—­Gone away without hope of coming back, said the Captain, that is discouraging!  It surprises you then, little girl, that the handsome priest has disappeared with neither drum nor trumpet, and with no touching farewells to his flock.  For my part, I am not surprised at it, and I wager that he has committed some act of blackguardism, and has absconded.

—­Oh, father!

—­He has not absconded, Marianne said quickly; he went away on Friday very quietly with another Cure.

—­Let him go to the devil!

Suzanne had difficulty in hiding her palor and her distress.  She pretended to have a head-ache, left the table, ran to her room and burst into tears.  Why this decisive departure?  Why had she not received a single warning from Marcel?  No doubt, he had done it for the best, but that best was incomprehensible to her; her heart was broken, and her self-love received a cruel wound.

Soon the news arrived.  The new Cure announced Marcel’s change in the sermon, and said farewell for him to his parishioners.  Everybody was in consternation.  He might have announced the seven plagues of Egypt.

For her part Marianne received a mysterious packet which was intended for Suzanne.  The priest, in cautious terms informed her of his change, and said it was necessary to wait.  Wait for what?  Suzanne waited.

But one morning she awoke full of dismay; she had felt something give a start in her entrails.  She wrote a long letter to Marcel, and Marcel answered:  Wait.

Wait for what?  She waited again.

XCV.

THE CURE OF ST. MARIE.

  “The white ground and the gloomy sky
  Blended their heads sepulchral;
  The rough north winds of winter
  Breathed to the heart despair.”

  CAMILLE DELTHIL (Poemes parisiens).

Weeks and then months passed away.  One rainy winter’s evening a young woman, in deep mourning, with her face covered with a thick veil, stopped at the Cure of St. Marie’s door.

She had hesitated for a long time; several times she had passed in front of the tall gray house, casting a furtive glance on the lofty windows, slackening her walk and seeming to say:  “Ought I to go in?  Yes, I must go in.”  But each time she pursued her way again.  At length, as the rain kept falling ever colder as night came on, she controlled herself by en effort, slowly retraced her step and rang gently.

The door was opened at once, and an old woman with a face the colour of leather, invited her in mysteriously, “Whom shall I announce?” she asked.—­“Do not announce me.  I am expected.”

The old woman smiled discreetly and showed her into a large parlour, the door of which she closed upon her.

It was a bare wainscoted room, gloomy, lighted by two candle-ends.

A prie-Dieu, a table, some straw chairs, a few rows of old books on shelves painted black, composed all the furniture.