‘The accursed one!--Satan carries him on!’ shrieked Brother Archangias, as he hurled his last stone. ‘An old scoundrel, that the least touch ought to upset! But he is baked in hell’s fire. I smelt his claws.’
The Brother stamped with impotent rage on the scattered flints. Then he suddenly attacked Abbé Mouret. ‘It was all your fault,’ he cried; ‘you ought to have helped me, and, between us, we could have strangled him.’
Meantime, at the other end of the village, the uproar in the Bambousses’ house had become greater than ever. The rhythmic tapping of glasses on a table could be distinctly heard. The priest resumed his walk without raising his head, making his way towards the flood of bright light that streamed out of the window like the flare of a fire of vine-cuttings. The Brother followed him gloomily; his cassock soiled with dust, and one of his cheeks bleeding from a stone-cut. And, after a short interval of silence, he asked, in his harsh voice: ‘Shall you go?’
Then as Abbé Mouret did not answer, he went on: ‘Take care! You are lapsing into sin again. It was sufficient for that man to pass by to send a thrill through your whole body. I saw you by the light of the moon looking as pale as a girl. Take care! take care! Do you hear me? Another time God will not pardon you--you will sink into the lowest abyss! Ah! wretched piece of clay that you are, filth is mastering you!’
Thereupon, the priest at last raised his head. Big tears were streaming from his eyes, and it was in gentle heartbroken accents that he spoke: ‘Why do you speak to me like that?--You are always with me, and you know my ceaseless struggles. Do not doubt me, leave me strength to master myself.’
Those simple words, bathed with silent tears, fell on the night air with such an expression of superhuman suffering, that even Brother Archangias, in spite of all his harshness, felt touched. He made no reply, but shook his dusty cassock, and wiped his bleeding cheek. When they reached the Bambousses’ house, he refused to go inside. He seated himself, a few yards away, on the body of an overturned cart, where he waited for the Abbé with dog-like patience.
‘Ah! here is Monsieur le Curé!’ cried all the company of Bambousses and Brichets as Serge entered.