'If anyone had committed suicide at your mother's,' he growled4, as he angrily buried his head in his pillow, 'you would know nothing about it!'
When he came home to dinner the next day, he called to Marthe as soon as he caught sight of her:
'I was sure of it! I knew you had never troubled yourself to use your eyes! It's just like you! Sitting the whole evening in a room and never having the faintest notion of what was being said or done around you! Why, the whole town is talking about it! The whole town, do you hear? I couldn't go anywhere without somebody speaking to me about——'
'About what, my dear?' asked Marthe, in astonishment5.
'About the fine success of Abbé Faujas, forsooth! He was turned out of the green drawing-room!'
'Indeed he wasn't! I saw nothing of the kind.'
[Pg 69]
'Haven't I told you that you never see anything? Do you know what the Abbé did at Besan?on? He either murdered a priest or committed forgery6! They are not quite certain which it was. However, they seem to have given him a nice reception! He turned quite green. Well, it's all up with him now!'
Marthe bent7 her head and allowed her husband to revel8 in the priest's discomfiture9. Mouret was delighted.
'I still stick to my first idea,' he said; 'your mother and he have got some underhand plot together. I hear that she showed him the greatest civility. It was she, wasn't it, who asked him to accompany you home? Why didn't you tell me so?'
Marthe shrugged11 her shoulders without replying.
'You are the most provoking woman in the world!' her husband cried. 'All these little details are of the greatest importance. Madame Paloque, whom I have just met, told me that she and several other ladies had lingered behind to see how the Abbé would effect his departure, and that your mother availed herself of you to cover the parson's retreat. Just try to remember, now, what he said to you as he walked home with you.'
He sat down by his wife's side with his keen, questioning little eyes fixed12 upon her.
'Really,' said she quietly, 'he only talked to me about the trifling13 commonplace matters such as anyone might have talked of. He spoke2 about the cold, which was very sharp, and about the quietness of the town at night-time, and I think he mentioned the pleasant evening he had passed.'
'Ah, the hypocrite! Didn't he ask you any questions about your mother or her guests?'
'No. The Rue14 de la Banne is only a very short distance, you know, and it didn't take us three minutes. He walked by my side without offering me his arm, and he took such long strides that I was almost obliged to run. I don't know why folks should all be so bitter against him. He doesn't seem very well off, and he was shivering, poor man, in that threadbare old cassock of his.'
Mouret was not without pity and sympathy.
'Ah! he must have done,' he said; 'he can't feel very warm now that the frost has come.'
'I'm sure we have nothing to complain of in his conduct,' Marthe continued. 'He is very punctual in his payments,[Pg 70] and he makes no noise and gives no trouble. Where could you find a more desirable tenant15?'
'Nowhere, I grant you. What I was saying just now was to show you what little attention you pay, wherever you go, to what takes place around you. I know the set your mother receives too well to attach much weight to anything that happens in the green drawing-room: it's a perpetual source of lies and the most ridiculous stories. I don't suppose for a moment that the Abbé ever murdered anyone any more than that he was ever a bankrupt; and I told Madame Paloque that people ought to see that their own linen16 was clean before they found fault with that of others. I hope she took the hint to herself.'
This was a fib on Mouret's part, for he had said nothing of the kind to Madame Paloque; but Marthe's pity had made him feel rather ashamed of the delight which he had manifested at the Abbé's troubles. On the following days he went entirely17 over to the priest's side, and whenever he happened to meet any people whom he detested18, Monsieur de Bourdeu, Monsieur Delangre, and Doctor Porquier, he launched out into warm praises of the Abbé just for the pleasure of astonishing and annoying them. The Abbé, said he, was a man of great courage and perfect guilelessness, but extremely poor, and some very base-minded person must have originated the calumnies19 about him. Then he went on to have a rap at the Rougons' guests, whom he called hypocrites, canting humbugs20 and stuck-up idiots, who were afraid of a man of real virtue21. In a short time he had quite made the Abbé's quarrel his own, and availed himself of it to attack both the Rastoil gang and the gang of the Sub-Prefecture as well.
'Isn't it pitiable?' he sometimes said to his wife, forgetting that she had heard him tell a very different story, 'isn't it pitiable to see a lot of people who stole their money no one knows where, leaguing so bitterly against a poor man just because he hasn't got twenty francs to spare to buy a cart-load of firewood? Such conduct quite disgusts me! I'm quite willing to be surety for him. I ought to know what he does and what sort of a man he is, since he lives in my house; and so I'm not slack in telling them the truth, I give them all they deserve when I meet them. And I won't content myself with that, either. I want the Abbé to be my friend, and I mean to walk out with him arm-in-arm along the promenade22 to let people know that I'm not afraid of being seen with him,[Pg 71] rich and well thought of as I am! I hope, too, that you will show all the kindness and consideration to these poor people that you can.'
Marthe smiled quietly. She was delighted at the friendly disposition23 her husband was now manifesting towards their lodgers24. Rose was ordered to show them every civility; she was even told that she might volunteer to do Madame Faujas' shopping for her on wet mornings. The latter, however, always declined the cook's services, though she no longer manifested that silent stiffness of demeanour which she had shown during the earlier days of her residence in the house. One morning, as she met Marthe, who was coming down from an attic26 which was used as a store-room for the fruit, she stopped and talked to her for a moment, and even unbent so far as to accept a couple of magnificent pears. Those pears were the beginning of a closer intimacy27 between them.
Abbé Faujas, too, did not now glide28 so hurriedly up and down the stairs as he had been wont29 to do. Almost every day, when Mouret heard the rustling30 of the priest's cassock as he came down, he hastened to the foot of the staircase and told the Abbé that it would give him great pleasure to walk part of the way with him. He had also thanked him for the little service he had done his wife, skilfully31 questioning him at the time to find out if he intended again calling on the Rougons. The Abbé had smiled and freely confessed that he was not fitted for society. This had delighted Mouret, who felt quite certain that he had had some influence in bringing about his lodger's decision. He even began to dream of preventing all future intercourse32 with the green drawing-room and of keeping him altogether to himself. So, when Marthe told him one evening that Madame Faujas had accepted a couple of pears, he looked upon this as a fortunate circumstance which would facilitate the execution of his designs.
'Haven't they really got a fire on the second floor this bitterly cold weather?' he asked, in Rose's presence.
'No, indeed, sir,' replied the cook, who understood that the question was meant for herself; 'they couldn't very well have one, for I've never seen the least bit of wood taken upstairs, unless indeed they're burning their four chairs or Madame Faujas manages to carry up the wood in her basket.'
'It is not right of you to talk in that way, Rose,' said Marthe. 'The poor things must be shivering with cold in those big rooms.'
[Pg 72]
'I should think so, indeed,' exclaimed Mouret; 'there were several degrees of frost last night and there was considerable fear felt about the olive-trees. The water in our jug33 upstairs was frozen. This room of ours here is a small one, however, and very warm.'
The doors and windows of the dining-room were provided with pads, so that no draught34 could find its way through any crevice35, and a big earthenware36 stove made the place as warm as a bakehouse. During the winter evenings the young people read or played round the table, while Mouret made his wife play piquet till bed-time, which, by the way, was perfect torture to her. For a long time she had refused to touch the cards, saying that she did not know a single game, but at last he had taught her piquet, and she had then been forced to resign herself to her fate.
'Don't you think,' Mouret continued, 'that we really ought to ask the Faujases to come and spend the evenings here? They would at any rate be warm for two or three hours; and they would be company for us, too, and make us feel more lively. Ask them, and I don't think they'll refuse.'
The next day Marthe met Madame Faujas in the hall and gave the invitation, which the old lady at once accepted, both for herself and her son.
'I'm surprised she didn't make some little demur37 about coming,' said Mouret. 'I fancied that they would have required more pressing. But the Abbé is beginning to understand that he does wrong in living like a wild beast.'
In the evening Mouret took care that the table was cleared in good time, and he set out a bottle of sweet wine and a plateful of little cakes. Although he was not given to being lavish38, he was anxious to show that the Rougons were not the only people who knew how things ought to be done. The tenants39 of the second floor came downstairs about eight o'clock. Abbé Faujas was wearing a new cassock, at the sight of which Mouret was so much surprised that he could only stammer40 a few words in answer to the priest's courtesies.
'Indeed, Monsieur l'Abbé, all the honour is for us. Come, children, put some chairs here.'
They all took their seats round the table. The room was uncomfortably warm, for Mouret had crammed41 the stove as full as possible in order to let his guests see that he made no account of a log more or less. Abbé Faujas made himself very pleasant, fondling Désirée and questioning the two lads[Pg 73] about their studies. Marthe, who was knitting some stockings, raised her eyes every now and then in surprise at the flexible tones of that strange voice which she was not accustomed to hear sounding in the monotonous42 quietness of the dining-room. She looked at the priest's powerful face and square-cut features, and then bent her head again, without trying to hide the interest she took in this man who was so strong and kindly43 and whom she knew to be so poor. As for Mouret, he uncouthly44 stared at the new cassock, and could not restrain himself from saying, with a sly smile:
'You needn't have troubled to dress to come here, Monsieur l'Abbé. We don't go in for ceremony, as you know very well.'
Marthe blushed, while the priest gaily45 related that he had bought the cassock that very day. He had kept it on, he said, to please his mother, who thought that he looked finer than a king in it.
'Don't you, mother?' he asked the old lady.
Madame Faujas nodded without taking her eyes off her son. She was sitting opposite to him, gazing at him in the bright lamplight with an air of ecstasy46.
They began to talk of various matters, and Abbé Faujas seemed to throw off his gloomy coldness. He still remained grave, but it was with a pleasant, good-natured gravity. He listened attentively47 to Mouret, replied to his most insignificant48 remarks, and seemed to take an interest in his gossip. His landlord explained to him the manner in which the family lived, and finished his account by saying:
'We spend our evenings in the way you see, always as quietly as this. We never invite anyone, as we are always more comfortable by ourselves. Every evening I have a game at piquet with my wife. It is a very old habit of ours, and I could scarcely go to sleep without it.'
'Pray don't let us interfere49 with it!' cried Abbé Faujas. 'I beg that you won't in any way depart from your usual habits on our account.'
'Oh dear no! I am not a monomaniac about it, and it won't kill me to go without it for once.'
The priest insisted for a time, but, when he saw that Marthe declined to play with even greater determination than her husband, he turned towards his mother, who had been sitting silent with her hands folded in front of her, and said:
'Mother, you have a game with Monsieur Mouret.'
[Pg 74]
She looked keenly into her son's eyes, while Mouret still continued to refuse, and declared that he did not want to break up the party. However, when the priest told him that his mother was a good player he gave way.
'Is she, indeed?' he said. 'Then, if madame really wishes it, and no one objects——'
'Come along, mother, and have a game!' said Abbé Faujas in a more decided50 tone.
'Certainly,' she replied, 'I shall be delighted; but I shall have to change my place.'
'Oh! there will be no difficulty about that,' said Mouret, who was quite charmed. 'You had better take your son's seat, and perhaps Monsieur l'Abbé will be good enough to sit next to my wife. Madame can sit next to me. There! that will do capitally.'
The priest, who had at first been opposite to Marthe on the other side of the table, was thus placed next to her. They sat quite apart by themselves, the two players having drawn51 their chairs close together to engage in their struggle. Octave and Serge had just gone up to their room. Désirée was sleeping with her head on the table after her usual custom. When ten o'clock struck, Mouret, who had lost the first game, did not feel inclined to go to bed but asked for his revenge. Madame Faujas consulted her son with a glance, and then in her tranquil52 fashion began to shuffle53 the cards. The Abbé had merely exchanged a few words with Marthe. On this the first evening that he spent in the dining-room he only spoke of commonplace topics; the household, the price of victuals54 at Plassans, and the anxieties which children caused. Marthe replied with a show of interest, looking up every now and then with her bright glance, and importing into the conversation some of her own sedate55 good sense.
It was nearly eleven o'clock when Mouret threw down the cards with some slight irritation56.
'I have lost again!' he said. 'I haven't had a single good card all the evening. Perhaps I shall have better luck to-morrow. We shall see you again, I hope, madame?'
And when Abbé Faujas began to protest that they could not think of abusing the Mourets' kindness by disturbing them in this way every evening, he continued:
'But you are not disturbing us at all, you are giving us pleasure. Besides, I have been defeated, and I'm sure that madame can't refuse me another game.'
[Pg 75]
When the priest and his mother had accepted the invitation and had gone upstairs again, Mouret showed some ill-temper and began to excuse himself for having lost. He seemed quite annoyed about it.
'The old woman isn't as good a player as I am, I'm sure,' he said to his wife; 'but she has got such eyes! I could really almost fancy she was cheating, upon my word I could! Well! we shall see what happens to-morrow.'
From that time the Faujases came down regularly every day to spend the evening with the Mourets. There were tremendous battles between the old lady and her landlord. She seemed to play with him, to let him win just frequently enough to prevent him from being altogether discouraged, and this made him fume57 with suppressed anger, for he prided himself on his skill at piquet. He used to indulge in dreams of beating her night after night for weeks in succession without ever letting her win a single game; while she ever preserved wonderful coolness, her square peasant-like face remaining quite expressionless as with her big hands she threw down the cards with all the regularity58 of a machine. From eight o'clock till bed-time they would remain seated at their end of the table, quite absorbed in their game and never moving.
At the other end, near the stove, Abbé Faujas and Marthe were left entirely to themselves. The Abbé felt a masculine and priestly disdain59 for woman, and in spite of himself this disdain often made itself manifest in some slightly harsh expression. On these occasions Marthe was affected60 by a strange feeling of anxiety. She raised her eyes with one of those sudden thrills of alarm which cause people to cast a hurried glance behind them, half expecting to see some concealed61 enemy raising his hand to strike. At other times, on catching63 sight of the Abbé's cassock, she would check herself suddenly in the midst of a laugh, and would relapse into silence, quite confused, astonished at finding herself talking so freely to a man who was so different from other men. It was a long time before there was any real intimacy between them.
Abbé Faujas never directly questioned Marthe about her husband, or her children, or her house; but, nevertheless, he gradually made himself acquainted with every detail of their history and manner of life. Every evening, while Mouret and Madame Faujas were contending furiously one against[Pg 76] the other, he contrived64 to learn some new fact. Upon one occasion he remarked that the husband and wife were surprisingly alike.
'Yes,' Marthe answered with a smile, 'when we were twenty years old we used to be taken for brother and sister; and, indeed, it was a little owing to that circumstance that we got married. People used to joke us about it, and were continually making us stand side by side, and saying what a fine couple we should make. The likeness65 was so striking that worthy66 Monsieur Compan, though he knew us quite well, hesitated to marry us.'
'But you are cousins, are you not?' the priest asked.
'Yes,' she replied, with a slight blush, 'my husband is a Macquart, and I am a Rougon.'
Then she kept silence for a moment or two, feeling ill at ease, for she was sure that the priest knew the history of her family which was so notorious at Plassans. The Macquarts were an illegitimate branch of the Rougons.
'The most singular part of it,' she resumed, to conceal62 her embarrassment67, 'is, that we both resemble our grandmother. My husband's mother transmitted the likeness to him, while in me it has sprung up again after a break, passing my father by.'
Then the Abbé cited a similar instance in his own family. He had a sister, he said, who was the living image of her mother's grandfather. The likeness in this case had leapt over two generations. His sister, too, closely resembled the old man in her character and habits, even in her gestures and the tone of her voice.
'It was just the same with me when I was a little girl; I often heard people say of me,' remarked Marthe, '"She's Aunt Dide all over again!" The poor woman is now at Les Tulettes. She never had a strong head. For my part, in growing older, I have become less excitable and stronger, but I remember that when I was a child I hadn't good health at all. I used to have attacks of giddiness, and my head was filled with the strangest fancies. I often laugh now when I think of the extraordinary things I used to do.'
'And your husband?'
'Oh! he takes after his father, a journeyman hatter, a careful, prudent68 man. I should say that when we were young, though we were so much alike in face, it was quite a different matter as to our dispositions69; however, as time has gone on,[Pg 77] we have grown to resemble each other very much. We were so quiet and happy in our business at Marseilles! The fifteen years I spent there taught me to find happiness in my own home, in the midst of my children.'
Abbé Faujas noticed a touch of bitterness in her tone every time that he led her to speak on this subject. She was certainly happy, as she said; but he fancied that he could detect traces of old rebellion in her nervous nature, that was now calmed by the approach of her fortieth year. He imagined a little drama for himself, in which this husband and wife, who were so much alike, were considered by their relations to be made for each other, and were thus forced into marriage, whereas, in reality, they were of different and antagonistic70 temperaments71. Then his mind dwelt upon the fatal outcome of a monotonous life, the wearing away of character by the daily cares of business, the soporific effect of fifteen years' fortune-making upon this couple, who were now living upon that fortune in a sleepy corner of a little town. To-day, though they were both still young, there seemed to be nothing but the ashes left of their former selves. The Abbé cleverly tried to discover whether Marthe was resigned to her existence, and he found her full of common sense.
'I am quite contented72 with my home,' she said; 'my children are all that I want. I was never much given to gaiety; I only felt a little dull at times. I dare say I should have been better if I had had some mental occupation, but I was never able to find one. And perhaps, after all, it's as well I didn't, for I should very likely have split my head. I could never even read a novel without giving myself a frightful73 headache, and for nights afterwards all the characters would dance about in my brain. Needlework is the only thing which never fatigues74 me, so I stay at home and keep out of the way of noise and chatter75, and all the frivolous76 follies77 which weary me.'
She paused every now and then to glance at Désirée, who was still sleeping with her head upon the table, and smiling in her innocent way.
'Poor child!' she murmured. 'She can't even do any needlework. She gets dizzy directly. She is fond of animals, and that's all she's capable of. When she goes to stay with her nurse, as she does every now and then, she spends all her time in the poultry-yard, and she comes back to me with rosy78 cheeks and as strong and well as possible.'
[Pg 78]
Marthe often spoke of Les Tulettes, manifesting as she did so a lurking79 fear of insanity80, and Abbé Faujas thus became aware of a strange dread81 haunting this peaceful home. Marthe loved her husband with a sober, unimpassioned love, but there was mingled82 with her affection for him considerable fear of his jokes and pleasantries, his perpetual teasing. She was hurt, too, by his selfishness, and the loneliness in which he left her; she felt a vague grudge83 against him for the quietude in which she lived—that very manner of life which she said made her happy. When she spoke of him, she said:
'He is very good to us. You've heard him, I dare say, get angry sometimes, but that arises from his passion for seeing everything in order, which he often carries to an almost ridiculous extent. He gets quite vexed if he sees a flower-pot a little out of place in the garden, or a plaything lying about on the floor; but in other matters he does quite right in pleasing himself. I know he is not very popular, because he has managed to accumulate some money, and still continues to do a good stroke of business every now and then; but he only laughs at what people say about him. They say nasty things, too, of him in connexion with me. They say that he is a miser84, and won't let me go out anywhere, and even deprives me of boots. But all that is quite untrue. I am entirely free. He certainly prefers to see me here when he comes home, instead of finding that I am always off somewhere, paying calls and walking on the promenade. But he knows quite well what my tastes are. What, indeed, should I go out for?'
As she defended Mouret against the gossip of Plassans, Marthe's voice assumed a sudden animation85, as though she felt the need of defending him quite as much from the secret accusations86 which arose within her own mind; and she kept reverting87 with nervous uneasiness to the subject of society life. She seemed to seek a refuge within the little dining-room and the old-fashioned garden with its box borders, as if everything else filled her with vague alarm, and made her doubtful of her strength, apprehensive88 of some possible catastrophe89. Then she would smile at her fears, and shrug10 her shoulders as she resumed her knitting or the mending of some old skirt; and Abbé Faujas would see before him only a cold, reserved housewife, with listless face and inanimate eyes, who filled the house with a scent90 as of clean linen, and of blossoms gathered in the shade.
[Pg 79]
Two months passed away in this manner. Abbé Faujas and his mother had become quite a part of the Mourets' family life. They all had their recognised places every evening at the table, just as the lamp had its place; and the same intervals91 of silence were broken night after night by the same remarks from the card-players and the same subdued92 converse93 of the priest and Marthe. When Madame Faujas had not given him too tremendous a beating Mouret found his lodgers 'extremely nice people.'
All that curiosity of his, born of idleness, waned94 before the interest and occupation that the nightly parties afforded him, and he no longer played the spy upon the Abbé, whom he declared to be a very good fellow, now that he knew him better.
'Oh, don't bother me with your stories!' he used to exclaim to those who attacked Abbé Faujas. 'You get hold of a pack of nonsense and put absurd interpretations95 upon facts that admit of the simplest explanation. I know all about him. He very kindly comes and spends his evenings with us; but he's not a man to make himself cheap, and I can quite understand that people don't like him for it and accuse him of pride.'
Mouret greatly enjoyed being the only person in Plassans who could boast of knowing Abbé Faujas, and he even somewhat abused this advantage. Every time he met Madame Rougon he put on an air of triumph and made her understand that he had stolen her guest from her, while the old lady contented herself with smiling quietly. With his intimate acquaintances Mouret extended his confidences further, and remarked that those blessed priests could do nothing like other people. Then he gave them a string of little details, and told them in what manner the Abbé drank, how he talked to women, and how he always kept his knees apart without ever crossing his legs, and other trifling matters which the vague alarm that his free-thinking mind experienced in the presence of his guest's long, mystic-looking cassock made him notice.
The evenings passed away one after another, and at last the first days of February came round. In all the conversations between himself and Marthe Abbé Faujas had to all appearance carefully avoided the subject of religion. She had once remarked to him, almost lightly:
'No, Monsieur l'Abbé, I am not a very religious woman,[Pg 80] and I seldom go to church. At Marseilles I was always too busy, and now I am too indolent to go out. And then I must confess to you that I wasn't brought up with religious ideas. My mother used to tell me that God would come to us quite as well at home.'
The priest bowed his head without making any reply, and seemed to signify that he would rather not discuss religious matters under such circumstances. One evening, however, he drew a picture of the unexpected comfort which suffering souls find in religion. They were talking of a poor woman whom troubles of every sort had driven to suicide.
'She did wrong to despair,' said the priest in his deep voice. 'She was ignorant of the comfort and consolation96 to be found in prayer. I have often seen heart-broken, weeping women come to us, and they have gone away again filled with a resignation that they had vainly sought elsewhere, and glad to live; and this had come from their falling upon their knees and tasting the blessedness of humiliating themselves before God in some quiet corner of the church. They came back there, they forgot their troubles, and became God's entirely.'
Marthe listened with a thoughtful expression to these remarks of the priest, whose last words fell in a gradually softening97 voice that seemed to breathe of superhuman felicity.
'Yes, it must be a blessed thing,' she murmured, as though she were speaking to herself. 'I have thought about it sometimes, but I have always felt afraid.'
If the Abbé seldom referred to such matters as this, he frequently spoke on the subject of charity. Marthe was very tender-hearted, and tears rose to her eyes at the slightest tale of trouble. It seemed to please the priest to see her so moved to pity; and every evening he told her some fresh story of sorrow, and kept her constantly excited with compassion98. She would let her work fall, and clasp her hands as, with a sad, pitying face, she gazed into his eyes and listened to him as he recounted heart-rending details of how some poor persons had died of starvation, or how others had been goaded99 by misery100 into committing base crimes. At these times she fell completely under his influence, and he might have done what he willed with her.
About the middle of February a deplorable occurrence threw Plassans into dismay. It was discovered that a number[Pg 81] of young girls, scarcely more than children, had fallen into evil courses while loafing about the streets, and it was even rumoured101 that some persons of high position in the town would be compromised. For a week Marthe was very painfully affected by this discovery, which caused the greatest sensation. She was acquainted with one of the unfortunate girls, who was the niece of her cook, Rose; and she could not think of the poor little creature without shuddering102.
'It is a great pity,' said Abbé Faujas to her one evening, 'that there isn't a Home at Plassans on the model of the one at Besan?on.'
Then, in reply to Marthe's pressing questions, the Abbé explained to her the constitution of this Home. It was a sort of refuge for girls from eight to fifteen years of age, the daughters of working men, whose parents were obliged to leave them alone during the day while they themselves went to their employment. During the day-time these girls were set to do needlework, and in the evening they were sent back to their parents, the latter having then returned home from their work. By this system the children were brought up out of the reach of vice25 and in the midst of good examples. Marthe thought the idea an admirable one, and she gradually became so prepossessed in its favour that she could talk of nothing else than the necessity of founding a similar institution at Plassans.
'We might put it under the patronage103 of the Virgin,' Abbé Faujas suggested. 'But there are such difficulties in the way! You have no idea of the trouble there is in effecting the least good work! What is quite essential to the success of such a scheme as this is some woman with a motherly heart, full of zeal104 and absolutely devoted105 to the work.'
Marthe lowered her head and looked at Désirée, who was asleep by her side, and she felt tears welling from beneath her eyelids106. She made inquiries107 as to the steps that it would be necessary to take for founding such a Home, the cost of erecting108 it, and the annual expenses.
'Will you help me?' she suddenly asked the priest one evening.
Abbé Faujas gravely took her hand and held it within his own for a moment, telling her that she had one of the fairest souls he had ever known. He would willingly do what he could, he assured her, but he should rely altogether upon her, for the assistance that he himself would be able to give[Pg 82] would be small. It would be for her to form a committee of the ladies of the town, to collect subscriptions109, and to take upon herself, in a word, all the delicate and onerous110 duties which are connected with an appeal to the charity of the public. He appointed a meeting with her for the following day at Saint-Saturnin's to introduce her to the diocesan architect, who would be able to tell her much better than he himself could do about the expenses that would have to be incurred111.
Mouret was very gay that evening when they went to bed. He had not allowed Madame Faujas to win a single game.
'You seem quite pleased about something to-night, my dear,' he said to his wife. 'Did you see what a beating I gave the old lady downstairs?'
Then as he observed Marthe taking a silk dress out of her wardrobe, he asked her with some surprise if she intended to go out in the morning. He had not heard anything of the conversation in the dining-room between his wife and the priest.
'Yes,' she replied, 'I have to go out. I have to meet Abbé Faujas at the church about a matter which I will tell you of.'
He stood motionless in front of her, and gazed at her with an expression of stupefaction, wondering if she were not really jesting with him. Then, without any appearance of displeasure, he said in his bantering112 fashion:
'Hallo! hallo! well I never expected that! So you've gone over to the priests now!'
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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4
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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5
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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6
forgery
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| n.伪造的文件等，赝品，伪造（行为） | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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8
revel
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| vi.狂欢作乐，陶醉；n.作乐，狂欢 | |
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9
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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10
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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11
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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12
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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13
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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14
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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15
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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16
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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17
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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18
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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20
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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21
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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22
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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23
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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24
lodgers
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| n.房客，租住者( lodger的名词复数 ) | |
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25
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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26
attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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27
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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29
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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30
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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31
skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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32
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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33
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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34
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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35
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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36
earthenware
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| n.土器，陶器 | |
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37
demur
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| v．表示异议，反对 | |
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38
lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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39
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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40
stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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41
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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42
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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43
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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44
uncouthly
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45
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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46
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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47
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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48
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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49
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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52
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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53
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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54
victuals
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| n.食物；食品 | |
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55
sedate
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| adj.沉着的，镇静的，安静的 | |
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56
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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57
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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58
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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59
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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60
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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61
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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62
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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63
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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64
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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65
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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66
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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67
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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68
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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69
dispositions
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| 安排( disposition的名词复数 )； 倾向； （财产、金钱的）处置； 气质 | |
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70
antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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71
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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72
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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73
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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74
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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75
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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76
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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77
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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78
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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79
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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80
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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81
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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82
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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83
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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84
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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85
animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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86
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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87
reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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88
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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89
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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90
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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91
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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92
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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93
converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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94
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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95
interpretations
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| n.解释( interpretation的名词复数 )；表演；演绎；理解 | |
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96
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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97
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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98
compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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99
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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100
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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101
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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102
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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103
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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104
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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105
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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106
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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107
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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108
erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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109
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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110
onerous
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| adj.繁重的 | |
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111
incurred
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| [医]招致的，遭受的； incur的过去式 | |
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112
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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