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.
I was going nowhere in particular; was simply having
a short walk after dinner. I had passed the Credit
Lyonnais, the Rue Vivienne, and several other streets.
I suddenly descried a large beer hall which was more
than half full. I walked inside, with no object
in view. I was not the least thirsty.
I glanced round to find a place that was not too crowded,
and went and sat down by the side of a man who seemed
to me to be old, and who was smoking a two-sous clay
pipe, which was as black as coal. From six to
eight glasses piled up on the table in front of him
indicated the number of “bocks” he had
already absorbed. At a glance I recognized a “regular,”
one of those frequenters of beer houses who come in
the morning when the place opens, and do not leave
till evening when it is about to close. He was
dirty, bald on top of his head, with a fringe of iron-gray
hair falling on the collar of his frock coat.
His clothes, much too large for him, appeared to have
been made for him at a time when he was corpulent.
One could guess that he did not wear suspenders, for
he could not take ten steps without having to stop
to pull up his trousers. Did he wear a vest?
The mere thought of his boots and of that which they
covered filled me with horror. The frayed cuffs
were perfectly black at the edges, as were his nails.
