irl who was letting her sweetheart snatch a kiss, 'there is
another hussy over there!'

He shook his long black arms at the couple and made them flee. In the
distance, over the crimson fields and the peeling rocks, the sun was
dying in one last flare. Night gradually came on. The warm fragrance
of the lavender became cooler on the wings of the light evening breeze
which now arose. From time to time a deep sigh fell on the ear as if
that fearful land, consumed by ardent passions, had at length grown
calm under the soft grey rain of twilight. Abbe Mouret, hat in hand,
delighted with the coolness, once more felt quietude descend upon him.

'Monsieur le Cure! Brother Archangias!' cried La Teuse. 'Come quick! The
soup is on the table.'

It was cabbage soup, and its odoriferous steam filled the parsonage
dining-room. The Brother seated himself and fell to, slowly emptying the
huge plate that La Teuse had put down before him. He was a big eater,
and clucked his tongue as each mouthful descended audibly into his
stomach. Keeping his eyes on his spoon, he did not speak a word.

'Isn't my soup good, then, Monsieur le Cure?' the old servant asked the
priest. 'You are only fiddling with your plate.'

'I am not a bit hungry, my good Teuse,' Serge replied, smiling.

'Well! how can one wonder at it when you go on as you do! But you would
have been hungry, if you hadn't lunched at past two o'clock.'

Brother Archangias, tilting into his spoon the last few drops of soup
remaining in his plate, said gravely: 'You should be regular in your
meals, Monsieur le Cure.'

At this moment Desiree, who also had finished her soup, sedately and in
silence, rose and followed La Teuse to the kitchen. The Brother, then
left alone with Abbe Mouret, cut himself some long strips of bread,
which he ate while waiting for the next dish.

'So you made a long round to-day?' he asked the priest. But before
the other could reply a noise of footsteps, exclamations, and ringing
laughter, arose at the end of the passage, in the direction of the yard.
A short altercation apparently took place. A flute-like voice which
disturbed the Abbe rose in vexed and hurried accents, which finally died
away in a burst of glee.

'What can it be?' said Serge, rising from his chair.

But Desiree bounded in again, carrying something hidden in her
gathered-up skirt. And she burst out excitedly: 'Isn't she queer? She
wouldn't come in at all. I caught hold of her dress; but