‘Why suffer? why die?’ she said.  ’O Serge, if you would only remember! . . .  You told me, that morning, that you were tired.  But I knew that you were only pretending, for the air was quite cool and we had only been walking for a quarter of an hour.  But you wanted to sit down that you might hold me in your arms.  Right down in the orchard, by the edge of a stream, there was a cherry tree—­you remember it, don’t you?—­which you never could pass without wishing to kiss my hands.  And your kisses ran all up my arms and shoulders to my lips.  Cherry time was over, and so you devoured my lips. . . .  It used to make us feel so sad to see the flowers fading, and one day, when you found a dead bird in the grass, you turned quite pale, and caught me to your breast, as if to forbid the earth to take me.’

But the priest drew her towards the other Stations of the Cross.

‘Hush! hush!’ he cried, ’look here, and here!  Bow down in grief and pity——­ Jesus falls beneath the weight of His cross.  The ascent of Calvary is very tiring.  He has dropped down on His knees.  But He does not stay to wipe even the sweat from His brow, He rises up again and continues His journey. . . .  And again Jesus falls beneath the weight of His cross.  At each step He staggers.  This time He has fallen on His side, so heavily that for a moment He lies there quite breathless.  His lacerated hands have relaxed their hold upon the cross.  His bruised and aching feet leave blood-stained prints behind them.  Agonising weariness overwhelms Him, for He carries upon His shoulders the sins of the whole world.’

Albine gazed at the pictured Jesus, lying in a blue shirt prostrate beneath the cross, the blackness of which bedimmed the gold of His aureole.  Then, with her glance wandering far away, she said: 

’Oh! those meadow-paths!  Have you no memory left, Serge?  Have you forgotten those soft grassy walks through the meadows, amidst very seas of greenery?  On the afternoon I am telling you of, we had only meant to stay out of doors an hour; but we went wandering on and were still wandering when the stars came out above us.  Ah! how velvety it was, that endless carpet, soft as finest silk!  It was just like a green sea whose gentle waters lapped us round.  And well we knew whither those beguiling paths that led nowhere, were taking us!  They were taking us to our love, to the joy of living together, to the certainty of happiness.’

With his hands trembling with anguish, Abbe Mouret pointed to the remaining pictures.

‘Jesus,’ he stammered, ’Jesus is nailed to the cross.  The nails are hammered through His outspread hands.  A single nail suffices for his feet, whose bones split asunder.  He, Himself, while His flesh quivers with pain, fixes His eyes upon heaven and smiles. . . .  Jesus is crucified between two thieves.  The weight of His body terribly aggravates His wounds.  From His brow, from His limbs, does a bloody sweat stream down.  The two thieves insult Him, the passers-by mock at Him, the soldiers cast lots for His raiment.  And the shadowy darkness grows deeper and the sun hides himself. . . .  Jesus dies upon the cross.  He utters a piercing cry and gives up the ghost.  Oh! most terrible of deaths!  The veil of the temple is rent in twain from top to bottom.  The earth quakes, the stones are broken, and the very graves open.’