Seek no more, for there is no more; the worms which consume him to his gums have already consumed his brain, and his heart is but gangrened.  Disturb not this corpse, it is only putrefaction.

The poet has said: 

  “Evil to him who has permitted lewdness
  Beneath his breast its foremost nail to delve! 
  The pure man’s heart is like a goblet deep: 
  Whe the first water poured therin is foul,
  The sea itself could not wash out the spot,
  So deep the chasm where the stain doth lie.”

Marcel had not reached that point, but he felt that he was on a rapid descent, and made these tardy reflections to himself: 

“Shall I ever be able to see the light of day?  Shall I ever dare to raise my eyes after this filthy crime?  Oh Heaven, Heaven, overwhelm me.  Avenging thunderbolt of omnipotent God, reduce me to ashes, restore me again to the nothingness, from which I ought never to have come forth.”

But Heaven did not overwhelm him that day, nor was there the slightest rumbling of thunder.  Nature continued her work peacefully, just as if no minister of God had sinned.  The sun, a glorious sun of Spring, came and danced on his window, and he heard as usual the happy cries of the pillaging sparrows as they fluttered in his garden.

There was a movement by his side, and he felt, close to his flesh, the burning flesh of Veronica; she was awake and looking at him with a smile.  She felt no remorse; she was proud and happy, and her eyes burning with pleasure and want of sleep were fixed on her new lover with restless curiosity.

[PLATE IV:  MATER SAEVA CUPIDINUM. ...he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust....  And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.]

[Illustration]

Doubtless she was saying to herself:  “Is it really possible?  Am I then in bed with this handsome priest?  Is my dream then realised?”

And to assure herself that she was not dreaming, that she was really in the Cure of Althausen’s bed, she spoke to him in mincing tones: 

—­You say nothing, my handsome master.  You seem to be dejected.  What! you are not tired out already?

And she put out her hand to give him a caress.  But he sprang out of bed, surfeited with disgust.

—­Ah, true, she said, happiness makes us forgetful.  I was forgetting your Mass.

And she rose also, and ran off to her room, laughing like a madcap, and carrying her dress and petticoats under her arm.

LV.

IN THE FOOT-PATH.

  “’Tis the comer blest where God’s creatures dwell,
  The wild birds’ haunt and the dragon-fly’s home,
  Where the queen-bee flies when she leaves her cell,
  Where Spring in the verdant glades doth roam.”

  CAMILLE DELTHIL (Les Rustiques).