Her tears suddenly ceased， she gazed at him with the look of an idiot. He had fallen on his knees and was devouring her with eyes of flame.
“Dost thou understand？I love thee！”he cried again.
“What love！”said the unhappy girl with a shudder.
He resumed， —
“The love of a damned soul.”
Both remained silent for several minutes， crushed beneath the weight of their emotions； he maddened， she stupefied.
“Listen， ”said the priest at last， and a singular calm had come over him； “you shall know all I am about to tell you that which I have hitherto hardly dared to say to myself， when furtively interrogating my conscience at those deep hours of the night when it is so dark that it seems as though God no longer saw us. Listen.Before I knew you， young girl， I was happy.”
“So was I！”she sighed feebly.
“Do not interrupt me. Yes， I was happy， at least I believed myself to be so.I was pure， my soul was filled with limpid light.No head was raised more proudly and more radiantly than mine.Priests consulted me on chastity； doctors， on doctrines.Yes， science was all in all to me； it was a sister to me， and a sister sufficed.Not but that with age other ideas came to me.More than once my flesh had been moved as a woman's form passed by.That force of sex and blood which， in the madness of youth， I had imagined that I had stifled forever had， more than once， convulsively raised the chain of iron vows which bind me， a miserable wretch， to the cold stones of the altar.But fasting， prayer， study， the mortifications of the cloister， rendered my soul mistress of my body once more， and then I avoided women.Moreover， I had but to open a book， and all the impure mists of my brain vanished before the splendors of science.In a few moments， I felt the gross things of earth flee far away， and I found myself once more calm， quieted， and serene， in the presence of the tranquil radiance of eternal truth.As long as the demon sent to attack me only vague shadows of women who passed occasionally before my eyes in church， in the streets， in the fields， and who hardly recurred to my dreams， I easily vanquished him.Alas！if the victory has not remained with me， it is the fault of God， who has not created man and the demon of equal force.Listen.One day—
Here the priest paused， and the prisoner heard sighs of anguish break from his breast with a sound of the death rattle.
He resumed， —
“One day I was leaning on the window of my cell.What book was I reading then？Oh！all that is a whirlwind in my head.I was reading.The window opened upon a Square.I heard a sound of tambourine and music.Annoyed at being thus disturbed in my revery， I glanced into the Square.What I beheld， others saw beside myself， and yet it was not a spectacle made for human eyes.There， in the middle of the pavement， —it was midday， the sun was shining brightly， —a creature was dancing.A creature so beautiful that God would have preferred her to the Virgin and have chosen her for his mother and have wished to be born of her if she had been in existence when he was made man！Her eyes were black and splendid； in the midst of her black locks， some hairs through which the sun shone glistened like threads of gold. Her feet disappeared in their movements like the spokes of a rapidly turning wheel.Around her head， in her black tresses， there were disks of metal， which glittered in the sun， and formed a coronet of stars on her brow.Her dress thick set with spangles， blue， and dotted with a thousand sparks， gleamed like a summer night.Her brown， supple arms twined and untwined around her waist， like two scarfs.The form of her body was surprisingly beautiful.Oh！what a resplendent figure stood out， like something luminous even in the sunlight！Alas， young girl， it was thou！Surprised， intoxicated， charmed， I allowed myself to gaze upon thee.I looked so long that I suddenly shuddered with terror； I felt that fate was seizing hold of me.”
The priest paused for a moment， overcome with emotion. Then he continued， —
“Already half fascinated， I tried to cling fast to something and hold myself back from falling. I recalled the snares which Satan had already set for me.The creature before my eyes possessed that superhuman beauty which can come only from heaven or hell.It was no simple girl made with a little of our earth， and dimly lighted within by the vacillating ray of a woman's soul.It was an angel！but of shadows and flame， and not of light.At the moment when I was meditating thus， I beheld beside you a goat， a beast of witches， which smiled as it gazed at me.The midday sun gave him golden horns.Then I perceived the snare of the demon， and I no longer doubted that you had come from hell and that you had come thence for my perdition.I believed it.”
Here the priest looked the prisoner full in the face， and added， coldly， —“I believe it still.Nevertheless， the charm operated little by little； your dancing whirled through my brain； I felt the mysterious spell working within me.All that should have awakened was lulled to sleep； and like those who die in the snow， I felt pleasure in allowing this sleep to draw on.All at once， you began to sing.What could I do， unhappy wretch？Your song was still more charming than your dancing.I tried to flee.Impossible.I was nailed， rooted to the spot.It seemed to me that the marble of the pavement had risen to my knees.I was forced to remain until the end.My feet were like ice， my head was on fire.At last you took pity on me， you ceased to sing， you disappeared. The reflection of the dazzling vision， the reverberation of the enchanting music disappeared by degrees from my eyes and my ears.Then I fell back into the embrasure of the window， more rigid， more feeble than a statue torn from its base.The vesper bell roused me.I drew myself up； I fled； but alas！something within me had fallen never to rise again， something had come upon me from which I could not flee.”
He made another pause and went on， —
“Yes， dating from that day， there was within me a man whom I did not know. I tried to make use of all my remedies.The cloister， the altar， work， books， —follies！Oh， how hollow does science sound when one in despair dashes against it a head full of passions！Do you know， young girl， what I saw thenceforth between my book and me？You， your shade， the image of the luminous apparition which had one day crossed the space before me.But this image had no longer the same color； it was sombre， funereal， gloomy as the black circle which long pursues the vision of the imprudent man who has gazed intently at the sun.
“Unable to rid myself of it， since I heard your song humming ever in my head， beheld your feet dancing always on my breviary， felt even at night， in my dreams， your form in contact with my own， I desired to see you again， to touch you， to know who you were， to see whether I should really find you like the ideal image which I had retained of you， to shatter my dream， perchance， with reality. At all events， I hoped that a new impression would efface the first， and the first had become insupportable.I sought you.I saw you once more.Calamity！When I had seen you twice， I wanted to see you a thousand times， I wanted to see you always.Then—how stop myself on that slope of hell？—then I no longer belonged to myself.The other end of the thread which the demon had attached to my wings he had fastened to his foot.I became vagrant and wandering like yourself.I waited for you under porches， I stood on the lookout for you at the street corners， I watched for you from the summit of my tower.Every evening I returned to myself more charmed， more despairing， more bewitched， more lost！
“I had learned who you were； an Egyptian， Bohemian， gypsy， zingara. How could I doubt the magic？Listen.I hoped that a trial would free me from the charm.A witch enchanted Bruno d'Ast； he had her burned， and was cured.I knew it.I wanted to try the remedy.First I tried to have you forbidden the square in front of Notre-Dame， hoping to forget you if you returned no more.You paid no heed to it.You returned.Then the idea of abducting you occurred to me.One night I made the attempt.There were two of us.We already had you in our power， when that miserable officer came up.He delivered you.Thus did he begin your unhappiness， mine， and his own.Finally， no longer knowing what to do， and what was to become of me， I denounced you to the official.
“I thought that I should be cured like Bruno d'Ast. I also had a confused idea that a trial would deliver you into my hands； that， as a prisoner I should hold you， I should have you； that there you could not escape from me； that you had already possessed me a sufficiently long time to give me the right to possess you in my turn.When one does wrong， one must do it thoroughly.'Tis madness to halt midway in the monstrous！The extreme of crime has its deliriums of joy.A priest and a witch can mingle in delight upon the truss of straw in a dungeon！
“Accordingly， I denounced you. It was then that I terrified you when we met.The plot which I was weaving against you， the storm which I was heaping up above your head， burst from me in threats and lightning glances.Still， I hesitated.My project had its terrible sides which made me shrink back.
“Perhaps I might have renounced it； perhaps my hideous thought would have withered in my brain， without bearing fruit. I thought that it would always depend upon me to follow up or discontinue this prosecution.But every evil thought is inexorable， and insists on becoming a deed； but where I believed myself to be all powerful， fate was more powerful than I.Alas！'tis fate which has seized you and delivered you to the terrible wheels of the machine which I had constructed doubly.Listen.I am nearing the end.
“One day， —again the sun was shining brilliantly—I behold man pass me uttering your name and laughing， who carries sensuality in his eyes. Damnation！I followed him； you know the rest.”
He ceased.
The young girl could find but one word：
“Oh， my Phoebus！”
“Not that name！”said the priest， grasping her arm violently.“Utter not that name！Oh！miserable wretches that we are， 'tis that name which has ruined us！or， rather we have ruined each other by the inexplicable play of fate！you are suffering， are you not？you are cold； the night makes you blind， the dungeon envelops you； but perhaps you still have some light in the bottom of your soul， were it only your childish love for that empty man who played with your heart， while I bear the dungeon within me； within me there is winter， ice， despair； I have night in my soul.
“Do you know what I have suffered？I was present at your trial. I was seated on the official's bench.Yes， under one of the priests'cowls， there were the contortions of the damned.When you were brought in， I was there； when you were questioned， I was there.—Den of wolves！—It was my crime， it was my gallows that I beheld being slowly reared over your head.I was there for every witness， every proof， every plea； I could count each of your steps in the painful path； I was still there when that ferocious beast—oh！I had not foreseen torture！Listen.I followed you to that chamber of anguish.I beheld you stripped and handled， half naked， by the infamous hands of the tormentor.I beheld your foot， that foot which I would have given an empire to kiss and die， that foot， beneath which to have had my head crushed I should have felt such rapture， —I beheld it encased in that horrible boot， which converts the limbs of a living being into one bloody clod.Oh， wretch！while I looked on at that， I held beneath my shroud a dagger， with which I lacerated my breast.When you uttered that cry， I plunged it into my flesh； at a second cry， it would have entered my heart.Look！I believe that it still bleeds.”
He opened his cassock. His breast was in fact， mangled as by the claw of a tiger， and on his side he had a large and badly healed wound.
The prisoner recoiled with horror.
“Oh！”said the priest， “young girl， have pity upon me！You think yourself unhappy； alas！alas！you know not what unhappiness is.Oh！to love a woman！to be a priest！to be hated！to love with all the fury of one's soul； to feel that one would give for the least of her smiles， one's blood， one's vitals， one's fame， one's salvation， one's immortality and eternity， this life and the other； to regret that one is not a king， emperor， archangel， God， in order that one might place a greater slave beneath her feet； to clasp her night and day in one's dreams and one's thoughts， and to behold her in love with the trappings of a soldier and to have nothing to offer her but a priest's dirty cassock， which will inspire her with fear and disgust！To be present with one's jealousy and one's rage， while she lavishes on a miserable， blustering imbecile， treasures of love and beauty！To behold that body whose form burns you， that bosom which possesses so much sweetness， that flesh palpitate and blush beneath the kisses of another！Oh heaven！to love her foot， her arm， her shoulder， to think of her blue veins， of her brown skin， until one writhes for whole nights together on the pavement of one's cell， and to behold all those caresses which one has dreamed of， end in torture！To have succeeded only in stretching her upon the leather bed！Oh！these are the veritable pincers， reddened in the fires of hell. Oh！blessed is he who is sawn between two planks， or torn in pieces by four horses！Do you know what that torture is， which is imposed upon you for long nights by your burning arteries， your bursting heart， your breaking head， your teeth-knawed hands； mad tormentors which turn you incessantly， as upon a red-hot gridiron， to a thought of love， of jealousy， and of despair！Young girl， mercy！a truce for a moment！a few ashes on these live coals！Wipe away， I beseech you， the perspiration which trickles in great drops from my brow！Child！torture me with one hand， but caress me with the other！Have pity， young girl！Have pity upon me！”
The priest writhed on the wet pavement， beating his head against the corners of the stone steps. The young girl gazed at him， and listened to him.
When he ceased， exhausted and panting， she repeated in a low voice， —“Oh my Phoebus！”
The priest dragged himself towards her on his knees.
“I beseech you， ”he cried， “if you have any heart， do not repulse me！Oh！I love you！I am a wretch！When you utter that name， unhappy girl， it is as though you crushed all the fibres of my heart between your teeth.Mercy！If you come from hell I will go thither with you.I have done everything to that end.The hell where you are， shall he paradise； the sight of you is more charming than that of God！Oh！speak！you will have none of me？I should have thought the mountains would be shaken in their foundations on the day when a woman would repulse such a love. Oh！if you only would！Oh！how happy we might be.We would flee—I would help you to flee， —we would go somewhere， we would seek that spot on earth， where the sun is brightest， the sky the bluest， where the trees are most luxuriant.We would love each other， we would pour our two souls into each other， and we would have a thirst for ourselves which we would quench in common and incessantly at that fountain of inexhaustible love.”
She interrupted with a terrible and thrilling laugh.
“Look， father， you have blood on your fingers！”
The priest remained for several moments as though petrified， with his eyes fixed upon his hand.
“Well， yes！”he resumed at last， with strange gentleness， “insult me， scoff at me， overwhelm me with scorn！but come， come. Let us make haste.It is to be to-morrow， I tell you.The gibbet on the Grève， you know it？it stands always ready.It is horrible！to see you ride in that tumbrel！Oh mercy！Until now I have never felt the power of my love for you.—Oh！follow me.You shall take your time to love me after I have saved you.You shall hate me as long as you will.But come.To-morrow！to-morrow！the gallows！your execution！Oh！save yourself！spare me！”
He seized her arm， he was beside himself， he tried to drag her away.
She fixed her eye intently on him.
“What has become of my Phoebus？”
“Ah！”said the priest， releasing her arm， “you are pitiless.”
“What has become of Phoebus？”she repeated coldly.
“He is dead！”cried the priest.
“Dead！”said she， still icy and motionless“then why do you talk to me of living？”
He was not listening to her.
“Oh！yes， ”said he， as though speaking to himself， “he certainly must be dead. The blade pierced deeply.I believe I touched his heart with the point.Oh！my very soul was at the end of the dagger！”
The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress， and pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural force.
“Begone， monster！Begone， assassin！Leave me to die！May the blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow！Be thine， priest！Never！never！Nothing shall unite us！not hell itself！Go， accursed man！Never！”
The priest had stumbled on the stairs. He silently disentangled his feet from the folds of his robe， picked up his lantern again， and slowly began the ascent of the steps which led to the door； he opened the door and passed through it.
All at once， the young girl beheld his head reappear； it wore a frightful expression， and he cried， hoarse with rage and despair， —
“I tell you he is dead！”
She fell face downwards upon the floor， and there was no longer any sound audible in the cell than the sob of the drop of water which made the pool palpitate amid the darkness.
Chapter5 The Mother
I do not believe that there is anything sweeter in the world than the ideas which awake in a mother's heart at the sight of her child's tiny shoe； especially if it is a shoe for festivals， for Sunday， for baptism， the shoe embroidered to the very sole， a shoe in which the infant has not yet taken a step. That shoe has so much grace and daintiness， it is so impossible for it to walk， that it seems to the mother as though she saw her child.She smiles upon it， she kisses it， she talks to it； she asks herself whether there can actually be a foot so tiny； and if the child be absent， the pretty shoe suffices to place the sweet and fragile creature before her eyes.She thinks she sees it， she does see it， complete， living， joyous， with its delicate hands， its round head， its pure lips， its serene eyes whose white is blue.If it is in winter， it is yonder， crawling on the carpet， it is laboriously climbing upon an ottoman， and the mother trembles lest it should approach the fire.If it is summer time， it crawls about the yard， in the garden， plucks up the grass between the paving-stones， gazes innocently at the big dogs， the big horses， without fear， plays with the shells， with the flowers， and makes the gardener grumble because he finds sand in the flower-beds and earth in the paths.Everything laughs， and shines and plays around it， like it， even the breath of air and the ray of sun which vie with each other in disporting among the silky ringlets of its hair.The shoe shows all this to the mother， and makes her heart melt as fire melts wax.
But when the child is lost， these thousand images of joy， of charms， of tenderness， which throng around the little shoe， become so many horrible things. The pretty broidered shoe is no longer anything but an instrument of torture which eternally crushes the heart of the mother.It is always the same fibre which vibrates， the tenderest and most sensitive； but instead of an angel caressing it， it is a demon who is wrenching at it.
One May morning， when the sun was rising on one of those dark blue skies against which Garofolo loves to place his Descents from the Cross， the recluse of the Tour-Roland heard a sound of wheels， of horses and irons in the Place de Grève.She was somewhat aroused by it， knotted her hair upon her ears in order to deafen herself， and resumed her contemplation， on her knees， of the inanimate object which she had adored for fifteen years.This little shoe was the universe to her， as we have already said. Her thought was shut up in it， and was destined never more to quit it except at death.The sombre cave of the Tour-Roland alone knew how many bitter imprecations， touching complaints， prayers and sobs she had wafted to heaven in connection with that charming bauble of rose-colored satin.Never was more despair bestowed upon a prettier and more graceful thing.
It seemed as though her grief were breaking forth more violently than usual； and she could be heard outside lamenting in a loud and monotonous voice which rent the heart.
“Oh my daughter！”she said， “my daughter， my poor， dear little child， so I shall never see thee more！It is over！It always seems to me that it happened yesterday！My God！my God！it would have been better not to give her to me than to take her away so soon. Did you not know that our children are part of ourselves， and that a mother who has lost her child no longer believes in God？Ah！wretch that I am to have gone out that day！Lord！Lord！to have taken her from me thus； you could never have looked at me with her， when I was joyously warming her at my fire， when she laughed as she suckled， when I made her tiny feet creep up my breast to my lips？Oh！
if you had looked at that， my God， you would have taken pity on my joy； you would not have taken from me the only love which lingered， in my heart！Was I then， Lord， so miserable a creature， that you could not look at me before condemning me？—Alas！Alas！here is the shoe； where is the foot？where is the rest？Where is the child？My daughter！my daughter！what did they do with thee？Lord， give her back to me.My knees have been worn for fifteen years in praying to thee， my God！Is not that enough？Give her back to me one day， one hour， one minute； one minute， Lord！and then cast me to the demon for all eternity！Oh！if I only knew where the skirt of your garment trails， I would cling to it with both hands， and you would be obliged to give me back my child！Have you no pity on her pretty little shoe？Could you condemn a poor mother to this torture for fifteen years？Good Virgin！good Virgin of heaven！my infant Jesus has been taken from me， has been stolen from me； they devoured her on a heath， they drank her blood， they cracked her bones！
