He felt this cursed tenderness, even in their docility, in the low tones of their voices when speaking to him, in their lowered eyes, and in their resigned tears when he reproved them roughly.  And he would shake his cassock on leaving the convent doors, and walk off, lengthening his stride as though flying from danger.

He had a niece who lived with her mother in a little house near him.  He was bent upon making a sister of charity of her.

She was a pretty, brainless madcap.  When the abbe preached she laughed, and when he was angry with her she would give him a hug, drawing him to her heart, while he sought unconsciously to release himself from this embrace which nevertheless filled him with a sweet pleasure, awakening in his depths the sensation of paternity which slumbers in every man.

Often, when walking by her side, along the country road, he would speak to her of God, of his God.  She never listened to him, but looked about her at the sky, the grass and flowers, and one could see the joy of life sparkling in her eyes.  Sometimes she would dart forward to catch some flying creature, crying out as she brought it back:  “Look, uncle, how pretty it is!  I want to hug it!” And this desire to “hug” flies or lilac blossoms disquieted, angered, and roused the priest, who saw, even in this, the ineradicable tenderness that is always budding in women’s hearts.

Then there came a day when the sexton’s wife, who kept house for Abbe Marignan, told him, with caution, that his niece had a lover.

Almost suffocated by the fearful emotion this news roused in him, he stood there, his face covered with soap, for he was in the act of shaving.

When he had sufficiently recovered to think and speak he cried:  “It is not true; you lie, Melanie!”

But the peasant woman put her hand on her heart, saying:  “May our Lord judge me if I lie, Monsieur le Cure!  I tell you, she goes there every night when your sister has gone to bed.  They meet by the river side; you have only to go there and see, between ten o’clock and midnight.”

He ceased scraping his chin, and began to walk up and down impetuously, as he always did when he was in deep thought.  When he began shaving again he cut himself three times from his nose to his ear.

All day long he was silent, full of anger and indignation.  To his priestly hatred of this invincible love was added the exasperation of her spiritual father, of her guardian and pastor, deceived and tricked by a child, and the selfish emotion shown by parents when their daughter announces that she has chosen a husband without them, and in spite of them.

After dinner he tried to read a little, but could not, growing more and, more angry.  When ten o’clock struck he seized his cane, a formidable oak stick, which he was accustomed to carry in his nocturnal walks when visiting the sick.  And he smiled at the enormous club which he twirled in a threatening manner in his strong, country fist.  Then he raised it suddenly and, gritting his teeth, brought it down on a chair, the broken back of which fell over on the floor.