for it. I could never see that lath of a landlady of ours get into it without feeling a furious desire to throw her on to the floor and put myself in her place. One gets quite warm directly. It's just as though I were wrapped in cotton-wool.'

Trouche, who had not yet gone to bed, was examining the bottles on the dressing-table.

'She has got all kinds of scents,' he said.

'Well, as she isn't here, we may just as well treat ourselves to the best room!' continued Olympe. 'There's no danger of her coming back and disturbing us. I have fastened the doors up. You will be getting cold, Honoré.'

But Trouche now opened the drawers and began groping about amongst the linen.

'Put this on, it's smothered with lace,' he said, tossing a night-dress to Olympe. 'I shall wear this red handkerchief myself.'

Then, as Trouche was at last getting into bed, Olympe said to him:

'Put the grog on the night-table. We need not get up and go to the other end of the room for it. There, my dear, we are like real householders now!'

They lay down side by side, with the eider-down quilt drawn up to their chins.

'I ate a deuced lot this evening,' said Trouche after a short pause.

'And drank a lot, too!' added Olympe with a laugh. 'I feel very cosy and snug. But the tiresome part is that my mother is always interfering with us. She has been quite awful to-day. I can't take a single step about the house without her being at me. There's really no advantage in our landlady going off if mother means to play the policeman. She has quite spoilt my day's enjoyment.'

'Hasn't the Abbé some idea of going away?' asked Trouche after another short interval of silence. 'If he is made a bishop, he will be obliged to leave the house to us.'

'One can't be sure of that,' Olympe petulantly replied. 'I dare say mother means to keep it. But how jolly we should be here, all by ourselves! I would make our landlady sleep upstairs in my brother's room; I'd persuade her that it was healthier than this. Pass me the glass, Honoré.'

They both took a drink and then covered themselves up afresh.

'Ah!' said Trouche, 'I'm afraid it won't be so easy to get rid of them, but we can try, at any rate. I believe the Abbé would have changed his quarters before if he had not been afraid that the landlady would have considered herself deserted and have made a rumpus. I think I'll try to talk the landlady over. I'll tell her a lot of tales to persuade her to turn them out.'

He took another drink.

'Oh! leave the matter to me,' replied Olympe; 'I'll get mother and Ovide turned out, as they've treated us so badly.'

'Well, if you don't succeed,' said Trouche, 'I can easily concoct some scandal about the Abbé and Madame Mouret; and then he will be absolutely obliged to shift his quarters.'

Olympe sat up in bed.

'That's a splendid idea,' she said, 'that is! We must set about it to-morrow. Before a month is over, this room will be ours. I must really give you a kiss for the idea.'

They then both grew very merry, and began to plan how they would arrange the room. They would change the place of the chest of drawers, they said; and they would bring up a couple of easy-chairs from the drawing-room. However, their speech was gradually growing huskier, and at last they became silent.

'There! you're off now!' murmured Olympe, after a time. 'You're snoring with your eyes open! Well, let me come to the other side, so that, at any rate, I can finish my novel. I'm not sleepy, if you are.'

She got up and rolled him like a mere lump towards the wall, and then began to read. But, before she had finished a page, she turned her head uneasily towards the door. She fancied she could hear a strange noise on the landing. At this she cried petulantly to her husband, giving him a dig in the ribs with her elbow:

'You know very well that I don't like that sort of joke. Don't play the wolf; anyone would fancy that there was somebody at the door. Well, go on if it pleases you; you are very irritating.'

Then she angrily absorbed herself in her book again, after sucking a slice of lemon left in her glass.

With the same stealthy movements as before, Mouret now quitted the door of the bedroom, where he had remained crouching. He climbed to the second floor and knelt before Abbé Faujas's door, squeezing himself close to the key-hole. He choked down Marthe's name, that again rose in his throat, and examined with glistening eye the corners of the priest's room, to satisfy himself that nobody was shut up there. The big bare room was in deep shadow; a small lamp which stood upon the table cast just a circular patch of light upon the floor, and the Abbé himself, who was writing, seemed like a big black stain in the midst of that yellow glare. After he had scrutinised the curtains and the chest of drawers, Mouret's gaze fell upon the iron bedstead, upon which lay the priest's hat, looking like the locks of a woman's hair. There was no doubt that Marthe was there, thought Mouret. Hadn't the Trouches said that she was to have that room? But as he continued gazing he saw that the bed was undisturbed, and looked, with its cold, white coverings, like a tombstone. His eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom. However, Abbé Faujas appeared to hear some sound, for he glanced at the door. When the maniac saw the priest's calm face his eyes reddened, a slight foam appeared at the corner of his lips, and it was with difficulty that he suppressed a shout. At last he went away on his hands and knees again, down the stairs and along the passages, still repeating in low tones:

'Marthe! Marthe!'

He searched for her through the whole house; in Rose's room, which he found empty; in the Trouches' apartments, which were filled with the spoils of the other rooms; in the children's old rooms, where he burst into tears as his hands came across a pair of worn-out boots which had belonged to Désirée. He went up and down the stairs, clinging on to the banisters, and gliding along the walls, stealthily exploring every apartment with the extraordinary dexterity of a scheming maniac. Soon there was not a single corner of the place from the cellar to the attic which he had not investigated. Marthe was nowhere in the house; nor were the children there, nor Rose. The house was empty; the house might crumble to pieces.

Mouret sat down upon the stairs. He choked down the panting which, in spite of himself, continued to distend his throat. With his back against the banisters, and his eyes wide open in the darkness, he sat waiting, absorbed in a scheme which he was patiently thinking out. His senses became so acute that he could hear the slightest sounds that arose in the house. Down below him snored Trouche, while Olympe turned over the pages of her book with a slight rubbing of her fingers against the paper. On the second floor Abbé Faujas's pen made a scratching sound like the crawling of an insect, while, in the adjoining room, Madame Faujas's heavy breathing seemed like an accompaniment to that shrill music. Mouret sat for an hour with his ears sharply strained. Olympe was the first of the wakeful ones to succumb to sleep. He could hear her novel fall upon the floor. Then Abbé Faujas laid down his pen and undressed himself, quietly gliding about his room in his slippers. He slipped off his clothes in silence, and did not even make the bed creak as he got into it. Ah! the house had gone to rest at last. But the madman could tell from the sound of the Abbé's breathing that he was yet awake. Gradually that breathing grew fuller, and at last the whole house slept.

Mouret waited on for another half-hour. He still listened with strained ears, as though he could hear the four sleepers descending into deeper and deeper slumber. The house lay wrapped in darkness and unconsciousness. Then the maniac rose up and slowly made his way into the passage.

'Marthe isn't here any longer; the house isn't here; nothing is here,' he murmured.

He opened the door that led into the garden, and went down to the little conservatory. When he got there he methodically removed the big dry box-plants, and carried them upstairs in enormous armfuls, piling them in front of the doors of the Trouches and the Faujases. He felt, too, a craving for a bright light, and he went into the kitchen and lighted all the lamps, which he placed upon the tables in the various rooms and on the landings, and along the passages. Then he brought up the rest of the box-plants. They were soon piled higher than the doors. As he was making his last journey with them he raised his eyes and noticed the windows. Next he went out into the garden again, took the trunks of the fruit-trees and stacked them up under the windows, skilfully arranging for little currents of air which should make them blaze freely. The stack seemed to him but a small one, however.

'There is nothing left,' he murmured: 'there must be nothing left.'

Then, as a thought struck him, he went down into the cellar, and recommenced his journeying backwards and forwards. He was now carrying up the supply of fuel for the winter, the coal, the vine-branches, and the wood. The pile under the windows gradually grew bigger. As he carefully arranged each bundle of vine-branches, he was thrilled with livelier satisfaction. He next proceeded to distribute the fuel through the rooms on the ground-floor, and left a heap of it in the entrance-hall, and another heap in the kitchen. Then he piled the furniture atop of the different heaps. An hour sufficed him to get his work finished. He had taken his boots off, and had glided about all over the house, with heavily laden arms, so dexterously that he had not let a single piece of wood fall roughly to the floor. He seemed endowed with new life, with extraordinary nimbleness of motion. As far as this one firmly fixed idea of his went, he was perfectly in possession of his senses.

When all was ready, he lingered for a moment to enjoy the sight of his work. He went from pile to pile, took pleasure in viewing the square-set pyres, and gently rubbed his hands together with an appearance of extreme satisfaction. As a few fragments of coal had fallen on the stairs, he ran off to get a brush, and carefully swept the black dust from the steps. Then he completed his inspection with the careful precision of a man who means to do things as they ought to be done. He gradually became quite excited with satisfaction, and dropped on to his hands and knees again, and began to hop about, panting more heavily in his savage joy.

At last he took a vine-branch and set fire to the heaps. First of all he lighted the pile on the terrace underneath the windows. Then he leapt back into the house and set fire to the heaps in the drawing-room and dining-room, and then to those in the kitchen and the hall. Next he sprang up the stairs and flung the remains of his blazing brand upon the piles that lay against the doors of the Trouches and Faujases. An ever-increasing rage was thrilling him, and the lurid blaze of the fire brought his madness to a climax. He twice came down the stairs with terrific leaps, bounded about through the thick smoke, fanning the flames with his breath, and casting handfuls of coal upon them. At the sight of the flames, already mounting to the ceilings of the rooms, he sat down every now and then and laughed and clapped his hands with all his strength.

The house was now roaring like an over-crammed stove. The flames burst out at all points, at once, with a violence that split the floors. But the maniac made his way upstairs again through the sheets of fire, singeing his hair and blackening his clothes as he went. And he posted himself on the second-floor, crouching down on his hands and knees with his growling, beast-like head thrown forward. He was keeping guard over the landing, and his eyes never quitted the priest's door.

'Ovide! Ovide!' shrieked a panic-stricken voice.

Madame Faujas's door at the end of the landing was suddenly opened and the flames swept into her room with the roar of a tempest. The old woman appeared in the midst of the fire. Stretching out her arms, she hurled aside the blazing brands and sprang on to the landing, pulling and pushing away with her hands and feet the burning heap that blocked up her son's door, and calling all the while to the priest despairingly. The maniac crouched still lower down, his eyes gleaming while he continued to growl.

'Wait for me! Don't get out of the window!' cried Madame Faujas, striking at her son's door.

She threw her weight against it, and the charred door yielded easily. She reappeared holding her son in her arms. He had taken time to put on his cassock, and was choking, half suffocated by the smoke.

'I am going to carry you, Ovide,' she cried, with energetic determination; 'Hold well on to my shoulders, and clutch hold of my hair if you feel you are slipping. Don't trouble, I'll carry you through it all.'

She hoisted him upon her shoulders as though he were a child, and this sublime mother, this old peasant woman, carrying her devotion to death itself, did not so much as totter beneath the crushing weight of that big swooning, unresisting body. She extinguished the burning brands with her naked feet and made a free passage through the flames by brushing them aside with her open hand so that her son might not even be touched by them. But just as she was about to go downstairs, the maniac, whom she had not observed, sprang upon the Abbé Faujas and tore him from off her shoulders. His muttered growl turned into a wild shriek, while he writhed in a fit at the head of the stairs. He belaboured the priest, tore him with his nails and strangled him.

'Marthe! Marthe!' he bellowed.

Then he rolled down the blazing stairs, still with the priest in his grasp; while Madame Faujas, who had driven her teeth into his throat, drained his blood. The Trouches perished in their drunken stupor without a groan; and the house, gutted and undermined, collapsed in the midst of a cloud of sparks.