Part 26 (1/2)

Not a sound arose in this deserted spot, save the rustle of dry leaves which Durtal brushed as he walked. The clock struck seven.

He remembered that breakfast would be ready, and he walked quickly to the abbey. Father Etienne was waiting for him, shook hands, asked if he had slept well, then said:

”What would you like? I can only offer you milk and honey; I will send to-day to the nearest village and try to get you a little cheese, but you will have only a poor meal this morning.”

Durtal proposed to exchange the milk for wine, declaring that he should then do very well, and said, ”In any case I should do ill to complain, for you are fasting.”

The monk smiled. ”Just now,” he said, ”we are doing penance, on account of certain feasts of our order.” And he explained that he only took food once a day, at two o'clock in the afternoon, after Nones.

”And you have not even wine and eggs to keep up your strength!”

Father Etienne smiled again. ”One gets accustomed to it,” he said. ”What is this rule in comparison with that adopted by Saint Bernard and his companions, when they went to till the valley of Clairvaux? Their meal consisted of oak leaves, salted, cooked in muddy water.”

And after a silence the Father continued: ”No doubt the Trappist rule is hard, but it is mild if we carry our thoughts back to the rule of Saint Pacomius in the East. Only think; whoever wished to join that order had to remain ten days and nights at the door of the convent, and had to endure spitting and insults; if he still desired to enter, he fulfilled a three years' novitiate, inhabited a hut where he could not stand up, nor lie at full length, ate only olives and cabbage, prayed twelve times in the morning, twelve times in the afternoon, twelve times in the night; the silence was perpetual, and his mortifications never ceased.

To prepare himself for this novitiate, and to learn to subdue his appet.i.te, Saint Macarius thought of the plan of soaking his bread in a vessel with a very narrow neck, and only fed on the crumbs which he could take out with his fingers. When he was admitted into the monastery, he contented himself with gnawing leaves of raw cabbage on Sunday. Ah! they could stand more than we. We, alas! have no longer souls nor bodies stout enough to bear such fasts; but do not let that stop your meal; make as good an one as you can. Ah, by the way,” said the monk, ”be in the auditorium at ten precisely, where the Father Prior will hear your confession.”

And he left the room.

If Durtal had received a blow on his head with a mallet, he could not have been more overwhelmed. All the scaffolding of his joys, so rapidly run up, fell. This strange fact had occurred, in the impulse of joy he had felt since daybreak he had wholly forgotten that he had to confess.

He had a moment of aberration. ”But I am forgiven,” he thought; ”the proof is that state of happiness, such as I have never known, that truly wonderful expansion of soul which I experienced in the chapel and in the wood.”

The idea that nothing had begun, that all was still to do, terrified him; he had not the courage to swallow his bread, he drank a little wine, and rushed out of doors in a wind of panic.

He went, wildly, with great strides. Confession! The prior? Who was the prior? He sought in vain among the fathers whose faces he remembered the one who would hear him.

”My G.o.d!” he said, all at once, ”but I do not even know how a confession is made.”

He sought a deserted corner, where he could recollect himself a little.

He was striding along without even knowing how he came there, along a walnut-tree walk with a wall on one side. There were some enormous trees, he hid himself behind the trunk of one of them, and sitting on the moss, turned over the leaves of his prayer-book, and read: ”On arriving at the confessional, place yourself on your knees, make the sign of the cross, and ask the priest for his blessing, saying, 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned;' then recite the Confiteor as far as _mea culpa_ ... and ...”

He stopped, and without any need of probing it his life sprang out in jets of filth.

He shrank from it, there was so much, of every kind, that he was overwhelmed with despair.

Then by an effort of his will he pulled himself together, endeavoured to control and bank up these torrents, to separate them so as to understand them, but one affluent rolled back all the others, ended by overwhelming them, and became the river itself.

And this sin appeared at first ape-like and sly, at school where everyone tempted and corrupted others; then there was all his greedy youth, dragged through tap-rooms, rolled in swine troughs, wallowing in the sinks of prost.i.tution, and then an ign.o.ble manhood. To his regular tasks had succeeded toll paid to his senses, and shameful memories a.s.sailed him in a crowd; he recalled to mind how he had sought after monstrous iniquities, his pursuit of artifices aggravating the malice of the act, and the accomplices and agents of his sins pa.s.sed in file before him.

Among all, at one time, there was a certain Mme. Chantelouve, a demoniacal adulteress who had drawn him headlong into frightful excesses, who had linked him to nameless crimes, sins against holy things, to sacrileges.

”How can I tell all this to the monk?” thought Durtal, terrified by the remembrance; ”how can I even express myself, so as to make him understand without defilement?”

Tears rushed from his eyes. ”My G.o.d, my G.o.d!” he sighed, ”this is indeed too much.”

And in her turn Florence appeared with her little street-arab smile, and her childish haunches. ”I can never tell the confessor all that was brewed in the perfumed shade of her vices,” cried Durtal. ”I can by no means make him face these torrents of pus.

”Yet they say this has to be done;” and he bowed under the weight of the foulness of this girl.

”How shameful to have been riveted to her, how disgusting to have satisfied the abominable demands of her desires!”