‘I do love her!  I do love her!’ he cried aloud, in a distracted voice, that rang through the church.

He thought he saw her still standing there.  She was stretching out her arms to him; she was beautiful enough to make him break all his vows.  He threw himself upon her bosom without thought of the reverence due to his surroundings, he clasped her and rained kisses upon her face.  It was before her that he now knelt, imploring her mercy, and beseeching her to forgive him his unkindness.  He told her that, at times a voice which was not his own spoke through his lips.  Could he himself ever have treated her harshly?  It was the strange voice that had repulsed her.  It could not, surely, be he himself, for he would have been unable to touch a hair of her head without loving emotion.  And yet he had driven her away.  The church was really empty!  Whither should he hasten to find her again, to bring her back, and wipe her tears away with kisses?  The rain was streaming down more violently than ever.  The roads must be rivers of mud.  He pictured her to himself lashed by the downpour, tottering alongside the ditches, her clothes soaked and clinging to her skin.  No! no! it could not have been himself; it was that other voice, the jealous voice that had so cruelly sought to slay his love.

‘O Jesus!’ he cried in desperation, ’be merciful and give her back to me!’

But his Lord was no longer there.  Then Abbe Mouret, awaking with a start, turned horribly pale.  He understood it all.  He had not known how to keep Jesus with him.  He had lost his friend, and had been left defenceless against the powers of evil.  Instead of that inward light, which had shone so brightly within him as he received his God, he now found utter darkness, a foul vapour that irritated his senses.  Jesus had withdrawn His grace on leaving him; and he, who since early morning had been so strong with heaven-sent help, now felt utterly miserable, forsaken, weak and helpless as an infant.  How frightful was his fall!  How galling its bitterness!  To have straggled so heroically, to have remained unshaken, invincible, implacable, while the temptress actually stood before him, with all her warm life, her swelling bosom and superb shoulders, her perfume of love and passion; and then to fall so shamefully, to throb with desire, when she had disappeared, leaving behind her but the echo of her skirts, and the fragrance diffused from her white neck!  Now, these mere recollections sufficed to make her all powerful, her influence permeated the church.

‘Jesus!  Jesus!’ cried the priest, once more, ’return, come back to me; speak to me once again!’

But Jesus remained deaf to his cry.  For a moment Abbe Mouret raised his arms to heaven in desperate entreaty.  His shoulders cracked and strained beneath the wild violence of his supplications.  But soon his hands fell down again in discouragement.  Heaven preserved that hopeless silence which suppliants at times encounter.  Then he once more sat down on the altar steps, heart-crushed and with ashen face, pressing his elbows to his sides, as though he were trying to reduce his flesh to the smallest proportions possible.