Standing in the middle of the room, with both windows open, he remained shivering, seized with a fright which made him hide his face in his hands.  So this was the ending of the whole day; this evocation of a fair girl, with a somewhat long face and eyes of blue.  And the whole day came in through the open windows.  In the distance—­the glow of those red lands, the ardent passion of the big rocks, of the olive-trees springing up amid the stones, of the vines twisting their arms by the roadside.  Nearer—­the steam of human sweat borne in upon the air from Les Artaud, the musty odour of the cemetery, the fragrance of incense from the church, tainted by the scent of greasy-haired wenches.  And there was also the steaming muck-heap, the fumes of the poultry-yard, the oppressing ferment of animal germs.  And all these vapours poured in at once, in one asphyxiating gust, so offensive, so violent, as to choke him.  He tried to close his senses, to subdue and annihilate them.  But Albine reappeared before him like a tall flower that had sprung and grown beautiful in that soil.  She was the natural blossom of that corruption, delicate in the sunshine, her white shoulders expanding in youthfulness, her whole being so fraught with the gladness of life, that she leaped from her stem and darted upon his mouth, scenting him with her long ripple of laughter.

A cry burst from the priest.  He had felt a burning touch upon his lips.  A stream as of fire coursed through his veins.  And then, in search of refuge, he threw himself on his knees before the statuette of the Immaculate Conception, exclaiming, with folded hands: 

‘Holy Virgin of Virgins, pray for me!’

XVII

The Immaculate Conception, set on the walnut chest of drawers, was smiling softly, with her slender lips, marked by a dash of carmine.  Her form was small and wholly white.  Her long white veil, falling from head to foot, had but an imperceptible thread of gold around its edge.  Her gown, draped in long straight folds over a sexless figure, was fastened around her flexible neck.  Not a single lock of her chestnut hair peeped forth.  Her countenance was rosy, with clear eyes upturned to heaven:  her hands were clasped—­rosy, childlike hands, whose finger-tips appeared beneath the folds of her veil, above the azure scarf which seemed to girdle her waist with two streaming ends of the firmament.  Of all her womanly charms not one was bared, except her feet, adorable feet which trod the mystical eglantine.  And from those nude feet sprang golden roses, like the natural efflorescence of her twofold purity of flesh.

‘Virgin most faithful, pray for me,’ the priest despairingly pleaded.