passing. They did not see him. Absorbed in the contemplation of themselves,
arm in arm, with joined hands, their faces together, they passed along with
bright looks, and open hearts, rejoicing in the seventh heaven.

Now and again they stopped, and he all in play, took hold of her thick knot
of hair, drew her head backwards and gave her a long kiss on the lips. He
did not tire of it, but she pushed him back with all her strength, putting
her hand on his mouth and saying to him, "That's enough, naughty boy,
that's enough." The Curé knew them well. She was the best and prettiest
girl in his congregation, and he, the happy rogue, sang in the choir. And
he began to envy the happiness of this rustic; he would have wished to be
for a moment this rude ignorant peasant, and who knows, for a moment? why
not always? Would he not be happier going each morning to till the fruitful
soil, to sow the furrow, and then to cut the sheaves of the golden harvest,
than to vegetate as he was, casting his sterile grain upon arid souls.

After the hard toil of the day, when he returned in the evening to his roof
of thatch, he would meet with a smile of welcome, the smile of a loved
wife, which would compensate him for his fatigues.

He followed them with his eyes, full of envy and bitterness at heart, and
when they had buried themselves behind the young underwood, when he no
longer heard the sound of steps, or fresh bursts of laughter, he rose and
sadly resumed his way to the village.

Evening had come. The twilight was stretching its dark veil over all. The
peasants dressed in their Sunday clothes were chatting on their door-steps
while they waited for supper. Near the inns there rose the confused sound
of gamblers' voices and drunkards' songs; but here and there through the
windows he saw the bright fire of vine-twigs blazing merrily on the hearth,