for Desiree's rabbits. A gigantic cypress tree, standing
near the gate, alone cast shadow upon the desert field. This cypress,
a landmark visible for nine miles around, was known to the whole
countryside as the Solitaire.

'It's full of lizards,' added Vincent, looking at the cracks of the
church-wall. 'One could have a fine lark--'

But he sprang out with a bound on seeing the Brother lift his foot. The
latter proceeded to call the priest's attention to the dilapidated state
of the gate, which was not only eaten up with rust, but had one hinge
off, and the lock broken.

'It ought to be repaired,' said he.

Abbe Mouret smiled, but made no reply. Addressing Vincent, who was
romping with the dog: 'I say, my boy,' he asked, 'do you know where old
Bambousse is at work this morning?'

The lad glanced towards the horizon. 'He must be at his Olivettes field
now,' he answered, pointing towards the left. 'But Voriau will show
your reverence the way. He's sure to know where his master is.' And he
clapped his hands and called: 'Hie! Voriau! hie!'

The big black dog paused a moment, wagging his tail, and seeking to read
the urchin's eyes. Then, barking joyfully, he set off down the slope to
the village. Abbe Mouret and Brother Archangias followed him, chatting.
A hundred yards further Vincent surreptitiously bolted, and again glided
up towards the church, keeping a watchful eye upon them, and ready
to dart behind a bush if they should look round. With adder-like
suppleness, he once more glided into the graveyard, that paradise full
of lizards, nests, and flowers.

Meantime, while Voriau led the way before them along the dusty road,
Brother Archangias was angrily saying to the priest: 'Let be! Monsieur
le Cure, they're spawn of damnation, those toads are! They ought to
have their backs broken, to make them pleasing to God. They grow up in
irreligion, like their fathers. Fifteen years have I been here, and
not one Christian have I been able to turn out. The minute they quit
my hands, good-bye! They think of nothing but their land, their vines,
their olive-trees. Not one ever sets foot in church. Brute beasts they
are, struggling with their stony fields! Guide them with the stick,
Monsieur le Cure, yes, the stick!'

Then, after drawing breath, he added with a terrific wave of his hands:

'Those Artauds, look you, are like the brambles over-running these
rocks. One stem has been enough to poison the whole district. They clin