ow knelt, imploring her mercy, and beseeching her to
forgive him his unkindness. He told her that, at times a voice which was
not his own spoke through his lips. Could he himself ever have treated
her harshly? It was the strange voice that had repulsed her. It could
not, surely, be he himself, for he would have been unable to touch a
hair of her head without loving emotion. And yet he had driven her away.
The church was really empty! Whither should he hasten to find her again,
to bring her back, and wipe her tears away with kisses? The rain was
streaming down more violently than ever. The roads must be rivers
of mud. He pictured her to himself lashed by the downpour, tottering
alongside the ditches, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin. No!
no! it could not have been himself; it was that other voice, the jealous
voice that had so cruelly sought to slay his love.

'O Jesus!' he cried in desperation, 'be merciful and give her back to
me!'

But his Lord was no longer there. Then Abbe Mouret, awaking with a
start, turned horribly pale. He understood it all. He had not known
how to keep Jesus with him. He had lost his friend, and had been left
defenceless against the powers of evil. Instead of that inward light,
which had shone so brightly within him as he received his God, he now
found utter darkness, a foul vapour that irritated his senses. Jesus had
withdrawn His grace on leaving him; and he, who since early morning
had been so strong with heaven-sent help, now felt utterly miserable,
forsaken, weak and helpless as an infant. How frightful was his fall!
How galling its bitterness! To have straggled so heroically, to have
remained unshaken, invincible, implacable, while the temptress actually
stood before him, with all her warm life, her swelling bosom and
superb shoulders, her perfume of love and passion; and then to fall
so shamefully, to throb with desire, when she had disappeared, leaving
behind her but the echo of her skirts, and the fragrance diffused from
her white neck! Now, these mere recollections sufficed to make her all
powerful, her influence permeated the church.

'Jesus! Jesus!' cried the priest, once more, 'return, come back to me;
speak to me once again!'

But Jesus remained deaf to his cry. For a moment Abbe Mouret raised his
arms to heaven in desperate entreaty. His shoulders cracked and strained
beneath the wild violence of his supplications. But soon his hands fell
down again in discourageme