Doctor Pascal | Page 3

of the hollyhocks, and she had just thrown on
another sheet a whole bunch of imaginary flowers, of dream-flowers,
extravagant and superb. She had, at times, these abrupt shiftings, a need
of breaking away in wild fancies in the midst of the most precise of
reproductions. She satisfied it at once, falling always into this
extraordinary efflorescence of such spirit and fancy that it never
repeated itself; creating roses, with bleeding hearts, weeping tears of
sulphur, lilies like crystal urns, flowers without any known form, even,
spreading out starry rays, with corollas floating like clouds. To-day, on
a groundwork dashed in with a few bold strokes of black crayon, it was
a rain of pale stars, a whole shower of infinitely soft petals; while, in a
corner, an unknown bloom, a bud, chastely veiled, was opening.

"Another to nail there!" resumed the doctor, pointing to the wall, on
which there was already a row of strangely curious pastels. "But what
may that represent, I ask you?"
She remained very grave, drawing back a step, the better to
contemplate her work.
"I know nothing about it; it is beautiful."
At this moment appeared Martine, the only servant, become the real
mistress of the house, after nearly thirty years of service with the doctor.
Although she had passed her sixtieth year, she, too, still retained a
youthful air as she went about, silent and active, in her eternal black
gown and white cap that gave her the look of a nun, with her small,
white, calm face, and lusterless eyes, the light in which seemed to have
been extinguished.
Without speaking, she went and sat down on the floor before an
easy-chair, through a rent in the old covering of which the hair was
escaping, and drawing from her pocket a needle and a skein of worsted,
she set to work to mend it. For three days past she had been waiting for
an hour's time to do this piece of mending, which haunted her.
"While you are about it, Martine," said Pascal jestingly, taking between
both his hands the mutinous head of Clotilde, "sew me fast, too, this
little noodle, which sometimes wanders off into the clouds."
Martine raised her pale eyes, and looked at her master with her habitual
air of adoration?"
"Why does monsieur say that?"
"Because, my good girl, in very truth, I believe it is you who have
stuffed this good little round, clear, strong headpiece full of notions of
the other world, with all your devoutness."
The two women exchanged a glance of intelligence.
"Oh, monsieur! religion has never done any harm to any one. And
when people have not the same ideas, it is certainly better not to talk
about them."
An embarrassed silence followed; this was the one difference of
opinion which, at times, brought about disagreements among these
three united beings who led so restricted a life. Martine was only
twenty-nine, a year older than the doctor, when she entered his house,
at the time when he made his debut as a physician at Plassans, in a
bright little house of the new town. And thirteen years later, when

Saccard, a brother of Pascal, sent him his daughter Clotilde, aged seven,
after his wife's death and at the moment when he was about to marry
again, it was she who brought up the child, taking it to church, and
communicating to it a little of the devout flame with which she had
always burned; while the doctor, who had a broad mind, left them to
their joy of believing, for he did not feel that he had the right to
interdict to any one the happiness of faith; he contented himself later on
with watching over the young girl's education and giving her clear and
sound ideas about everything. For thirteen years, during which the three
had lived this retired life at La Souleiade, a small property situated in
the outskirts of the town, a quarter of an hour's walk from St. Saturnin,
the cathedral, his life had flowed happily along, occupied in secret great
works, a little troubled, however, by an ever increasing uneasiness--the
collision, more and more violent, every day, between their beliefs.
Pascal took a few turns gloomily up and down the room. Then, like a
man who did not mince his words, he said:
"See, my dear, all this phantasmagoria of mystery has turned your
pretty head. Your good God had no need of you; I should have kept
you for myself alone; and you would have been all the better for it."
But Clotilde, trembling with excitement, her clear eyes fixed boldly
upon his, held her ground.
"It is you, master, who would be all the better, if you did not shut
yourself up in your eyes of flesh. That