the Paradou: all
the philosophers of the eighteenth century, a whole heap of old books
on religion. I've learned some fine things from them. I've been reading
them these twenty years. Marry! you'll find you've got some one who can
talk, Monsieur le Cure.'

He had risen, slowly waving his hand towards the surrounding horizon,
to the earth and to the sky, and repeating solemnly: 'There's nothing,
nothing, nothing. When the sun is snuffed out, all will be at an end.'

Doctor Pascal nudged Abbe Mouret with his elbow. With blinking eyes he
was curiously observing the old man and nodding approvingly in order to
induce him to talk. 'So you are a materialist, Jeanbernat?' he said.

'Oh, I am only a poor man,' replied the old fellow, relighting his pipe.
'When Count de Corbiere, whose foster-brother I was, died from a fall
from his horse, his children sent me here to look after this park of the
Sleeping Beauty, in order to get rid of me. I was sixty years old then,
and I thought I was about done. But death forgot me; and I had to make
myself a burrow. If one lives all alone, look you, one gets to see
things in rather a queer fashion. The trees are no longer trees, the
earth puts on the ways of a living being, the stones seem to tell you
tales. A parcel of rubbish, eh? But I know some secrets that would
fairly stagger you. Besides, what do you think there is to do in
this devilish desert? I read the old books; it was more amusing than
shooting. The Count, who used to curse like a heathen, was always saying
to me: "Jeanbernat, my boy, I fully expect to meet you again in the hot
place, so that you will be able to serve me there as you have up here."'

Once more he waved his hand to the horizon and added: 'You hear,
nothing; there's nothing. It's all foolery.'

Dr. Pascal began to laugh.

'A pleasant piece of foolery, at any rate,' he said. 'Jeanbernat, you
are a deceiver. I suspect you are in love, in spite of your affectation
of being _blase_. You were speaking very tenderly of the trees and
stones just now.'

'Oh, no, I assure you,' murmured the old man, 'I have done with that.
At one time, it's true, when I first knew you and used to go herborising
with you, I was stupid enough to love all sorts of things I came across
in that huge liar, the country. Fortunately, the old volumes have killed
all that. I only wish my garden was smaller; I don't go out into the
road twice a year. You see that bench? That's where I spend all