One morning Abbé Bourrette made his appearance, his face betokening the greatest distress. As soon as he caught sight of Marthe on the steps, he hurried up to her and, seizing her hands and pressing them, he stammered:

\'Poor Compan! it is all over with him! he is dying! I am going upstairs, I must see Faujas at once.\'

When Marthe showed him his fellow priest, who, according to his wont, was walking to and fro at the bottom of the garden, reading his breviary, he ran up to him, tottering on his short legs. He tried to speak and tell the other the sad news, but his grief choked him, and he could only throw his arms round Abbé Faujas\'s neck, while sobbing bitterly.

\'Hullo! what\'s the matter with the two parsons?\' cried Mouret, who had hastily rushed out of the dining-room.

\'The Curé of Saint-Saturnin\'s is dying,\' Marthe replied, showing much distress.

[Pg 121]

Mouret assumed an expression of surprise, and, as he went back into the house, he murmured:

\'Pooh! that worthy Bourrette will manage to console himself to-morrow when he is appointed Curé in the other\'s place. He counts on getting the post; he told me so.\'

Abbé Faujas disengaged himself from the old priest\'s embrace, quietly closed his breviary, and listened to the sad news with a grave face.

\'Compan wants to see you,\' said Abbé Bourrette in a broken voice; \'he will not last the morning out. Oh! he has been a dear friend to me! We studied together. He is anxious to say good-bye to you. He has been telling me all through the night that you were the only man of courage in the diocese. For more than a year now he has been getting weaker and weaker, and not a single Plassans priest has dared to go and grasp his hand; while you, a stranger, who scarcely knew him, you have spent an afternoon with him every week. The tears came into his eyes just now as he was speaking of you; you must lose no time, my friend.\'

Abbé Faujas went up to his room for a moment, while Abbé Bourrette paced impatiently and hopelessly about the passage; and then at last they set off together. The old priest wiped his brow and swayed about on the road as he talked in disconnected fashion:

\'He would have died like a dog without a single prayer being said for him if his sister had not come and told me about him at eleven o\'clock last night. She did quite right, the dear lady, though he did not want to compromise any of us, and even would have foregone the last sacraments. Yes, my friend, he was dying all alone, abandoned and deserted, he who had so high a mind, and who has only lived to do good!\'

Then Bourrette became silent; but after a few moments he resumed again in a different voice:

\'Do you think that Fenil will ever forgive me for this? Never, I expect! When Compan saw me bringing the viaticum, he was unwilling to let me anoint him and told me to go away. Well, well! it\'s all over with me now, and I shall never be Curé! But I am glad that I did it, and that I haven\'t let Compan die like a dog. He has been at war with Fenil for thirty years, you know. When he took to his bed he said to me, "Ah! it\'s Fenil who is going to carry the day! Now that I am stricken down he will get the better of[Pg 122] me!" So think of it! That poor Compan, whom I have seen so high-spirited and energetic at Saint-Saturnin\'s! Little Eusèbe, the choir-boy, whom I took to ring the viaticum bell, was quite embarrassed when he found where we were going. He kept looking behind him at each tinkle, as if he was afraid that Fenil would hear it.\'

Abbé Faujas, who was stepping along quickly with bent head and a preoccupied air, kept perfectly silent, and did not even seem to hear what his companion was saying.

\'Has the Bishop been informed?\' he suddenly asked.

But Abbé Bourrette in his turn now appeared to be buried in thought and made no reply; however, just as they reached Abbé Compan\'s door he said to his companion:

\'Tell him that we met Fenil and that he bowed to us. It will please him, for he will then think that I shall be appointed Curé.\'

They went up the stairs in silence. The Curé\'s sister came to the landing, and on seeing them burst into tears. Then she stammered between her sobs:

\'It is all over! He has just passed away in my arms. I was quite alone with him. As he was dying, he looked round him and murmured, "I must have the plague since they have all deserted me." Ah! gentlemen he died with his eyes full of tears.\'

They went into the little room where Abbé Compan, with his head resting on his pillow, seemed to be asleep. His eyes had remained open, and tears yet trickled down his white sad face. Then Abbé Bourrette fell upon his knees, sobbing and praying, with his face pressed to the counterpane. Abbé Faujas at first remained standing, gazing at the dead man; and after having knelt for a moment, he quietly went away. Abbé Bourrette was so absorbed in his grief that he did not even hear his colleague close the door.

Abbé Faujas went straight to the Bishop\'s. In Monseigneur Rousselot\'s ante-chamber he met Abbé Surin, carrying a bundle of papers.

\'Do you want to speak to his lordship?\' asked the secretary, with his never-failing smile. \'You have come at an unfortunate time. His lordship is so busy that he has given orders that no one is to be admitted.\'

\'But I want to see him on a very urgent matter,\' quietly said Abbé Faujas. \'You can at any rate let him know that I am here; and I will wait, if it is necessary.\'

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\'I am afraid that it would be useless for you to wait. His lordship has several people with him. It would be better if you came again to-morrow.\'

But the Abbé took a chair, and just as he was doing so the Bishop opened the door of his study. He appeared much vexed on seeing his visitor, whom at first he pretended not to recognise.

\'My son,\' he said to Surin, \'when you have arranged those papers, come to me immediately; there is a letter I want to dictate to you.\'

Then turning to the priest, who remained respectfully standing, he said:

\'Ah! is it you, Monsieur Faujas? I am very glad to see you. Perhaps you want to say something to me? Come into my study; you are never in the way.\'

Monseigneur Rousselot\'s study was a very large and rather gloomy room, in which a great wood fire was kept burning in the summer as well as the winter. The heavy carpet and curtains kept out all the air, and the room was like a warm bath. The Bishop, like some dowager shutting herself up from the world, detesting all noise and excitement, lived a chilly life there in his armchair, committing to Abbé Fenil the care of his diocese. He delighted in the classics, and it was said that he was secretly making a translation of Horace. He was equally fond of the little verses of the Anthology, and broad quotations occasionally escaped from his lips, quotations which he enjoyed with the na?veté of a learned man who cares nothing for the modesty of the vulgar.

\'There is no one here, you see,\' said he, sitting down before the fire; \'but I don\'t feel very well to-day, and I gave orders that nobody was to be admitted. Now you can tell me what you have to say; I am quite at your service.\'

His general expression of amiability was tinged with a kind of vague uneasiness, a sort of resigned submission. When Abbé Faujas had informed him of the death of Abbé Compan, he rose from his chair, apparently both distressed and alarmed.

\'What!\' he cried, \'my good Compan dead! and I was not able to bid him farewell! No one gave me any warning! Ah, my friend, you were right when you gave me to understand that I was no longer master here. They abuse my kindness.\'

\'Your lordship knows,\' said Abbé Faujas, \'how devoted I am to you. I am only waiting for a sign from you.\'

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The Bishop shook his head as he murmured:

\'Yes, yes; I remember the offer you made to me. You have an excellent heart; but what an uproar there would be, if I were to break with Abbé Fenil! I should have my ears deafened for a whole week! And yet if I could feel quite sure that you could really rid me of him, if I was not afraid that at a week\'s end he would come back and crush your neck under his heel——\'

Abbé Faujas could not repress a smile. Tears were welling from the Bishop\'s eyes.

\'Yes, I am afraid, I am afraid,\' the prelate resumed, as he again sank down into his chair. \'I don\'t feel equal to it yet. It is that miserable man who has killed Compan and has kept his death agony a secret from me so that I might not go and close his eyes. He is capable of the most terrible things. But, you see, I like to live in peace. Fenil is very energetic and he renders me great services in the diocese. When I am no longer here, matters will perhaps be better ordered.\'

He grew calmer again and his smile returned.

\'Besides, everything is going on satisfactorily at present, and I don\'t see any immediate difficulty. We can wait.\'

Abbé Faujas sat down, and calmly resumed:

\'No doubt: but still you will have to appoint a Curé for Saint-Saturnin\'s in succession to the Abbé Compan.\'

Monseigneur Rousselot lifted his hands to his temples with an expression of hopelessness.

\'Indeed, you are right!\' he ejaculated. \'I had forgotten that. Poor Compan doesn\'t know in what a hole he has put me, by dying so suddenly without my having had any warning. I promised you that place, didn\'t I?\'

The Abbé bowed.

\'Well, my friend, you will save me by letting me take back my word. You know how Fenil detests you. The success of the Home of the Virgin has made him quite furious, and he swears that he will prevent you from making the conquest of Plassans. I am talking to you quite openly, you see. Recently, when reference was made to the appointment of a Curé for Saint-Saturnin\'s, I let your name fall. But Fenil flew into a frightful rage and I was obliged to promise that I would give the place to a friend of his, Abbé Chardon, whom you know, and who is really a very worthy man. Now, my friend, do this much for me, and give up that idea. I will make you whatever recompense you like to name.\'

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The priest\'s face wore a grave expression. After a short interval of silence during which he seemed to be taking counsel of himself, he spoke:

\'You know very well, my lord,\' he said, \'that I am quite without personal ambition. I should much prefer to lead a life of privacy, and it would be a great relief to me to give up this appointment. But I am not my own master, I feel bound to satisfy those patrons of mine who take an interest in me. I trust that your lordship will reflect very seriously before taking a step which you would probably regret afterwards.\'

Although Abbé Faujas spoke very humbly, the Bishop was not unconscious of the menace which his words veiled. He rose from his chair and took a few steps about the room, a prey to the painful perplexity.

\'Well, well,\' he said, lifting his hands, \'here\'s trouble and no mistake, for a long time. I should much have preferred to avoid all these explanations, but, since you insist, I must speak frankly. Well, my dear sir, Abbé Fenil brings many charges against you. As I think I told you before, he must have written to Besan?on and learnt all the vexatious stories you know of. You have certainly explained those matters to me, and I am quite aware of your merits and of your life of penitence and solitude; but what can I do? Fenil has weapons against you and he uses them ruthlessly. I often don\'t know what to say in your defence. When the Minister requested me to receive you into my diocese, I did not conceal from him that your position would be a difficult one; but he continued to press me and said that that was your affair, and so in the end I consented. But you must not come to-day and ask me to do what is impossible.\'

Abbé Faujas had not lowered his head during the Bishop\'s remarks. He now raised it still higher as he looked the prelate straight in the face and said in his sharp voice:

\'You have given me your promise, my lord.\'

\'Certainly, certainly,\' the Bishop replied. \'That poor Compan was getting weaker every day and you came and confided certain matters to me, and I then made the promise to you. I don\'t deny it. Listen to me, I will tell you everything, so that you may not accuse me of wheeling round like a weathercock. You asserted that the Minister was extremely desirous for you to be appointed Curé of Saint-Saturnin\'s. Well, I wrote for information on the subject, and a friend of[Pg 126] mine went to the Ministry in Paris. They almost laughed in his face there, and they told him that they didn\'t even know you. The Minister absolutely denies that he is your supporter, do you hear? If you wish it, I will read you a letter in which he makes some very stern remarks about you.\'

He stretched his arm towards a drawer, but Abbé Faujas rose to his feet without taking his eyes off him, and smiled with mingled irony and pity.

\'Ah, my lord! my lord!\' said he.

Then, after a moment\'s silence, as though he were unwilling to enter into further explanations, he said:

\'I give your lordship back your promise; but believe that in all this I was working more for your own advantage than for mine. By-and-by, when it will be too late, you will call my warnings to mind.\'

He stepped towards the door, but the Bishop laid his hand upon him and brought him back, saying with an expression of uneasiness:

\'What do you mean? Explain yourself, my dear Monsieur Faujas. I know very well that I have not been in favour at Paris since the election of the Marquis de Lagrifoul. But people know me very little if they suppose that I had any hand in the matter. I don\'t go out of my study twice a month. Do you imagine that they accuse me of having brought about the marquis\'s return?\'

\'Yes, I am afraid so,\' the priest curtly replied.

\'But it is quite absurd! I have never interfered in politics; I live amongst my beloved books. It was Fenil who did it all. I told him a score of times that he would end by compromising me in Paris.\'

He checked himself and blushed slightly at having allowed these last words to escape him. Abbé Faujas sat down again and said in a deep voice:

\'My lord, by those words you have condemned your vicar-general. I have never said otherwise than you have just said. Do not continue to make common cause with him or he will lead you into serious trouble. I have friends in Paris, whatever you may believe. I know that the Marquis de Lagrifoul\'s election has strongly predisposed the Government against you. Rightly or wrongly, they believe that you are the sole cause of the opposition movement which has manifested itself in Plassans, where the Minister, for special reasons, is most anxious to have a majority. If the Legitimist candidate[Pg 127] should again succeed at the next election, it would be very awkward, and I should be considerably alarmed for your comfort.\'

\'But this is abominable!\' cried the unhappy Bishop, rocking himself in his chair; \'I can\'t prevent the Legitimist candidate from being returned! I haven\'t got the least influence, and I never mix myself up in these matters at all. Really, there are times when I feel that I should like to shut myself up in a monastery. I could take my books with me, and lead a quiet, peaceful life there. It is Fenil who ought to be Bishop i............