l, where wicked women burn in torment. And afterwards he
left her, his duty done, his soul once more full of the serenity which
enabled him to pass undisturbed athwart the corruptions of the world.

VII

The morning was becoming terribly hot. In that huge rocky amphitheatre
the sun kindled a furnace-like glare from the moment when the first
fine weather began. By the planet's height in the sky Abbe Mouret now
perceived that he had only just time to return home if he wished to
get there by eleven o'clock and escape a scolding from La Teuse. Having
finished reading his breviary and made his application to Bambousse, he
swiftly retraced his steps, gazing as he went at his church, now a grey
spot in the distance, and at the black rigid silhouette which the
big cypress-tree, the Solitaire, set against the blue sky. Amidst the
drowsiness fostered by the heat, he thought of how richly that evening
he might decorate the Lady chapel for the devotions of the month of
Mary. Before him the road offered a carpet of dust, soft to the tread
and of dazzling whiteness.

At the Croix-Verte, as the Abbe was about to cross the highway leading
from Plassans to La Palud, a gig coming down the hill compelled him
to step behind a heap of stones. Then, as he crossed the open space, a
voice called to him: 'Hallo, Serge, my boy!'

The gig had pulled up and from it a man leant over. The priest
recognised him--he was an uncle of his, Doctor Pascal Rougon, or
Monsieur Pascal, as the poor folk of Plassans, whom he attended for
nothing, briefly styled him. Although barely over fifty, he was already
snowy white, with a big beard and abundant hair, amidst which his
handsome regular features took an expression of shrewdness and
benevolence.*

* See M. Zola's novels, _Dr. Pascal_ and _The Fortune of the
Rougons_.--ED.

'So you potter about in the dust at this hour of the day?' he said
gaily, as he stooped to grasp the Abbe's hands. 'You're not afraid of
sunstroke?'

'No more than you are, uncle,' answered the priest, laughing.

'Oh, I have the hood of my trap to shield me. Besides, sick folks won't
wait. People die at all times, my boy.' And he went on to relate that
he was now on his way to old Jeanbernat, the steward of the Paradou, who
had had an apoplectic stroke the night before. A neighbour, a peasant on
his way to Plassans market, had summoned him.

'He must be dead by this time,' the doctor continued. 'However, we must
make