He points to a chair. She sits down and dares not say a word. Where shall she begin?
He urges her.
"Well, my child?"
He closes his eyes, that he may not embarra.s.s her by his glance, which he knows to be searching. He has left his spectacles up-stairs on his great book. He closes his eyes; and with compressed lips, presses his jaws against each other to a sort of rhythm, so that you can see his temples bulge out and subside like a fish"s gills. It is a nervous affection. His hands are folded on his waist; he clasps his fingers and plays at making them revolve about one another, mechanically; but he is keenly attentive. Monsieur le cure loves the souls of his fellow-men. He knows that they suffer, that life is infinite, and that they veer about and call to one another in the boundless expanse of s.p.a.ce and time, like birds in a storm. He is reflecting. He is a kind-hearted priest. He is imbued with the spirit of the Gospel. He is indulgent. Does he not know that some great saints have been great sinners? He desires to be kind. He knows how to be.
What can be the matter?
At last, Livette speaks. She tells him everything; the gipsy"s first appearance, her refusal to give her the oil she asked for insolently, with jeering remarks about extreme unction; then of the ominous spell she cast upon her, realized even now perhaps; the change in her Renaud"s character, his coldness, his flight; and then, that very morning, the scene of the snakes; how she had been attracted--partly by curiosity, no doubt, but also by her conviction that she should hear something of Renaud. And how she gave her hand to the gipsy to have her fortune told! That, she had done against her inclination! She knew that it was wrong. Who would have dared say a moment before that she would commit such a sin? But she was afraid of seeming cowardly, not because of what the world would say, but because of _her_, the gitana, in whose presence she deemed it her duty to display pride and courage. She felt that she was very hostile to her. She was afraid of her, and yet, in her despite, she would defy her. She was the stronger of the two.--At last, she arrives at her most shocking avowal--she is jealous. A terrible thought has come into her mind; is it possible that Renaud could----? But no. Did he not, to save her from Rampal, risk his life by leaping down from a first-floor window the whole height of the house? To be sure, Rampal had stolen a horse from Renaud, and Renaud had been looking for him for a long time----
Livette is undone. She has glanced at Monsieur le cure, who, before replying, is listening to his own thoughts, in order not to be diverted from the matter in hand. He is still playing with his clasped fingers, making them revolve about one another.
Around them the swans, the pelican, the red flamingo, the petrel, the ibis, look on with their eyes of gla.s.s imbedded in those heads that have lived! There they stand, those phantom birds, with wings outspread and one claw put forward, exactly similar in shape, color, and plumage to the birds that are soaring above the Nile and the Ganges, beyond seas, at this moment, and no less like other birds that lived six thousand years ago.
The reptile on the ceiling, laughing down at them with his numerous long, sharp teeth, does, in very truth, resemble some one a little--but whom?
Livette, as she puts the question to herself, suddenly comes to the conclusion that she is insane, utterly insane, to have had such an idea! She smiles at it herself. And she seems to _feel_ her smile. She does feel it. She fancies she can see it!
And at the moment she is conscious of a sensation--and a painful sensation it is--of being there, in that same room, surrounded by those creatures and in the presence of a priest--_for the second time in her life_!
Yes, all her present surroundings _she has seen before_--this that is happening to her _has happened before_. But the first time was a long while ago, oh! such a long while! The great reptile on the ceiling remembers, perhaps. That is why it laughs.--But she has forgotten _all about it_. Why is she here? She no longer knows even that. She was a fool to come here!
This Camargue country, you see, is the home of malignant fever. It rises from the swamps in the sunshine, with fetid odors, exhalations that disturb the brain and the action of the blood. From the dead vegetation, from the dead water, bad dreams and fever rise like vapor.
There is an _evil atmosphere_ there; and the _evil eye_ too, thinks Livette.
But who can say of what the mummy lying in Zinzara"s wagon is thinking all this time--the mummy of which Livette knows nothing, and which is of the same age as Livette, plus six thousand years? Like Livette, it has wavy hair, very long, but somewhat faded by time. It was once as black as jet like that of the women of Arles. The mummy is of the same age as Livette, plus six thousand years! The gipsies believe that so long as the dead body retains its shape, something of its spirit continues to dwell within it. Zinzara affirms that this mummy, which she procured in Egypt, speaks to her sometimes and tells her things.
Ah! if we should undertake to go to the bottom of the simplest facts, how they would puzzle us! Our Saracen mares of Camargue, sisters of Al-Borak, Mahomet"s white mare, and the bulls of the Vaccares, brothers of Apis, sometimes absent-mindedly take into their mouths, in the heart of the swamps, the long, gently-waving stalk of the mysterious lotus that lives three lives at once, in the mud with its root, in the water with its stalk, in the blue air with its flower.
Not without reason do the zingari, descendants of coudra, flock to the crypt of the three-storied church, there to adore the shrine of Sara, Pilate"s wife--the Egyptian woman.
Monsieur le cure, who is a profound student, is revolving all these things confusedly in his mind--with no very clear understanding of them himself--and pondering them.
Ah! if he could, how quickly he would sweep the island clear of the gipsy vermin! But he cannot. Tradition forbids. Sara in the crypt is their saint. There is a mixture of pagan and Christian in the affair, painful to contemplate certainly, but with which he has no right to interfere. The essential thing is that the Christian shall triumph over the pagan, that G.o.d shall prevail against Satan--for certain it is, whatever the gipsies may say, that they are not descended from the wise king who was a negro and who brought the myrrh to Jesus.
How to protect Livette?
"Do not remain alone with your thoughts, my child. Carry your rosary always with you, and tell your beads often, not mechanically but with your whole heart. Confide your sorrows to your good grandmother, whose Christian sentiments I well know. That simple-minded old woman has a great heart.
"Avoid the town. Tell your father--who has always done as you wished, nor has he had reason to repent of so doing--to have an eye to his house, and never to leave you alone. Avoid Renaud for some little time; at all events, do not seek him. He must have an opportunity to read his own heart clearly; we must not--by trying to bring him back to you--help him to mistake his affection for you, which is not, perhaps, so deep as it should be. I will speak to him myself when I have an opportunity. The day after to-morrow is the day of the fete at Saintes-Maries. Do not fail to be present; bring us that day a heart filled with faith and with the desire to do what is right. You will meet many unfortunates there. Turn your eyes toward those who are more wretched than yourself, and by comparing their lot with yours, you will see how fortunate you are, who have youth and good health.
"The health of the soul depends upon ourselves. You will save yours.
"You will be the one, on the day of the fete, to sing the solo of invocation just as the reliquaries descend--I ask you to do it, and, if need be, I will lay the duty upon you as a penance.
"She who thinks on G.o.d and the holy women forgets all earthly ills.
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you. They who fear shall be rea.s.sured. Blessed are they who weep, for they shall be comforted----"
Monsieur le cure broke off abruptly. He realized, the kind-hearted man, that his discourse was, by force of habit, degenerating into a commonplace sermon, and, rising from his chair, he walked quickly toward the door, bestowing an affectionate tap on the trembling maiden"s cheek with two fingers of the hand that held his snuff-box, saying to her in a fatherly tone:
"Go, little one; you have a good heart. The wicked can do naught against us. I will pray for you at Ma.s.s. Everybody in the country loves you. Have no fear, my daughter."
Livette took her leave. The cure, left to himself, sighed. He saw that Livette was confronted by an ill-defined, strange, diabolical peril, of the kind that cannot be turned aside, that G.o.d alone can avert.
"It is fate," he muttered, employing unthinkingly a word of twofold signification.[8] "It is fate," he repeated. "Life is a sea of troubles, and G.o.d is mysterious."
XVI
ON THE ROOF OF THE CHURCH
Renaud, after his victory, dismounted for a moment, and, sitting down beside Bernard, on the sh.o.r.e of the Vaccares, where the cattle and mares of his drove had resumed their att.i.tude of repose, he set about reviewing recent events in his mind.
To overturn his projected marriage, to ruin his future for the sake of the gipsy, for the sake of the unworthy pa.s.sion that was at work within him--most a.s.suredly Renaud had no such idea.
When the first fury of his desire was worked off by wild leaps and bounds, after the fashion of his horse Prince, he found a way to be reconciled with himself. His rugged honesty was impaired. He would try to satisfy his pa.s.sion for the accursed gipsy when occasion offered; and that, he felt very sure, would do Livette no wrong!
Like a clever casuist, he combated his own instinctively honest impulses with arguments which he invented with much labor, and then complacently refined and elaborated, playing tricks upon himself.
Now that he could boast of having fought Rampal on Livette"s account,--omitting in his thoughts the other two reasons he had had for fighting, namely, his determination to recover the stolen horse and his desire to display his strength and courage to Zinzara,--he could return to the Chateau d"Avignon with his head in the air, and meet his fiancee again as if nothing had happened.
Why, after all, should he be ashamed? Had he not established a fresh claim to Livette"s grat.i.tude and the esteem of her relatives?
He would take poor Blanchet back to her,--Blanchet, of whom she was so fond,--and he could tell old Audiffret that the stolen horse was once more browsing, with the drove, on the reed-gra.s.s of the estate.
No: after mature reflection, he was sure that there was nothing that need make him ashamed.
Indeed, when one is not married, is he required to be so absolutely faithful? And what is a man to do, when things fall in his way?
The eyes see before one has had an opportunity to prevent them! Even after marriage, can one refrain from being moved by the sight of youthful loveliness? Can one control the movements of his blood?
Desire is not a sin, and so long as Livette knew nothing, so long as she did not suffer through him, what reason had he, in all frankness, for self-reproach?
Nothing had come about by his procurement. He was still determined not to speak to the gipsy woman--but he would be a great fool not to put out his hand if the golden peach should offer itself to him voluntarily.
And the salt breeze that blew across the rushes, arousing the pa.s.sions of the wild cattle, rushed through his veins, causing the blood to rise in sudden flushes to his cheeks.
Of what avail against that breeze, which the heifers inhale with delight, is the "I will not" of a young man who feels his youth? The good Lord forgives it in others. "I have been worrying a great deal over a very small matter of late," thought Renaud. And he sagely concluded that he would return at once to Saintes-Maries, to set Livette"s mind at rest, as it was his duty to do first of all, without avoiding or seeking out the other.
Meanwhile, what had Livette been doing?
When she left the cure, almost at the same moment that Renaud was unhorsing Rampal, Livette had no wish but to take her horse and ride home at once, without even waiting for dinner.
She felt that she was lost in such close proximity to the ill-omened gipsies.