are, struggling with their stony fields! Guide them with the stick,
Monsieur le Cure, yes, the stick!'

Then, after drawing breath, he added with a terrific wave of his hands:

'Those Artauds, look you, are like the brambles over-running these
rocks. One stem has been enough to poison the whole district. They cling
on, they multiply, they live in spite of everything. Nothing short of
fire from heaven, as at Gomorrha, will clear it all away.'

'We should never despair of sinners,' said Abbe Mouret, all inward
peacefulness, as he leisurely walked on.

'But these are the devil's own,' broke in the Brother still more
violently. 'I've been a peasant, too. Up to eighteen I dug the earth;
and later on, when I was at the Training College, I had to sweep, pare
vegetables, do all the heavy work. It's not their toilsome labour I find
fault with. On the contrary, for God prefers the lowly. But the Artauds
live like beasts! They are like their dogs, they never attend mass, and
make a mock of the commandments of God and of the Church. They think of
nothing but their plots of lands, so sweet they are on them!'

Voriau, his tail wagging, kept stopping and moving on again as soon as
he saw that they still followed him.

'There certainly are some grievous things going on,' said Abbe Mouret.
'My predecessor, Abbe Caffin--'

'A poor specimen,' interrupted the Brother. 'He came here to us from
Normandy owing to some disreputable affair. Once here, his sole thought