The Grip of Desire Part 17

At the same time he went down the steps before the house and took Suzanne's hand. Never had he felt such boldness.

--I pray, Mademoiselle, do not refuse me the pleasure of offering you a refuge for a few moments beneath my humble roof.

Suzanne accepted without making him plead any more. She went up the stairs and entered the corridor. The servant followed her. At the end, on the first steps of the stair-case, a lamp swung to and fro in the wind.

The Cure shut the door again and, pa.s.sing near the two women, drawn up against the wall, he brushed against the young girl's damp dress with his hand.

--But you are wet, Mademoiselle, he said to her. Perhaps it would not be wise to remain in this cold pa.s.sage. Should I dare to ask you to go upstairs an instant, and warm yourself at my fire?

His voice trembled with emotion, and he found that his hand was so near hers that he had only to close his fingers to take Suzanne's. He seized it therefore and inflicting on her a gentle violence: "Go up, I pray, go up,"

he said.

She allowed him to conduct her. He showed them into his library, which was his favourite apartment, the sanctuary of his labours, his griefs and his dreams. He took some vine-twigs which he threw in the fireplace, and soon a cheerful flame lighted up the hearth.

x.x.xVI.

THE HOT WINE.

"I looked at her; she tried to show nothing of what she felt in her heart.

She held herself straight, like an oarsman who feels that the current is carrying him away, and her nostrils quivered."

CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Contes flamands et wallons_).

Suzanne was sitting in the old arm-chair of straw, the seat of honour of the parsonage, her huge dark eyes followed the curling flames, while Marianne, standing up against one of the sides of the chimney-piece, cast around her an inquisitive and timorous look. The priest with one knee on the ground, was drawing up the fire.

--Here is quite a Christmas fire, he said as he got up. Come close, Mademoiselle, your feet are doubtless damp. It is cold; don't you find it so?

He was trembling in all his limbs as if indeed he were frozen near this blazing fire.

Suzanne put forward a little delicate arched foot which she rested on one of the fire-dogs. The priest's eyes stayed with ecstasy on the white line, the breadth of two fingers, displayed between her boot and the bottom of her dress.

--I am truly ashamed, she murmured, yes, truly ashamed to disturb you at such an hour.

--Ought not the priest's house, said Marcel, to be open to all at any hour?

It is open to the poor man who pa.s.ses by; it is open sometimes to the vagabond; why should it not be to an angelic young lady who seeks a shelter against the storm?

--It is true, it is the house of G.o.d, said Marianne. The young girl looked at the priest, smiled and then became thoughtful. She appeared soon no longer to be conscious where she was, nor of the priest who remained standing before her. She knitted her eyebrows and a feverish shudder ran through her frame.

Marcel stooped down towards her with anxiety.

--Are you in pain? he said.

She shook her head as if to drive away a world of thought which possessed her and answered with a kind of hesitation:

--No, Monsieur, thank you; I am not in pain. But I tremble to find myself here. What will my father say? And you, Monsieur, what will you think of me?

--But what are you frightened at, Mademoiselle? said Marianne. We are here because Monsieur le Cure has had the goodness to bring us in. Don't you hear the rain outside? As to your father, he is not obliged to know that we are at Monsieur le Cure's.

--Rea.s.sure yourself, Mademoiselle; your father cannot be offended because you have accepted a shelter against the bad weather. You are here, as the good Marianne has just said, in the house of G.o.d, and I will say in my turn, beneath the eye of G.o.d. These are very great words about so small a matter, he added with a smile. But you are in pain? Ah! you see, you have a cold already.

He proposed making her take a little warm wine, which Marianne declared to be a sovereign remedy, and spoke of going to wake up his servant.

Marianne opposed this with all her power.

--Since you have the kindness to offer something to our dear young lady, she said, let me make it. Good Heavens! to wake up Mademoiselle Veronica!

what would she say? that I am good for nothing, and she would be right.

--Well, said Marcel, I am going to show you where you will find what is necessary.

They both went down to the kitchen, as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb Veronica's slumber, and Marianne declared that with an armful of dry wood, she would have finished in a few minutes.

--Then I leave you, said the priest; I must not leave Mademoiselle Suzanne alone.

He remained several seconds longer, hesitating, following the movements of the old governess without seeing them, then all at once he quickly remounted the stair-case.

x.x.xVI.

TeTE-a-TeTE.

"'Tis yours to use aright the hour Which destiny may leave you, To drain the cup of oldest wine, And pluck the morning's roses."

A. BUSQUET (_La poesie des heures_).

He halted at the threshold, pale and trembling as if he were about to commit a crime.

He pa.s.sed his hand over his brow, it was damp with a cold sweat. What!

Suzanne was there, in his house, alone, in the middle of the night, in his own room, beside his fire, seated in his arm-chair. Oh, blessed vision! Was it possible? Was he dreaming? Would the charming picture disappear? And he remained there, motionless, anxious, not daring to move a step, for fear of seeing her disappear. But yes, it is she indeed; she has hidden her charming face in her hands, and it seems to him that tears are stealing through her fingers.

He sprang towards her.

--Oh! Mademoiselle, what is the matter? What is the matter? Why these tears, which break my heart? Confide your troubles to me, and, I swear to you, if it be in my power, I will alleviate them.

--You cannot, answered Suzanne sadly, lifting to him her great moist eyes.

--I cannot! do not believe that, my child: the priest can do many things; he knows how to comfort souls, it is the most precious of his gifts. Do not hesitate to confide your griefs to the priest, to the friend.

He sat down, facing her, waiting for her to speak. But she remained silent; he only heard the rapid breathing of the young girl, and the storm which raged in his own heart.

At length he broke the silence.