d
herself to seeing him go to the Paradou, though protesting against this
selection of the doctor's, which astonished her. But she retained
a strong feeling of hatred for the Paradou; and she was hurt by the
silence which Abbe Mouret maintained as to the time he had spent there.
She had frequently laid all sorts of unsuccessful traps to induce him
to talk of it. That morning, exasperated by his ghastly pallor, and his
obstinacy in suffering in silence, she ended by waving her spoon about
and crying:

'You should go back yonder again, Monsieur le Cure, if you were so happy
there--I dare say there is some one there who would nurse you better
than I do.'

It was the first time she had ventured upon a direct allusion to her
suspicions. The blow was so painful to the priest that he could not
check a slight cry, as he raised his grief-racked countenance. At this
La Teuse's kindly heart was filled with regret.

'Ah!' she murmured, 'it is all the fault of your uncle Pascal. I told
him what it would be. But those clever men cling so obstinately to their
own ideas. Some of them would kill you, just for the sake of rummaging
in your body afterwards--It made me so angry that I would never speak of
it to any one. Yes, Monsieur le Cure, you have me to thank that nobody
knew where you were; I was so angry about it. I thought it abominable!
When Abbe Guyot, from Saint-Eutrope, who took your place during your
absence, came to say mass here on Sundays, I told him all sorts of
stories. I said you had gone to Switzerland. I don't even know where
Switzerland is.--Well! well! I surely don't want to say anything to pain
you, but it was certainly over yonder that you got your trouble. Very
finely they've cured you indeed! It would have been very much better if
they had left you with me. I shouldn't have thought of trying to turn
your head.'

Abbe Mouret, whose brow was again lowered, made no attempt to interrupt
her. La Teuse had seated herself upon the ground a few yards away from
him, in order if possible to catch his eye. And she went on again in her
motherly way, delighted at his seeming complacency in listening to her.

'You would never let me tell you about Abbe Caffin. As soon as I began
to speak of him, you always made me stop. Well, well; Abbe Caffin had
had his troubles in my part of the world, at Canteleu. And yet he was a
very holy man, with an irreproachable character. But, you see, he was
a man of very delicate taste, and l