than you are.'

'Silence! Silence!' said Abbe Mouret, summoning all his strength to rise
and move away.

But La Teuse also rose and barred his way with her bulky figure. She was
angry, and cried out:

'There, you see, you want to be off already! But you are going to listen
to me. You know quite well that I am not over fond of the people yonder,
don't you? If I talk to you about them, it is for your own good. Some
people say that I am jealous. Well, one day I mean to take you over
there. You would be with me, and you wouldn't be afraid of any harm
happening. Will you go?'

He motioned her away from him with his hands, and his face was calm
again as he said:

'I desire nothing. I wish to know nothing. There is high mass to-morrow.
You must see that the altar is made ready.'

Then, as he walked away, he added, smiling:

'Don't be uneasy, my good Teuse. I am stronger than you imagine. I shall
be able to cure myself without any one's assistance.'

With these words he went off, bearing himself sturdily, with his head
erect, for he had vanquished his feelings. His cassock rustled very
gently against the borders of thyme. La Teuse, who for a moment had
remained rooted to the spot where she was standing, sulkily picked up
her basin and wooden spoon. Then, shrugging her big shoulders again and
again, she mumbled between her teeth:

'That's all bravado of his. He imagines that he is differently made from
other men, just because he is a priest. Well, as a matter of fact, he is
very firm and determined. I have known some who wouldn't have had to be
wheedled so long. And he is quite capable of crushing his heart, just
as one might crush a flea. It must be the Almighty who gives him his
strength.'

As she returned to the kitchen she saw Abbe Mouret standing by the gate
of the farmyard. Desiree had stopped him there to make him feel a capon
which she had been fattening for some weeks past. He told her pleasantly
that it was very heavy, and the big child chuckled with glee.

'Ah! well,' said La Teuse in a fury, 'that bird has got to crush its
heart too. But then it can't help itself.'

IV

Abbe Mouret spent his days at the parsonage. He shunned the long walks
which he had been wont to take before his illness. The scorched soil of
Les Artaud, the ardent heat of that valley where the vines could never
even grow straight, distressed him. On two occasions, in the morning, he
had attempted to go out and read his brevia