The priest stopped once again, his soul filled with
a growing and irresistible tenderness.
And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over
him; he was asking one of those questions that he
sometimes put to himself.
“Why did God make this? Since the night
is destined for sleep, unconsciousness, repose, forgetfulness
of everything, why make it more charming than day,
softer than dawn or evening? And does why this
seductive planet, more poetic than the sun, that seems
destined, so discreet is it, to illuminate things
too delicate and mysterious for the light of day,
make the darkness so transparent?
“Why does not the greatest of feathered songsters
sleep like the others? Why does it pour forth
its voice in the mysterious night?
“Why this half-veil cast over the world?
Why these tremblings of the heart, this emotion of
the spirit, this enervation of the body? Why this
display of enchantments that human beings do not see,
since they are lying in their beds? For whom
is destined this sublime spectacle, this abundance
of poetry cast from heaven to earth?”
And the abbe could not understand.
But see, out there, on the edge of the meadow, under
the arch of trees bathed in a shining mist, two figures
are walking side by side.
The man was the taller, and held his arm about his
sweetheart’s neck and kissed her brow every
little while. They imparted life, all at once,
to the placid landscape in which they were framed
as by a heavenly hand. The two seemed but a single
being, the being for whom was destined this calm and
silent night, and they came toward the priest as a
living answer, the response his Master sent to his
questionings.
He stood still, his heart beating, all upset; and
it seemed to him that he saw before him some biblical
scene, like the loves of Ruth and Boaz, the accomplishment
of the will of the Lord, in some of those glorious
stories of which the sacred books tell. The verses
of the Song of Songs began to ring in his ears, the
appeal of passion, all the poetry of this poem replete
with tenderness.
And he said unto himself: “Perhaps God
has made such nights as these to idealize the love
of men.”
He shrank back from this couple that still advanced
with arms intertwined. Yet it was his niece.
But he asked himself now if he would not be disobeying
God. And does not God permit love, since He surrounds
it with such visible splendor?
And he went back musing, almost ashamed, as if he
had intruded into a temple where he had, no right
to enter.
Why did I go into that beer hall on that particular
evening? I do not know. It was cold; a fine
rain, a flying mist, veiled the gas lamps with a transparent
fog, made the side walks reflect the light that streamed
from the shop windows—lighting up the soft
slush and the muddy feet of the passers-by.
