ugh winding paths, where they loitered, that their walk might
last the longer. It was she who instilled into him love for nature; and
it was by watching the loves of the plants that he had learned to love
her, with a love that was long, indeed, in bursting into life, but whose
sweetness had been theirs at last. Beneath the shade of the giant tree
they had reached their journey's goal. Oh! to clasp her once again--yet
once again!

A low groan suddenly came from the priest. He hastily sprang up and then
flung himself down again. Temptation had just assailed him afresh. Into
what paths were his recollections leading him? Did he not know, only
too well, that Satan avails himself of every wile to insinuate
his serpent-head into the soul, even when it is absorbed in
self-examination? No! no! he had no excuse. His illness had in no wise
authorised him to sin. He should have set strict guard upon himself,
and have sought God anew upon recovering from his fever. And what a
frightful proof he now had of his vileness: he was not even able to
make calm confession of his sin. Would he never be able to silence his
nature? He wildly thought of scooping his brains out of his skull that
he might be able to think no more, and of opening his veins that his
blood might no longer torment him. For a moment he buried his face
within his hands, shuddering as though the beasts that he felt prowling
around him might infect him with the hot breath of temptation.

But his thoughts strayed on in spite of himself, and his blood throbbed
wildly in his very heart. Though he held his clenched fists to his eyes,
he still saw Albine, dazzling like a sun. Every effort that he made to
press the vision from his sight only made her shine out before him with
increased brilliancy. Was God, then, utterly forsaking him, that he
could find no refuge from temptation? And, in spite of all his efforts
to control his thoughts, he espied every tiny blade of grass that thrust
itself up by Albine's skirts; he saw a little thistle-flower fastened in
her hair, against which he remembered that he had pricked his lips.
Even the perfumed atmosphere of the Paradou floated round him, and
well-remembered sounds came back, the repeated call of a bird, then an
interval of hushed silence, then a sigh floating through the trees.

Why did not Heaven at once strike him dead with its lightning? That
would have been less cruel. It was with a voluptuous pang, like the
pangs which assa