So Cesaire Houlbieque went off, his whip under his arm, brooding over his own thoughts and lifting up one after the other his heavy wooden shoes daubed with clay.  Certainly he desired to marry Celeste Levesque.  He wanted her with her child because she was the wife he wanted.  He could not say why, but he knew it, he was sure of it.  He had only to look at her to be convinced of it, to feel quite queer, quite stirred up, simply stupid with happiness.  He even found a pleasure in kissing the little boy, Victor’s little boy, because he belonged to her.

And he gazed, without hate, at the distant outline of the man who was driving his plough along the horizon.

But old Amable did not want this marriage.  He opposed it with the obstinacy of a deaf man, with a violent obstinacy.

Cesaire in vain shouted in his ear, in that ear which still heard a few sounds: 

“I’ll take good care of you, daddy.  I tell you she’s a good girl and strong, too, and also thrifty.”

The old man repeated: 

“As long as I live I won’t see her your wife.”

And nothing could get the better of him, nothing could make him waver.  One hope only was left to Cesaire.  Old Amable was afraid of the cure through the apprehension of death which he felt drawing nigh; he had not much fear of God, nor of the Devil, nor of Hell, nor of Purgatory, of which he had no conception, but he dreaded the priest, who represented to him burial, as one might fear the doctors through horror of diseases.  For the last tight days Celeste, who knew this weakness of the old man, had been urging Cesaire to go and find the cure, but Cesaire always hesitated, because he had not much liking for the black robe, which represented to him hands always stretched out for collections or for blessed bread.

However, he had made up his mind, and he proceeded toward the presbytery, thinking in what manner he would speak about his case.

The Abbe Raffin, a lively little priest, thin and never shaved, was awaiting his dinner-hour while warming his feet at his kitchen fire.

As soon as he saw the peasant entering he asked, merely turning his head: 

“Well, Cesaire, what do you want?”

“I’d like to have a talk with you, M. le Cure.”

The man remained standing, intimidated, holding his cap in one hand and his whip in the other.

“Well, talk.”

Cesaire looked at the housekeeper, an old woman who dragged her feet while putting on the cover for her master’s dinner at the corner of the table in front of the window.

He stammered: 

“’Tis—­’tis a sort of confession.”

Thereupon the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant.  He saw his confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he gave orders to the housekeeper in these words: 

“Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Cesaire.”