’You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Cure, if you were so happy there—­I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better than I do.’

It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her suspicions.  The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance.  At this La Teuse’s kindly heart was filled with regret.

‘Ah!’ she murmured, ’it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal.  I told him what it would be.  But those clever men cling so obstinately to their own ideas.  Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging in your body afterwards—­It made me so angry that I would never speak of it to any one.  Yes, Monsieur le Cure, you have me to thank that nobody knew where you were; I was so angry about it.  I thought it abominable!  When Abbe Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of stories.  I said you had gone to Switzerland.  I don’t even know where Switzerland is.—­Well! well!  I surely don’t want to say anything to pain you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble.  Very finely they’ve cured you indeed!  It would have been very much better if they had left you with me.  I shouldn’t have thought of trying to turn your head.’

Abbe Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt her.  La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from him, in order if possible to catch his eye.  And she went on again in her motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her.

’You would never let me tell you about Abbe Caffin.  As soon as I began to speak of him, you always made me stop.  Well, well; Abbe Caffin had had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu.  And yet he was a very holy man, with an irreproachable character.  But, you see, he was a man of very delicate taste, and liked soft pretty things.  Well, there was a young party who was always prowling round him, the daughter of a miller, whom her parents had sent to a boarding-school.  Well, to put it shortly, what was likely to happen did happen.  When the story got about, all the neighbourhood was very indignant with the Abbe.  But he managed to escape to Rouen, and poured out his grief to the Archbishop there.  Then he was sent here.  The poor man was punished quite enough by being made to live in this hole of a place.  I heard of the girl afterwards.  She had married a cattle-dealer, and was very happy.’

La Teuse, delighted at having been allowed to tell her story, interpreted the priest’s silence as an encouragement to continue her gossiping.  So she drew a little nearer to him and said: 

’He was very friendly with me, was good Monsieur Caffin, and often spoke to me of his sin.  It won’t keep him out of heaven, I’m sure.  He can rest quite peacefully out there under the turf, for he never harmed any one.  For my part, I can’t understand why people should get so angry with a priest when such a thing unhappily befalls him.  Of course it’s wrong, and likely to anger God; but then one can confess and repent, and get absolution.  Isn’t it so, your reverence, that when one truly repents, one is saved in spite of one’s sins?’