He lived in his vicarage, which was only a larger laborer’s cottage, separated from the church by the churchyard.  When the Cure mounted the ladder to train his pear and peach trees, over the top of the wall he perceived the graves over which he had said the last prayer, and cast the first spadeful of earth.  Then, while continuing his work, he said in his heart a little prayer for the repose of those among his dead whose fate disturbed him, and who might be still detained in purgatory.  He had a tranquil and childlike faith.

But among these graves there was one which, oftener than all the others, received his visits and his prayers.  It was the tomb of his old friend Dr. Reynaud, who had died in his arms in 1871, and under what circumstances!  The doctor had been like Bernard; he never went to mass or to confession; but he was so good, so charitable, so compassionate to the suffering.  This was the cause of the Cure’s great anxiety, of his great solicitude.  His friend Reynaud, where was he?  Where was he?  Then he called to mind the noble life of the country doctor, all made up of courage and self-denial; he recalled his death, above all his death, and said to himself: 

“In paradise; he can be nowhere but in paradise.  The good God may have sent him to purgatory just for form’s sake—­but he must have delivered him after five minutes.”

All this passed through the mind of the old man, as he continued his walk toward Souvigny.  He was going to the town, to the solicitor of the Marquise, to inquire the result of the sale; to learn who were to be the new masters of the castle of Longueval.  The Abbe had still about a mile to walk before reaching the first houses of Souvigny, and was passing the park of Lavardens when he heard, above his head, voices calling to him: 

“Monsieur le Cure, Monsieur le Cure.”

At this spot adjoining the wall, a long alley of limetrees bordered the terrace, and the Abbe, raising his head, perceived Madame de Lavardens, and her son Paul.

“Where are you going, Monsieur le Cure?” asked the Countess.

“To Souvigny, to the Tribunal, to learn—­”

“Stay here—­Monsieur de Larnac is coming after the sale to tell me the result.”

The Abbe Constantin joined them on the terrace.

Gertrude de Lannilis, Countess de Lavardens, had been very unfortunate.  At eighteen she had been guilty of a folly, the only one of her life, but that one—­irreparable.  She had married for love, in a burst of enthusiasm and exaltation, M. de Lavardens, one of the most fascinating and brilliant men of his time.  He did not love her, and only married her from necessity; he had devoured his patrimonial fortune to the very last farthing, and for two or three years had supported himself by various expedients.  Mademoiselle de Lannilis knew all that, and had no illusions on these points, but she said to herself: 

“I will love him so much, that he will end by loving me.”