him to find that his memory was so poor.  And when, at last, he succeeded in remembering the words, he found a soothing pleasure in humming the verses, which came back to his mind one by one.  It was a hymn of homage to Mary.  He smiled as though some soft breath from the days of his childhood were playing upon his face.  Ah! how happy he had then been!  Why shouldn’t he be as happy again?  He had not grown any bigger, he wanted nothing more than the same old happiness, unruffled peace, a nook in the chapel, where his knees marked his place, a life of seclusion, enlivened by the delightful puerilities of childhood.  Little by little he raised his voice, singing the canticle in flutelike tones, when he suddenly became aware of the breach immediately in front of him.

For a moment he seemed surprised.  Then, the smile dying from his face, he murmured quietly: 

‘Albine must be expecting me.  The sun is already setting.’

But just as he was about to push some stones aside to make himself a passage, he was startled by a snore.  He sprang down again:  he had only just missed setting his foot upon the very face of Brother Archangias, who was lying on the ground there sleeping soundly.  Slumber had overtaken him while he kept guard over the entrance to the Paradou.  He barred the approach to it, lying at full length before its threshold, with arms and legs spread out.  His right hand, thrown back behind his head, still clutched his dogwood staff, which he seemed to brandish like a fiery sword.  And he snored loudly in the midst of the brambles, his face exposed to the sun, without a quiver on his tanned skin.  A swarm of big flies was hovering over his open mouth.

Abbe Mouret looked at him for a moment.  He envied the slumber of that dust-wallowing saint.  He wished to drive the flies away, but they persistently returned, and clung around the purple lips of the Brother, who was quite unconscious of their presence.  Then the Abbe strode over his big body and entered the Paradou.

XII

Albine was seated on a patch of grass a few paces away from the wall.  She sprang up as she caught sight of Serge.

‘Ah! you have come!’ she cried, trembling from head to foot.

‘Yes,’ he answered calmly, ‘I have come.’

She flung herself upon his neck, but she did not kiss him.  To her bare arms the beads of his neckband seemed very cold.  She scrutinised him, already feeling uneasy, and resuming: 

’What is the matter with you?  Why don’t you kiss my cheeks as you used to do?  Oh! if you are ill, I will cure you once again.  Now that you are here, all our old happiness will return.  There will be no more wretchedness. . . .  See!  I am smiling.  You must smile, too, Serge.’

But his face remained grave.

‘I have been troubled, too,’ she went on.  ’I am still quite pale, am I not?  For a whole week I have been living on that patch of grass, where you found me.  I wanted one thing only, to see you coming back through the breach in the wall.  At every sound I sprang up and rushed to meet you.  But, alas! it was not you I heard.  It was only the leaves rustling in the wind.  But I was sure that you would come.  I should have waited for you for years.’