’By-and-by.  The little one has not been well for a long time.  I did not notice anything myself, but she told me; and now I am on my way to tell your uncle Pascal, at Plassans.  I like the night for walking; it is quiet, and, as a rule, one isn’t delayed by meeting people. . . .  Yes, yes, the little one is quite ailing.’

The priest could not find a word to say.  He staggered, and his head sank.

‘It made her so happy to look after you,’ continued the old man.  ’While I smoked my pipe I used to hear her laugh.  That was quite sufficient for me.  Girls are like the hawthorns; when they break out into blossom, they do all they can.  Well, now, you will come, if your heart prompts you to it.  I am sure it would please the little one.  Good night, Cure.’

He got up slowly, keeping a firm grasp of the Brother’s wrists, to guard against any treacherous attack.  Then he proceeded on his way, with swinging strides, without once turning his head.  The Brother silently crept to the heap of stones, and waited till the old man was some distance off.  Then, with both hands, and with mad violence, he again began flinging stones, but they fell harmlessly upon the dusty road.  Jeanbernat did not condescend to notice them, but went his way, upright like a tree, through the clear night.

‘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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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.’