CHAPTER VIII.

VICTOR TO EUGENE.

I WISHED, in one of my letters, to see either this father or this priest. I have seen this priest.

After writing, musing, worrying myself, I went out to walk. I wandered over the hills that lie to the eastward, the opposite way, for a wonder, from the Chateau de Montalembert -but I begin to be afraid of going there too often.

The evening was dark, and the wind blew in gusts; but I had paid little attention to it: at length a huge black cloud, which had been gradually rolling over the valley, burst suddenly in such a deluge of rain, that I was forced to run for it; and seeing a couple of miserable hovels lying among the bare hills, I made for one of them, and knocking at the door, I was admitted.

It is scarcely possible to imagine penury more complete than the interior of this little hut presented: a wretched bed; two or three half-broken chairs; the miserable fire dying on the hearth; the floor covered with dirt; the windows broken: a scene of wretchedness and disorder, rare, one must own, in this part of the country.

On the squalid pallet lay a man, lean, wasted, gaunt-his hollow cheek, and the dark yellow of his skin-his disordered hair, and the wildness of his eyes, at once telling the dreadful nature of his disorder. The woman who had let me in, had been sitting on one side of the bed; at the head of it stood M. Bernard.

He wore the long black dress and silk sash, the admirable costume, as I think it, of his profession; the three-cornered hat was laid upon the table. You know the way the young priests wear their hair-the locks parted in front, and hanging in curls on the neck, aided by the close-shaved cheek, gave an expression of primitive simplicity to the countenance, so completely in contrast with that of a man of the world, that, I confess, it pleases me very much.

Certainly, that church does understand the art of addressing the senses, however much it may have overlooked the way to reach the understanding.

Bernard appeared to be thinking little at present of either one or the other; his face, which is remarkably beautiful, was filled with an expression of mingled sorrow and pity, and his large dark eye was bent upon the sufferer.

Do you know what he most reminded me of, as he stood there i A picture of Murillo's, that you and I admired so much together. It was in the collection of a private gentleman in England, and was exhibited in the British gallery last year. "Giving alms at the gate of a convent." You remember the young priest-his pale, fervid, benevolent, and most beautiful countenance might have been painted for M. Bernard.

The poor distracted creature was howling dreadfully, and endeavouring to beat himself against the bed. I now perceived that his lower limbs were fastened to it by a sort of fetter, which bound his ankles down to the pallet; his arms too were confined by a strap.

I approached the bed; upon which Bernard turned round, and, seeing me dripping, after an exchange of salutations, he said to the woman-" Ma bonne mere, cannot you blow up those embers a little? Do you not see that the gentleman is very wet?"

For she had resumed her seat at the bedside, so soon as she had fastened the door after me, quite indifferent about my comfort or discomfort; indeed, almost too rude and too savage to comprehend the common rites of hospitality-to the honour of her class, a virtue so rarely omitted.

The woman rose. "That's the last wood I have," said she, grumbling.

"The last," repeated Bernard, "impossible! you had some fagots sent in yesterday."

66

Ay, so I had-I had forgotten. My poor head splits with that yelling beast; I don't know what I say or do."

66

Woman," returned the priest, with some severity in his voice, "learn to respect him whom the Almighty hath smitten. No doubt," softening his tone," your head does ache, and is confused with listening to this piteous outcry; but bear your cross, poor mother-and reverence misery."

Then advancing towards me, with as much politeness as if his life had been spent in the saloons of the Chaussee d'Antin. "I am afraid, sir, that you will be miserably accommodated, even for a few hours, in this abode of wretchedness; but we will contrive to give you a fire, and perhaps half a chairand the storm is too violent to last long. Would that the uproar of the tempest within," said he, as he turned again to the poor maniac on the bed, " could be as certainly exhausted by its own violence. Jean," addressing the sufferer, to whom, having seen me placed in a chair, and the fire blazing so that I might dry my clothes, he now directed the whole of his attention," Jean, do you not hear me? Why do you not endeavour to be reasonable and calm? These bands, poor fellow, are placed here only to keep you from hurting yourself; casting your limbs about with the violence that you do."

66

"I say," howled the maniac, "you're a devil; and if I could seize that black hide of your's I'd tear you in pieces.” No," said the priest, "that you would never do. Your illness makes you say violent and abusive things. If it does you good to abuse me, rail on, my poor fellow; but if you would promise not to strike me, I would undo one hand, and then you would be easier."

"I won't promise," said the man; "I want a knife, and I'd be even with you both."

66

Holy Virgin! your reverence," cried the woman, "talk of undoing his hands! why here he has lain, howl! howl! howl! ever since last harvest, when he got the coup de soleil on his head-rap, rap-tear, tear, tear, he'd beat me and himself to pieces."

"We will take care of that," said the priest; “don't be. afraid. But do not you think to be strapped down, on that hard pallet, thin and worn as he is-neither able to see the light of the fair sun, nor to breathe the sweet air of heaven, would be enough to make a sane man mad? If we could raise his poor head that he beats so furiously ... Have you no traversin, no pillow?"

66

Nothing, sir," said the woman.

"Could you put on your cloak, and fetch mine, while I watch your husband? Stay-here is a line to my housekeeper. The rain is abating, the walk will do you good, or I would go myself."

"Cloak!-I've no cloak, sir-no clothes but these rags,' displaying a gown, which scarcely hung together, and an old worn petticoat, the miserable covering to her wretched limbs.

66

66

Almighty God!" said the priest, no clothes but these! what destitution! Stay"-giving her money out of a purse, which I observed was very scantily furnished, "call at Manuel Spain's, and get a cloak."

"Heaven bless your reverence!" and away hurried the

woman.

I sat by the fire drying my clothes. I would not remind them of my presence, which seemed to be forgotten. I wanted to watch my young priest.

He turned again to the bed: "If you will only try to be quite still for two minutes by my watch, I will undo one of these straps which hurt your wrists so, and bathe it for you. If you would be tranquil you would be well-and then you might rise from this bed of pain and sorrow, and be like others and carry your sickle to your harvest again; and sing harvest songs.'

:

"Do you think so?" said the man, more quietly, think those wicked devils would ever let me go?"

"do you

"They shall let you go," said the priest, and he made the sign of the cross; now you feel better."

66

"I do, sir; two-and-thirty devils are gone out of that corner-for my name is Legion."

"Praise God, then," said the priest.

"Can I?" said the poor maniac, looking up half dubiously, half beseechingly. "If I could—”

"I think you can," said Bernard, "try-try in Latin-say after me."

"I dare not, the devils would tear me." "Defy them-Laudamus Dominum."

"Laudamus Dominum," shouted the poor creature in an ecstasy, "the devils are gone!"

"Now I shall undo your hands," said Bernard; and he proceeded to release the wrists of the miserable creature, which were swollen like those of a fettered criminal. He then put up his arms, under the shoulders of the squalid wretch, and raised him up. "Lean upon me," said he, and the ragged filthy head of hair was resting upon his bosom.

"Will you have the kindness, sir," he then said, addressing me for the first time," to open the door of the house? The view of the cheerful heavens and green earth will help him, poor creature. Look out, Jean."

"There's the old gray mare, still," was Jean's reply, looking through the door which opened opposite to his bed; "she's there alive-it's the old world still."

"To be sure it is," said the priest.

"And there's master's son at the door-Monsieur le Chevalier."

66

'Speak to him," said the priest to me.

"I hope you are getting better, Jean,” said I, coming forward.

"It's not master's son-but it's a very pleasant-looking young gentleman."

"Converse with him," said the priest to me, aside," on harvest-on anything.'

I obeyed; and we infused, if I may say so, a new train of ideas into poor Jean's brain.

After a little while, the priest said, turning to me,

"I think it would be a desirable thing, that his painful associations should not be renewed at present, by the sight of the old woman. Would it be asking too much of you, sir, to beg of you to watch the door for me, and when she approaches, if you would relieve her from her burden, and bring it here yourself, directing her to go to a neighbour's house and wait there till I come to her-you would have the pleasure," added he, with a most agreeable smile, which was without the slightest shade of affectation, or of that smooth servility, which most of all I detest-"you would have the pleasure of doing a very good, and a very useful action, at a very small expense of trouble."

"An excellent way of disposing of my trouble, which I dis

pose of, in general, to very little advantage. I will be a most obedient garçon de apothicaire to you, sir, if you will order me about."

I put myself to watch; the old woman appeared; the pillows and a pair of sheets were brought.

"They are all from his reverence's own bed," whispered she; "ay, he is a true son of the church-may the Blessed Virgin, and all the holy saints reward him!"

I carried in my great bundle, and then, would you believe it? I assisted-for I would assist in making the poor wretch comfortable.

The pillows supported his head, the clean linen wrapped his festering limbs: this true servant of his Lord washed the foul face, hands, and feet of his patient; administered some medicine and some cooling drink which was in the bundle, and soon afterward the poor creature, even while we stood watching him, sank into a gentle and refreshing slumber.

Bernard now turned to the fire, and placing himself by it, seemed to enjoy stretching his limbs. I took another chair and did the same; he kicked up the fagots and made a cheerful blaze, and his countenance, which at first sight had struck me as remarkably grave and melancholy, assumed an air almost of hilarity.

"We are rather in want of something to refresh us," said he; "but I am afraid, sir, I can offer you nothing better than cold water-an entertainment, I should judge from your looks, you are not much in the habit of accepting; and even were you this evening, possibly, you may have had enough of it."

I confessed that I had.

"So have not I, however," said he, and rising, he fetched a cup full from a little cistern at the door, now running over with the rain, and emptied it at a draught.

I pulled out my watch. "It is late," I said; but, unwilling to lose his company so soon, "Which way do you walk? we can cross the hills together."

"I am not going home to-night," he replied.

"You are not going to stay here!" exclaimed I, with surprise.

"I really am," with a smile. "I can conceive a thousand good reasons why I should-and not one, why I should go away. I must watch the effect of my medicine."

"But there is nothing to rest upon," I said, looking round; "no light, no company."

"I sent for my lamp," said he, "and as for companions, I am accustomed to make those of my own thoughts; or of this"-showing a small book, but he did not let me see what it was.

After a moment's pause, he continued―