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Marry! you'll find you've got some one who can talk, Monsieur le Cure. He had risen, slowly waving his hand towards the surrounding horizon, to the earth and to the sky, and repeating solemnly: 'There's nothing, nothing, nothing. When the sun is snuffed out, all will be at an end. Doctor Pascal nudged Abbe Mouret with his elbow.
The union of the two branches, the legitimate and the illegitimate, took place then, Marthe Rougon espousing her cousin Francois Mouret, a peaceful household slowly disunited, ending in the direst catastrophes a sad and gentle woman taken, made use of, and crushed in the vast machine of war erected for the conquest of a city; her three children torn from her, she herself leaving her heart in the rude grasp of the Abbe Faujas.
* Curiously enough I find no trace of 'Bosom of Election' in the Litany of the Blessed Virgin as printed in English Catholic works. How many times had not the Litany of the Virgin, recited in common in the seminary chapel, left the young man with broken limbs and void head, as if from some great fall! And since his departure from the seminary, Abbe Mouret had grown to love the Virgin still more.
He's sure to know where his master is. And he clapped his hands and called: 'Hie! Voriau! hie! The big black dog paused a moment, wagging his tail, and seeking to read the urchin's eyes. Then, barking joyfully, he set off down the slope to the village. Abbe Mouret and Brother Archangias followed him, chatting.
'I might have known that grasshopper's voice Oh! the gipsy! Look, she's stopped there to spy on us. Abbe Mouret drew near. He, too, thought that he could see Albine's orange-coloured skirt behind a juniper bush.
Heavens! could all those things be true? she asked, as she lay back in her easy-chair, numbed by her enforced quiescence, and gazing on Paris, shrouded and mysterious, beneath the golden sun. The events of her life now arose before her, conjured up by the perusal of the novel. She saw herself a young girl in the house of her father, Mouret, a hatter at Marseilles.
'Monsieur Caffin used to tell me everything, she moaned out. However, she soon grew calmer. Brother Archangias was finishing a big piece of cheese, apparently quite unruffled by the scene. In his opinion Abbe Mouret really needed being kept straight, and La Teuse was right in making him feel the reins.
I used to look into the garden through the breach in the wall. I should have liked to cut the trees down. I have often hurled stones at them; it was delightful to break the branches. Tell me, now, is it so very nice to be there? He made Abbe Mouret stop in the middle of the road, and glared at him with a terrible expression of jealousy.
This is, indeed, so true that he has introduced into his work all the ideas on which he had based an early unfinished poem called 'Genesis. He carries us to an enchanted garden, the Paradou a name which one need hardly say is Provencal for Paradise* and there Serge Mouret, on recovering from brain fever, becomes, as it were, a new Adam by the side of a new Eve, the fair and winsome Albine.
Never had his morning mass afforded him the superhuman joys of his nightly prayers. With quivering lips Abbe Mouret now gazed at the tall Virgin. He could see her coming towards him from the depths of her green bower in ever-increasing splendour. No longer did a flood of moonlight seem to float across the tree-tops.
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