The Woman and the Priest

l was preparing to

oving about furtively, perhaps waiting to go out until

ight, but she did

down quietly, as he used to do, and begin to read, or else go to bed. For a few minutes, indeed, the young priest's cautious steps were silent. She felt herself all alone. Outside, the noise of the wind mingled with the murmuring of the trees which grew on the ridge

from penetrating into the house. As a matter of fact, however, she put little faith in such things. And now she reflected with bitterness, and a vague contempt of herse

tanding in front of the mirror, although that was forbidden to priests

hing his nails, or brushing his hair, which he had left to grow long and then turned back over his head, as though trying to conceal th

a boy, often stumbling and slipping about, but always holding himself erect. His head was a little too large for the thin neck, his face pale and over-shadowed by the prominent forehead that seemed to force the brows to

ce lighted up, the eyelids opened to the full and th

d to see him so handsome and strong, and then the sound of his fur

room and stood still again. Perhaps he, too, was listening to the sounds without, but

ger than her own will kept her down. Her knees trembled as though trying to rebel against that infernal power; her knee

open the door and go out, and the wind seeme

uck them. But at last the little brass lamp threw a dim radiance over the small room, bare and poor as that of a servant, and she opened the door and stood there, listening. She was still trembling, ye

e bottom of which the door shook upon its hinges with the violence of the wind. And when she saw the two

placed her light on the floor at the top

nt head, as though butting aside all obstacles in her path. She felt her way past the front of the presbytery, along the wall of the kitchen garden and past the front of the church, but at the corner of the church she paused. Paul had tur

wo lines of cottages on either side of the steep road, which wound on and downwards till it lost itself amidst the trees in the valley. And in the centre of the valley, like another grey and winding road, was the river

erty-stricken cottages, which clung to the grassy hill-side like two rows of sheep, whilst the church with its slend

peless monsters in the gloom, and in answer to their rustling cry came the lament of the poplars and reeds in the valley. And in all this

oing before her down into the village to visit some sick parishioner, but instead, she be

ridge there was no one save a wo

ent straight to the little door in the orchard wall, and immediately it open

closed, it even seemed to repulse her by an active power of its own, and the woman felt she must strike it and cry aloud. She looked at the wall and touched it as though to test its solidity, and at last in despair she bent her

—or rather, since in her inmost soul she already knew the

e big gate of the courtyard; and as she went she touched the stones as though seeking one that would give way and leave a hole whereby she might en

h was partly over-shadowed by the deep eaves of the overhanging grass-grown roof; the inside shutters of the windows were closed and the panes of

fore that big door with its three granite steps, its Gothic porch and iron gate, she felt suddenly humiliated, powerless to succeed, smaller even than when, a

ce hall, paved with stone and furnished with stone seats. The children had shouted at this and thrust themselves forward even to

Aren't you ashamed to go running about

rap. But as she retraced her steps and walked homeward again she began to regret that she had not shouted, that she had not thrown stones at the door and compelled those inside to open it and let her try to rescue her son. She repented her weakness, stood still, irresolute, turned back, then

me the dim flickering light of the lamp, and everything within the little house, up to now as steady and quiet as a nest built in some

ly still; the devil was destroying the presbyt

er, and her voice sounded like the

o it. Truly, she felt that she was not alone, and she began to talk

I do to

peak to him plainly and firmly whilst y

t a woman who would go and nurse him. Neither woman nor man, of the decent sort, went to help him through his last days, and yet at night every window in the presbytery was lighted up; and the people said that during those last nights the devil had dug an underground passage from this house to the river, through which to carry away the mortal remains of the priest. And by this passage the spirit of the priest used to come back in the years that followed his death and haunt the presbytery, so that no other priest would ever come to live here. A priest used to come from another village every Sunday to say Mass and bury the dead, but one night the spirit of the dead priest destroyed the bridge, and after that for ten years the parish was without a priest, until my Paul came. And I came with him. We found the village and its inhabitants grown quite wild and uncivilized, without faith at all, but everything revived again after my Paul came, like the earth at the return of the spring. But the superstitious were right, disaster will fall upon the new priest because the spirit of the old one still reigns in the presbytery. Some say that he is not dead and that he lives in an underground dwelling communicating with the river. I myself have never believed in such tales, nor have I ever heard any noises. For seven years we have lived here, my Paul and I, as in a little convent. Until a short time ago Paul led the life of an innocent child, he studied and prayed and lived only for the good of his parishioners. Sometimes he used to play the flute. He was not merry by nature, but he was calm and quiet. Seven years of peace and plenty have we had, like those in the Bible. My Paul never drank, he did not go out

ther woman

think is true? Can you actually go before the Bishop and speak thus about you

rd, oh

floor was of pounded cement with which small sea-shells and pebbles had been mixed; on one side was an immense fireplace, to right and left of which stood an arm-chair and in front was an antique sofa. The white-washed walls were adorned with

ted in front of the fire, c

came the mothe

r which opened direct from the room into the orchard, and through which she saw the trees and foliage gleaming, still wet with the autumn dew. Some fallen leaves were blown softly about the floor and the cha

came, with a quickened step and yet a little shy; she came from the dark rooms, dressed in black, her pale face framed betwee

nt, doubtful. Her large dark eyes fell instantly on the basket of fruit standing on the table, then turned with a searching look

w not how or why, the first suspic

ough she were their common mother, but rather as a rival who must be flattered and deceived. She ordered coffee for her, which was served on a large silver tray by a barefoot maid whose face was swathed like an Arab's. She talked of her two brothers, both influ

f golden grapes hung amidst the vivid green of the trees and vines. Why

r way of hiding the feelings her eyes betrayed too plainly. And those eyes, and that way of revealing her soul in a sudden flash of truth and then instantly drawing back into herself again, was extraordinarily like Paul. So much so that during the days following, when because of