Читать книгу Abbe Mouret's Transgression - Эмиль Золя, Émile Zola, Еміль Золя - Страница 10

The gig once more rolled along the road skirting the Paradou’s interminable wall. Abbe Mouret, still silent, scanned with upturned eyes the huge boughs which stretched over that wall, like the arms of giants hidden there. All sorts of sounds came from the park: rustling of wings, quivering of leaves, furtive bounds at which branches snapped, mighty sighs that bowed the young shoots – a vast breath of life sweeping over the crests of a nation of trees. At times, as he heard a birdlike note that seemed like a human laugh, the priest turned his head, as if he felt uneasy.

‘A queer girl!’ said his uncle as he eased the reins a little. ‘She was nine years old when she took up her quarters with that old heathen. Some brother of his had ruined himself, though in what I can’t remember. The little one was at school somewhere when her father killed himself. She was even quite a little lady, up to reading, embroidery, chattering, and strumming on the piano. And such a coquette too! I saw her arrive with open-worked stockings, embroidered skirts, frills, cuffs, a heap of finery. Ah, well! the finery didn’t last long!’

He laughed. A big stone nearly upset the gig.

‘It will be lucky if I don’t leave a wheel in this cursed road!’ he muttered. ‘Hold on, my boy.’

The wall still stretched beside them: the priest still listened.

‘As you may well imagine,’ continued the doctor, ‘the Paradou, what with its sun, its stones, and its thistles, would wreck a whole outfit every day. Three or four mouthfuls, that’s all it made of all the little one’s beautiful dresses. She used to come back naked. Now she dresses like a savage. To-day she was rather presentable; but sometimes she has scarcely anything on beyond her shoes and chemise. Did you hear her? The Paradou is hers. The very day after she came she took possession of it. She lives in it; jumps out of the window when Jeanbernat locks the door, bolts off in spite of all, goes nobody knows whither, buries herself in some invisible burrows known only to herself. She must have a fine time in that wilderness.’

‘Hark, uncle!’ interrupted Abbe Mouret. ‘Isn’t that some animal running behind the wall?’

Uncle Pascal listened.

‘No,’ he said after a minute’s silence, ‘it is the rattle of the trap on the stones. No, the child doesn’t play the piano now. I believe she has even forgotten how to read. Just picture to yourself a young lady gone back to a state of primevalness, turned out to play on a desert island. My word, if ever you get to know of a girl who needs proper bringing up, I advise you not to entrust her to Jeanbernat. He has a most primitive way of letting nature alone. When I ventured to speak to him about Albine he answered me that he must not prevent trees from growing as they pleased. He says he is for the normal development of temperaments… All the same, they are very interesting, both of them. I never come this way without paying them a visit.’

The gig was now emerging from the hollowed road. At this point the wall of the Paradou turned and wound along the crest of the hills as far as one could see. As Abbe Mouret turned to take a last look at that grey-hued barrier, whose impenetrable austerity had at last begun to annoy him, a rustling of shaken boughs was heard and a clump of young birch trees seemed to bow in greeting from above the wall.

‘I knew some animal was running behind,’ said the priest.

But, although nobody could be seen, though nothing was visible in the air above save the birches rocking more and more violently, they heard a clear, laughing voice call out: ‘Good-bye, doctor! good-bye, Monsieur le Cure! I am kissing the tree, and the tree is sending you my kisses.’

‘Why! it is Albine,’ exclaimed Doctor Pascal. ‘She must have followed the trap at a run. Jumping over bushes is mere play to her, the little elf!’

And he in his turn shouted out:

‘Good-bye, my pet! How tall you must be to bow like that.’

The laughter grew louder, the birches bowed still lower, scattering their leaves around even on the hood of the gig.

‘I am as tall as the trees; all the leaves that fall are kisses,’ replied the voice now mellowed by distance, so musical, so merged into the rippling whispers of the park, that the young priest was thrilled.

The road grew better. On coming down the slope Les Artaud reappeared in the midst of the scorched plain. When the gig reached the turning to the village, Abbe Mouret would not let his uncle drive him back to the vicarage. He jumped down, saying:

‘No, thanks, I prefer to walk: it will do me good.’

‘Well, just as you like,’ at last answered the doctor. And with a clasp of the hand, he added: ‘Well, if you only had such parishioners as that old brute Jeanbernat, you wouldn’t often be disturbed. However, you yourself wanted to come. And mind you keep well. At the slightest ache, night or day, send for me. You know I attend all the family gratis… There, good-bye, my boy.’