hesitate? What is there surprising in a priest, stopping to talk to a young
girl? Is he not her Curé? More than that, her Confessor. Her confessor! Has
he still the right to call himself so? And the weather-beaten soldier, the
disciple of Voltaire, the malevolent, unmannerly father? Come, another
blunder! he sees clearly that he cannot dream of stopping. And then, after
what he has done, what would he dare to say? He will pass by therefore
rapidly, without even turning his head; she will see him, and that is
enough.

He quickens his step, then he slackens it. Where will she be. Here are the
old chestnut-trees, and behind is the white house, the corner of paradise.

What is that open window, garnished with flowers, that room hung with rose,
and at the back those white curtains which the morning sun is gilding? Oh,
that he might melt into those subtle rays, and penetrate, like a ray of
love, into that chaste virgin conch.

Now he is near the garden. His heart is beating. He looks. A sound of
footsteps on the path, and the rustling of a dress make him start. Is it
she?

He turns round.

Veronica is behind him.




XLVI.