And there she remained, bold, unblushing, with a sly smile still
hovering over her features. Bambousse, a stout, sweating, round-faced
man, left his work and gaily came towards the priest.

'I'd take my oath you are going to speak to me about the repairs of the
church,' he exclaimed, as he clapped his earthy hands. 'Well, then,
Monsieur le Cure, I can only say no, it's impossible. The commune hasn't
got the coin. If the Lord provides plaster and tiles, we'll provide the
workmen.'

At this jest of his the unbelieving peasant burst into a loud guffaw,
slapped his thighs, coughed, and almost choked himself.

'It was not for the church I came,' replied the Abbe Mouret. 'I wanted
to speak to you about your daughter Rosalie.'

'Rosalie? What has she done to you, then?' inquired Bambousse, his eyes
blinking.

The girl was boldly staring at the young priest, scrutinising his white
hands and slender, feminine neck, as if trying to make him redden. He,
however, bluntly and with unruffled countenance, as if speaking of
something quite indifferent, continued:

'You know what I mean, Bambousse. She must get married.'

'Oh, that's it, is it?' muttered the old man, with a bantering look.
'Many thanks for the message. The Brichets sent you, didn't they? Mother
Brichet goes to mass, and so you give her a helping hand to marry her