It was thus he saw her on the day when he first took
a fancy for her. He had, however, known her from
infancy but never had he been so struck by her as
on that morning. They had stopped to talk for
a few minutes, and then he went away; and as he walked
along he kept repeating:
“Faith, she’s a fine girl, all the same.
’Tis a pity she made a slip with Victor.”
Till evening, he kept thinking of her, and also on
the following morning.
When he saw her again, he felt something tickling
the end of his throat, as if a cock’s feather
had been driven through his mouth into his chest,
and since then, every time he found himself near her,
he was astonished at this nervous tickling which always
commenced again.
In three months, he made up his mind to marry her,
so much did she please him. He could not have
said whence came this power over him, but he explained
it by these words:
“I am possessed by her,” as if he felt
the desire of this girl within him with as much dominating
force as one of the powers of Hell. He scarcely
bothered himself about her transgression. So much
the worse, after all; it did her no harm, and he bore
no grudge against Victor Lecoq.
But if the cure was not going to succeed, what was
he to do? He did not dare to think of it, so
much did this anxious question torment him.
He reached the presbytery and seated himself near
the little gateway to await for the priest’s
return.
He was there perhaps half-an-hour when he heard steps
on the road, and he soon distinguished although the
night was very dark, the still darker shadow of the
sautane.
He rose up, his legs giving way under him, not even
venturing to speak, not daring to ask a question.
The clergyman perceived him, and said gayly:
“Well, my lad, ’tis all right.”
Cesaire stammered:
“All right, ’tisn’t possible.”
“Yes, my lad, but not without trouble.
What an old ass your father is!”
The peasant repeated:
“’Tisn’t possible!”
“Why, yes. Come and look me up to-morrow
at midday in order to settle about the publication
of the banns.”
The young man seized the cure’s hand. He
pressed it, shook it, bruised it, while he stammered:
“True—true—true, Monsieur
le Cure, on the word of an honest man, you’ll
see me to-morrow—at your sermon.”
The wedding took place in the middle of December.
It was simple, the bridal pair not being rich.
Cesaire, attired in new clothes, was ready since eight
o’clock in the morning to go and fetch his betrothed
and bring her to the Mayor’s office; but, it
was too early, he seated himself before the kitchen-table,
and waited for the members of the family and the friends
who were to accompany him.
For the last eight days, it had been snowing, and
the brown earth, the earth already fertilized by the
autumn savings had become livid, sleeping under a
great sheet of ice.
