The old priest continued his walk, musing over all this; then he thought, too—­the greatest saints have their little weaknesses—­he thought, too, of the beloved habits of thirty years thus rudely interrupted.  Every Thursday and every Sunday he had dined at the castle.  How he had been petted, coaxed, indulged!  Little Camille—­she was eight years old—­would come and sit on his knee and say to him: 

“You know, Monsieur le Cure, it is in your church that I mean to be married, and grandmamma will send such heaps of flowers to fill, quite fill the church—­more than for the month of Mary.  It will be like a large garden—­all white, all white, all white!”

The month of Mary!  It was then the month of Mary.  Formerly, at this season, the altar disappeared under the flowers brought from the conservatories of Longueval.  None this year were on the altar, except a few bouquets of lily-of-the-valley and white lilac in gilded china vases.  Formerly, every Sunday at high mass, and every evening during the month of Mary, Mademoiselle Hebert, the reader to Madame de Longueval, played the little harmonium given by the Marquise.  Now the poor harmonium, reduced to silence, no longer accompanied the voices of the choir or the children’s hymns.  Mademoiselle Marbeau, the postmistress, would, with all her heart, have taken the place of Mademoiselle Hebert, but she dared not, though she was a little musical!  She was afraid of being remarked as of the clerical party, and denounced by the Mayor, who was a Freethinker.  That might have been injurious to her interests, and prevented her promotion.

He had nearly reached the end of the wall of the park—­that park of which every corner was known to the old priest.  The road now followed the banks of the Lizotte, and on the other side of the little stream stretched the fields belonging to the two farms; then, still farther off, rose the dark woods of La Mionne.

Divided!  The domain was going to be divided!  The heart of the poor priest was rent by this bitter thought.  All that for thirty years had been inseparable, indivisible to him.  It was a little his own, his very own, his estate, this great property.  He felt at home on the lands of Longueval.  It had happened more than once that he had stopped complacently before an immense cornfield, plucked an ear, removed the husk, and said to himself: 

“Come! the grain is fine, firm, and sound.  This year we shall have a good harvest!”

And with a joyous heart he would continue his way through his fields, his meadows, his pastures; in short, by every chord of his heart, by every tie of his life, by all his habits, his memories, he clung to this domain whose last hour had come.