The Grip of Desire | Page 8

it with his gaze, embraced it with his desire, that he had
yielded to a fatal forgetfulness, his flesh, so long subdued and
humiliated, profited by that moment of error, and subdued him in its
turn.
A kind of frenzy had taken possession of his being in a moment, and in
the sleepless night which he had just passed, he had given himself up to
an absolute orgy in his over-excited imagination.
That wandering girl who had just disappeared, had carried away his
modesty.

He felt his heart beating for her; but he felt that his heart was beating
for all alike; girls or women, he wanted them all, he defiled them all
with his thoughts.
And so, after ten years of struggles, the virtue of the Curé of Althausen
dissolved one evening before the naked breast of a rope-dancer, like
snow before the sun.
That day was a Sunday, and, as he did not come downstairs, his servant
came to warn him that the time for Mass was drawing near.
She stood struck with the strange look on his countenance, at the
fatigue displayed on his features, and anxiously enquired of him the
cause.
The Curé assured her that she was mistaken, that he bad never felt
better; but at the same time he gave a glance at his mirror.
He was frightened at his face and he remained a long time thoughtful,
contemplating the gloomy fire of his own look.
That sinister countenance seemed to him to presage some approaching
calamity.
Thus, there are men whom fate has marked on the forehead with a fatal
stamp. The mysterious sign is not displayed at every time and before all;
but at certain epochs of life, when the unknown breath caresses the
predestinated or cursed head, the mark all at once appeals, like a tawny
light in the depth of night.
A curse! Fatality has moulded that man's brain, it has left its potent
impress on his skull.
--With what seal then am I marked? he cried. Is it that of reprobation
which God has stamped upon my face?
No, simpleton that thou art, it is the phosphorus of thy brain, which
catches fire from time to time.

IX.
DURING VESPERS.
"There is a beautiful girl of sixteen, white as milk, rosy as a rose-bud,
fresh as a spring morning,--and chaste as Vesta."
A. DELVAU (Le Fumier d'Ennius).
He went up into the pulpit, and preached a sermon on this text:
"Blessed are the pure in heart." He had prepared it the day before,
previous to the arrival of that enchanting player, and his thoughts had
been since then too occupied with very different subjects for him to
search for another theme.
Bitter mockery! What could he say to these good people about hearts
pure and chaste? He tried, all the same, and said some excellent things.
He spoke above all about temptation, which, following the expression
of a Father of the Church, "is only, to commence with, an ant which
tickles, and finishes by becoming a devouring lion."
"Alas," he said, "how many, without meaning it, have been thus
devoured, beginning perhaps with this pious individual."
His sermon took great effect. An old woman wept, and several
members of the congregation appeared to sigh and think that it was a
long time since they had been devoured thus.
He had an inclination to laugh, as he came down from the pulpit, at the
words which he had just uttered on purity of heart, and he wondered
that he had been able to bring so much conviction and warmth to bear
upon a subject to which he was henceforth completely a stranger.
His own scepticism terrified him, and he saw that he had taken a long
step into evil Nevertheless he did concern himself at that, and from his
place near the pulpit he turned his impassioned gaze with more
assurance on the group of young girls.

Passion is a brutal level which equalizes us all. There remained in him
nothing more of the priest, there only remained the man full of desires,
and he flung his desires in riot upon that gyneceum which he thought
belonged to him.
In certain village churches, all the young girls are placed apart, near the
choir, sometimes even in the choir itself, under the eyes of the priest, as
if they wished to leave the most convenient choice to that never satiated
Priapus.
The handsome Curé of Althausen made his choice therefore at his ease
and without the least shame.
This one was fair and pale, that other dark and high in colour; this one
was thin and delicate, that one fat and plump; this one was prettier, that
other more graceful. He knew not upon which to stop. He would have
wished for them all,