The Conquest of Plassans (Classic Reprint) Read online

  Mouret came back from the station with a heavy heart. He looked for his wife, and tracked her down in the arbour in the garden, weeping. And then he gave vent to his feelings.

  ‘That’s one less,’ he declared. ‘You must be pleased. Now you can roam about the churches as much as you please. And you may rest assured the two others won’t be staying long. We’ll keep Serge because he’s no trouble and I think he’s a bit young to go to university; but if he’s in your way, say so and I’ll get rid of him as well… As for Désirée, she can go to her nurse.’

  Marthe continued to weep silently.

  ‘Well, what do you expect? One can’t be out all the time and at home as well. You’ve chosen to be out, the children don’t count for you any more, so it’s logical… And now, anyway, we need space for all these people in our house, don’t we? The house isn’t big enough. We’ll be lucky not to be shoved out ourselves.’

  He had raised his head and was studying the windows on the second floor. Then, lowering his voice:

  ‘So don’t cry like a baby. They’re looking at you. Can’t you see that pair of eyes in between the curtains? Those are the eyes of the priest’s sister, I know them very well. You can be sure of finding them there the whole day long… Look, the priest is no doubt a fine character, but the Trouches, I feel that they are crouching behind their curtains like wolves lying in wait. I bet that if the priest didn’t stop them they would climb out of the window by night and steal my pears… Wipe your eyes, my dear; you may be sure they take delight in our quarrels. There’s no reason to show them how upset we both are by the departure of our son, just because they are the cause of it.’

  His voice broke, he was near to tears himself. Marthe, devastated and cut to the quick by his last words, was on the point of throwing herself into his arms. But they were afraid of being seen, they felt as if there were an obstacle between them. So they went their separate ways, while Olympe’s eyes still glowed in between the two red curtains.

  CHAPTER 11

  ONE morning Abbé Bourrette arrived, looking distraught. He saw Marthe on the steps and came over to wring her hands, stammering:

  ‘Poor Compan, it’s the end, he’s dying… I’m going up to see Faujas straight away.’

  And when Marthe had pointed out the priest taking his habitual walk in the garden reading his breviary, he hurried down to him, his short legs working quickly. He tried to speak and tell him the bad news; but the pain of it stopped his throat and, choked with sobs, all he could do was throw his arms around him.

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with the two abbés?’ Mouret asked, hurrying out of the dining room.

  ‘Apparently the priest at Saint-Saturnin is on his deathbed,’ replied Marthe, who was very upset.

  Mouret’s mouth expressed surprise. He went back in again, muttering:

  ‘Huh, Bourrette will be all right again tomorrow when he’s appointed priest-in-charge in his place… He’s counting on the appointment; he told me so.’

  Meanwhile Abbé Faujas had disengaged himself from the old priest’s embrace. He received the bad news with a grave face and shut his breviary with composure.

  ‘Compan wants to see you,’ Bourrette stammered. ‘He won’t make it through the morning… Oh, he was a very dear friend… We were at college together… He wants to say goodbye to you; he kept saying all night that you were the only one with any courage in the diocese. For more than a year while he was ill not one priest in Plassans dared to go and shake hands with him. And you, who scarcely knew him, devoted one afternoon every week to him. He wept just now as he was speaking of you… You must make haste, my friend.’

  Abbé Faujas went up to his room for a moment while the desperate Abbé Bourrette paced impatiently to and fro in the hall. Finally after a quarter of an hour, both left. The old priest was wiping the sweat from his forehead as he made his uncertain way over the cobbles, and his words came disjointedly.

  ‘He would have died without a prayer, like a dog, if his sister hadn’t come and told me last night about eleven. The dear lady did the right thing… He didn’t want to compromise any of us, he would not even have received the sacrament… Yes, my friend, he was about to die in a corner alone and abandoned, this man who had such a fine intelligence and who lived only to do good.’

  He stopped talking. Then, after a silence, in a changed voice:

  ‘Do you think Fenil will forgive me? No, never, will he? When Compan saw me arriving with the holy oils he didn’t want me. He told me to go away. Well, that’s done it! I’ll never be priest-in-charge. But I prefer that; at least I’ve not let Compan die like a dog… He’s been fighting Abbé Fenil for thirty years. When he took to his bed he told me: “Well, it’s Fenil who’s won. Now I’m down he’ll finish me off…” Ah, poor Compan, such a proud man, such a force for the good in Saint-Saturnin!… Little Eusèbe, the choirboy I brought to ring the viaticum, was very embarrassed when he saw where we were going. At each ring of the bell he looked behind him, as if he were worried that Fenil could hear him.’

  Abbé Faujas, walking fast, with his head down and deep in thought, said nothing. He seemed not to be listening to his companion.

  ‘Does the bishop know?’ he asked abruptly.

  But Abbé Bourrette did not reply. He seemed to be pondering something too. Then, as he arrived at Abbé Compan’s door, he murmured:

  ‘Tell him we’ve just met Fenil and he said good day to us. That will please him. He’ll think I am priest-in-charge.’

  They went upstairs quietly. The dying man’s sister came to open the door. When she saw the two priests she burst out sobbing, stammering through her tears:

  ‘It’s all over. He has just passed away in my arms… I was on my own. He looked around him as we was dying and murmured: “Have I got the plague, then, that they have abandoned me?” Oh, Messieurs, he died with his eyes full of tears.’

  They went into the little room where Compan the priest, with his head on the pillow, seemed to be sleeping. His eyes had re-mained open, and his white, deeply sad face appeared to be weeping still. Tears ran down his cheeks. Then Abbé Bourrette fell to his knees, sobbing, praying, his forehead against the edge of the bedspread. Abbé Faujas remained standing, looking at the poor dead man. Then, after kneeling a moment, he went discreetly out of the room. Abbé Bourrette, lost in grief, did not even hear him close the door.

  Abbé Faujas went straight to the bishop. In Monsignor’s ante-room he met Abbé Surin who was weighed down with papers.

  ‘Did you wish to speak to Monsignor?’ asked his secretary, who had a permanent smile on his face. ‘It’s rather difficult at the moment. Monsignor is so busy he has closed his door to everyone.’

  ‘It’s very urgent,’ Abbé Faujas coolly replied. ‘You could always let him know that I’m here. I’ll wait if necessary.’

  ‘I don’t think there would be any point. Monsignor has several people with him. It would be better if you came back tomorrow.’

  But the priest was just about to sit down, when the bishop opened his office door. He seemed very put out at the sight of his visitor whom he at first pretended not to recognize.

  He spoke to Surin:

  ‘When you have finished filing those papers, my child, come in straight away; I have a letter to dictate.’

  Then, turning to the priest, who was respectfully standing there:

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Monsieur Faujas? Delighted to see you… Perhaps you have something to tell me? Come in, come in to my office. I am always at your service.’

  Monsignor Rousselot’s office was enormous, rather dark, with a big wood fire burning continuously, winter and summer. The carpet and the thick curtains were stifling. It felt as if you were getting into a warm bath. The bishop lived there in an armchair, always feeling the cold, like a dowager lady retired from the world, dreading noise, discharging the care of his diocese on to the shoulders of Abbé Fenil. He adored classical literature. It was said he secretly translated Horace. The short poems of the Gr
eek Anthology* also delighted him and he sometimes let slip scabrous quotations which he relished with an intellectual’s naïvety, impervious to the embarrassment of ordinary people.

  ‘As you see, I have nobody here,’ he said drawing his chair up to the fire; ‘but I am not in the best of health, so I closed my door to everyone. You can talk now, I am at your disposal.’

  His habitual amiability hid a vague anxiety, a sort of resigned submissiveness. When Abbé Faujas told him of the death of Compan, the priest-in-charge, he stood up in alarm and annoyance:

  ‘What!’ he cried. ‘My friend Compan is dead and I didn’t even say goodbye to him!… Nobody told me!… Oh, my friend, you were right when you gave me to understand I was no longer in control of things here; my good nature is being taken advantage of.’

  ‘Monsignor’, said Abbé Faujas, ‘knows how devoted I am to him. I only await a sign from him.’

  The bishop nodded, murmuring:

  ‘Yes, I remember what you offered. You have a warm heart. Only what a fuss there would be if I broke off relations with Fenil! My ears would be stinging for a week. And yet if I were absolutely certain that you would get rid of the man, if I weren’t afraid that a week later he would come back and kick you in the teeth…’

  Abbé Faujas could not suppress a smile. Tears welled up in the bishop’s eyes.

  ‘It’s true, I’m afraid,’ he went on, allowing himself to sink down into his armchair once more. ‘It has come to that. He’s the villain who has caused Compan’s death and concealed his dying moments from me so that I couldn’t go and close his eyes. He has some dreadful ideas… But you see, I like a quiet life. Fenil is very energetic and does such a huge amount for me in the diocese. When I’m not there any more, perhaps everything will run more smoothly.’

  He became calmer, and a smile reappeared on his face.

  ‘Anyway everything is fine at the moment, I can’t foresee any difficulties… We must wait and see.’

  Abbé Faujas sat down and said quietly:

  ‘No doubt. And yet you are going to have to appoint a priest-in-charge at Saint-Saturnin to replace Monsieur l’Abbé Compan.’

  Monsignor Rousselot put his hands to his forehead in a gesture of despair.

  ‘My goodness, you are right,’ he stammered. ‘I didn’t think of that… Compan, the dear fellow, doesn’t realize what a fix he has put me in, dying so suddenly and without anyone giving me due warning. I’d promised you the job, hadn’t I?’

  The priest inclined his head.

  ‘Well then, my friend, you will be my salvation. You will allow me to go back on my word. You know how much Fenil hates you. The success of the Work of the Virgin has made him absolutely furious; he swears he will prevent you from taking over Plassans. I’m being frank with you, as you see. Now these last few days, as we were talking about the office in Saint-Saturnin, I mentioned your name. Fenil got into a terrible rage and I had to swear I would give it to one of his protégés, Abbé Chardon, whom you know. A very worthy man, by the way… My friend, do this for me, give up this idea. I’ll compensate you in whatever way you like.’

  The priest remained grave. After a silence, as if he had been reflecting on those words, he said:

  ‘As you are aware, Monsignor, I have no personal ambition. I wish to live in retreat and it would be a great delight to me to renounce this post. But I am not in charge of my own fate. I am bound to satisfy those who watch over my affairs… For your own good, Monsignor, consider carefully before you determine on a course that you might later regret.’

  Although Abbé Faujas had spoken in very humble tones, the bishop detected the hidden threat in his words. He got up, and paced up and down a little, perplexed and full of anguish. Then, raising his hands he said:

  ‘Come now, that’s enough of trials and tribulations. I would have liked to avoid going over all these matters. But since you insist, we must speak frankly. My dear abbé, Fenil blames you for a lot of things. As I think I said before, he must have written to Besançon, from where he will have learned of the regrettable events you know about… Of course, you have given me an explanation for all that, and I am familiar with your fine qualities, your life of repentance and retreat; but what can you expect? The assistant bishop has ammunition against you and uses it mercilessly. I am often at a loss to defend you… When the minister begged me to accept you in my diocese I didn’t hide from him that your situation was a tricky one. He pressed me further, telling me it was your business and no one else’s, and in the end I agreed. But today you must not ask me the impossible.’

  Abbé Faujas had not bowed his head. He even lifted it to look the bishop in the eyes, saying in his curt manner:

  ‘You gave me your word, Monsignor.’

  ‘Of course, of course… Poor Compan was getting sicker every day, you came and confided things to me. So I promised, I don’t deny it… Well listen, I shall tell you everything, so that you can’t accuse me of spinning round like a weathercock. You claimed that the minister was very keen to see you appointed priest-in-charge of Saint-Saturnin. Well, I wrote, I got information, one of my friends went to the minister’s office. They almost laughed in his face, they told him that they hadn’t heard of you. The minister absolutely refused to protect you, do you hear! If you like, I will show you a letter in which it is evident that he views your conduct with extreme seriousness.’

  And he stretched out and fumbled in a drawer; but Abbé Faujas had got to his feet without shifting his eyes from the bishop’s face, with a smile that was faintly ironic and pitying.

  ‘Oh, Monsignor, Monsignor!’ he murmured.

  Then after a silence, not willing to explain himself further, he went on:

  ‘I release you from your promise, Monsignor. Please believe me that in all this I was working even more for your good than for mine. Afterwards when it’s too late, you will remember my warnings.’

  He made for the door. But the bishop restrained him, muttering in a worried way:

  ‘Come now, what do you mean? Explain yourself, my dear Monsieur Faujas. I am well aware that I am out of favour in Paris since the election of the Marquis of Lagrifoul. They really don’t know me very well if they imagine I have dirtied my hands with that. I scarcely leave my office twice a month… So do you believe they are accusing me of having the marquis’s name put forward?’

  ‘Yes, I fear so,’ the priest said categorically.

  ‘Well, that’s absurd, I’ve never meddled with politics, I live for my beloved books. It’s Fenil who did all that. I told him many times he would get me into trouble with Paris.’

  He stopped, blushed slightly at having let slip these last words. Abbé Faujas sat down in front of him again and in his deep voice said:

  ‘Monsignor, you have just damned your assistant bishop… It’s what I’ve been telling you all along. Do not continue to take his side or he will make things very difficult for you. I have friends in Paris, whatever you may think. I know the election of the Marquis of Lagrifoul has seriously prejudiced the government against you. Rightly or wrongly, they think you are the sole cause of the opposing faction here in Plassans, where the minister, for his own special reasons, is absolutely determined to obtain a majority. If at the next elections the Legitimist candidate were to win it would be extremely annoying and I would fear for your peace of mind.’

  ‘But that’s terrible!’ cried the unfortunate bishop, shifting uneasily in his chair. ‘I can’t stop the Legitimist candidate winning, can I! Have I got the least influence? Have I ever got mixed up in these things? Let me tell you, some days I want to go and shut myself up in the depths of a monastery. I’d take all my books with me and I should be fine… It’s Fenil who ought to be bishop instead of me. If I listened to Fenil, I should align myself quite against the government, I should listen only to Rome, I’d send Paris packing! But that’s not what I’m like, I want to die with a clear conscience… So are you saying the minister is very annoyed with me?’

  The priest did n
ot reply. Two little folds which made hollows in the corners of his mouth imparted a silent scorn to his features.

  ‘My word,’ the bishop continued, ‘if I thought I would please him by naming you priest-in-charge of Saint Saturnin, I’d try and arrange that… Only I assure you, you are mistaken; as a priest, you are not in good odour.’

  Abbé Faujas made a brusque gesture. In a short burst of impatience he said:

  ‘Oh, forget about the libellous things being said about me, and that I arrived in Plassans with holes in my surplice! When a desperate man is sent to a dangerous post they will deny him till the day he triumphs… Help me to succeed, Monsignor, and you’ll see I have friends in Paris.’

  Then, as the bishop, surprised by this energetic, adventurous figure who had just materialized in front of him, continued looking at him silently, he softened, and went on:

  ‘These are suppositions, I mean that I have a lot to be forgiven for. My friends are waiting for my situation to become secure before thanking you.’

  Monsignor Rousselot was silent for another moment. He had a very fine nature, having learnt about human vice in books. He was aware of his great weakness, was even a bit ashamed of it; but he consoled himself by judging men for what they were worth. In his life as an Epicurean man of letters there was at times a profound mockery of the ambitious figures who surrounded him, squabbling over what was left of his power.

  ‘Come, come,’ he smiled, ‘you are an obstinate man, my dear Monsieur Faujas. Since I have made you a promise, I shall keep it… Six months ago, I admit, I should have been afraid to make all Plassans rise up against me. But you have won them over, the ladies of Plassans often praise you to the skies. By making you priest-in-charge at Saint-Saturnin, I am paying the debt for the Work of the Virgin.’

  The bishop had recovered his cheerful friendliness, his exquisite manners, charming prelate that he was. Abbé Surin at that moment put his boyish head round the door.