IV

When Abbe Mouret had got beyond all hearing of La Teuse he stopped,
thankful to be alone at last. The church was built on a hillock, which
sloped down gently to the village. With its large gaping windows and
bright red tiles, it stretched out like a deserted sheep-cote. The
priest turned round and glanced at the parsonage, a greyish building
springing from the very side of the church; but as if fearful that he
might again be overtaken by the interminable chatter that had been
buzzing in his ears ever since morning, he turned up to the right again,
and only felt safe when he at last stood before the great doorway, where
he could not be seen from the parsonage. The front of the church, quite
bare and worn by the sunshine and rain of years, was crowned by a narrow
open stone belfry, in which a small bell showed its black silhouette,
whilst its rope disappeared through the tiles. Six broken steps, on one
side half buried in the earth, led up to the lofty arched door, now
cracked, smothered with dust and rust and cobwebs, and so frailly hung
upon its outwrenched hinges that it seemed as if the first slight puff
would secure free entrance to the winds of heaven. Abbe Mouret, who had
an affection for this dilapidated door, leaned against one of its leaves
as he stood upon the steps. Thence he could survey the whole country
round at a glance. And shading his eyes with his hands he scanned the
horizon.

In the month of May exuberant vegetation burst forth from that stony
soil. Gigantic lavenders, juniper bushes, patches of rank herbage
swarmed over the church threshold, and scattered clumps of dark greenery
even to the very tiles. It seemed as if the first throb of shooting sap