complicated problem with which he was incompetent to grapple.

Where could they get horses for their escape? And if they went away
on foot, would they not be stopped and detained as vagabonds? Was he
capable of securing any employment by which he could earn bread for his
wife? He had never been taught any kind of trade. He was quite ignorant
of actual life. He ransacked his memory, and he could remember nothing
but strings of prayers, details of ceremonies, and pages of Bouvier's
'Instruction Theologique,' which he had learned by heart at the
seminary. He worried too over matters of no real concern. He asked
himself whether he would dare to give his arm to his wife in the street.
He certainly could not walk with a woman clinging to his arm. He would
surely appear so strange and awkward that every one would turn round
to stare at him. They would guess that he was a priest and would insult
Albine. It would be vain for him to try to obliterate the traces of
his priesthood. He would always wear that mournful pallor and carry the
odour of incense about with him. And what if he should have children
some day? As this thought suddenly occurred to him, he quite started. He
felt a strange repugnance at the very idea. He felt sure that he should
not care for any children that might be born to him. Suppose there were
two of them, a little boy and a little girl. He could never let them get
on his knees; it would distress him to feel their hands clutching at his
clothes. The thought of the little girl troubled him the most; he
could already see womanly tenderness shining in the depths of her big,
childish eyes. No! no! he would have no children.

Nevertheless he resolved that he would flee with Albine that evening.
But when the evening came, he felt too weary. So he deferred his flight
till the next morning. And the next morning he made a fresh pretext
for delay. He could not leave his sister alone with La Teuse. He would
prepare a letter, directing that she should be taken to her uncle
Pascal's. For three days he was ever on the point of writing that
letter, and the paper and pen and ink were lying ready on the table
in his room. Then, on the third day, he went off, leaving the letter
unwritten. He took up his hat quite suddenly and set off for the
Paradou in a state of mingled stupor and resignation, as though he were
unwillingly performing some compulsory task which he saw no means of
avoiding. Albine's image was now effaced fro