e itself would be dull for you if you must
give up being Cure of Longueval."

Cure of Longueval! Yes, all his life he had been nothing but Cure of
Longueval, had never dreamed of anything else, had never wished to be
anything else. Three or four times excellent livings, with one or two
curates, had been offered to him, but he had always refused them. He
loved his little church, his little village, his little vicarage. There
he had it all to himself, saw to everything himself; calm, tranquil, he
went and came, summer and winter, in sunshine or storm, in wind or rain.
His frame became hardened by fatigue and exposure, but his soul remained
gentle, tender, and pure.

He lived in his vicarage, which was only a larger laborer's cottage,
separated from the church by the churchyard. When the Cure mounted the
ladder to train his pear and peach trees, over the top of the wall he
perceived the graves over which he had said the last prayer, and cast
the first spadeful of earth. Then, while continuing his work, he said in
his heart a little prayer for the repose of those among his dead whose
fate disturbed him, and who might be still detained in purgatory. He had
a tranquil and childlike faith.

But among these graves there was one which, oftener than all the others,
received his visits and his prayers. It was the tomb of his old
friend Dr. Reynaud, who had died in his arms in 1871, and under what
circumstances! The doctor had been like Bernard; he never went to mass
or to confession; but he was so good, so charitable, so compassionate
to the suffering. This was the cause of the Cure's great anxiety, of his
great solicitude. His friend Reynaud, where was he? Where was he? Then
he called to mind the noble life of the country doctor, all made up of
courage and self-denial; he recalled his death, above all his death, and
said to himself:

"In paradise; he can be nowhere but in paradise. The good God may have
sent him to purgatory just for form's sake--but he must have delivered
him after five minutes."

All this passed through the mind of the old man, as he continued his
walk toward Souvigny. He was going to the town, to the solicitor of the
Marquise, to inquire the result of the sale; to learn who were to be the
new masters of the castle of Longueval. The Abbe had still about a mile
to walk before reaching the first houses of Souvigny, and was passing
the park of Lavardens when he heard, above his head, voices calling to
him: