must have appeared to the passionate young lover who had been at the very gates of paradise only to be denied entry. “You—you won't punish Laurette too hard, mon pere?” he faltered.
“I am the spiritual leader of this village, my son,” Pere Mourier sanctimoniously observed, “and I am responsible for the soul of Laurette as much as for yours. Yet knowing her to be an innocent maiden and susceptible to the flattery of such rogues as yourself, I will temper justice with leniency, chastisement with forgiveness. Go now, before I tell the patron how you nearly stole his bride from him this night!”
Pierre Larrieu bade a wistful adieu to his blushing, embarrassed sweetheart, and then strode back towards the village. The priest waited until the sound of his footsteps had died away and then turned to Laurette: “My child, the devil himself lurks in darkness to lead astray the faithful. But we must drive the devil out. By rights, I should tell the patron what I saw just now. No, do not speak!” and he held up a warning hand as Laurette opened her lovely red lips. “You must humble yourself, my child. I will forgive your transgression if you submit humbly and docilely to chastisement. If you do this, I will know that you act in good faith. I will have word sent to Monsieur Villiers that you were taken ill this night and could not appear before him to accept your prize. Then of course I shall pronounce the banns, and within a fortnight you two will be man and wife. Then no sin will have been committed, and your transgression will have been pardoned, since you will have won redeeming grace by your submission to your spiritual confessor. Do you submit yourself, my daughter?”
Poor Laurette gave a disconsolate little sigh and nodded. Doubtless she thought to herself that even a session with this dour holy man was infinitely preferable to being alone with the obnoxious patron. Pere Mourier bestowed upon her a smile such as he reserved for a fallen angel who had returned to the fold. “Then come along, my daughter,” he obsequiously urged, and took hold of her wrist to ensure her compliance.
I quickly hopped to a fold of her skirt, curious to witness what would befall her. I wondered whether she would be escaping the fire only to fall into the frying pan, as it were. Had this been London, I would have been sure of it, but I did not yet know the habits of this portly holy man. En route to his ecclesiastical abode, Pere Mourier adopted a gentler tone of voice—though it was still sonorous—in an attempt to put Laurette at her ease: “Come now, my child, do not look so sorrowful. Since you are still chaste, your estate is not damaged in the eyes of our worthy patron, who has given me to understand that he adores you and fumes with impatience to make you his lawful consort. To be sure, my daughter, you must pay the penalty for your weakness in having even considered such lubricity with Pierre Larrieu. You will confess to me exactly what you did, my poor misguided child, and then I shall decide what chastisement best befits your conduct. Once having sustained this with fortitude and humility, you will be in a state of grace and I shall make your apologies to the patron for having been unable to attend his summons.”
“Oui, mon pere,” Laurette murmured, hanging her fair head and uttering yet another sigh of lamentation, doubtless at the thought of what she had missed with her young lover.
The little church with its towering steeple was situated about a quarter of a mile west of the vineyards, and beside it was the rectory which quartered the good father. He took hold of the knocker and struck it three times on the door, whereupon after not quite a minute of waiting, it was opened by no less than the handsome widow Desiree.
“Good evening, Madame Desiree,” the portly priest beamed, “as you see, I have returned with the prodigal lamb. May I entreat your indulgence to perform an errand for me?” Then, turning to the startled, golden haired maiden beside him, the obese holy man gently added, “Madame Desiree was gracious enough to accept the post of housekeeper to me, since I am an impossible cook and have no time for tasks of domesticity because I must constantly look after my little flock.”
“Oh,” was all that Laurette could find to say. But then, glancing in wonder at the beautiful, chestnut haired Amazon, she naively inquired, “But I thought -”
“Yes, my child, it happened this very afternoon. Madame Desiree is a widow, as you know, and there are many temptations lurking in this village where passions are hot and the blood is warm thanks to the sun and the good grapes. So for her own salvation, she was happy to accept to post I tendered her. As for myself, I am indeed fortunate to have found so capable and so devout an assistant who will rid me of the burden of the small, irritating chores so that I may have more time to drive out sinfulness from Languecuisse.”
After this sententious introduction, he asked the Amazon to dispatch herself at once to the house of Monsieur Claude Villiers and to inform that worthy patron that dear Laurette had been afflicted with a small seizure and conveyed her most humble apologies for being unable to present herself in his presence that night. Pere Mourier bade Desiree add that Laurette was recovering, and that she looked forward to the next Sunday when her name would be announced from the pulpit as the intended consort of so noble and charitable a man. And finally, he declared that when Desiree had performed her errand, for which he gave her goodly thanks, she might go promptly to bed.
The handsome Amazon eyed Laurette rather scornfully, as if appraising her and comparing the virgin's charms with her own, which, as I have already related, were certainly considerable and splendidly proportioned. Then, after having procured a shawl against the possible chilly gusts, she set off across the vineyards for the abode of the patron. Pere Mourier, resuming his hold of Laurette's wrist, led her inside his dwelling, and thence to his very bedchamber. Here, having surreptitiously bolted the door, he turned to her and bade her go down upon her knees and clasp her hands and bow her head for her confessional.
“Now then, my daughter,” he began, “open your heart and do not be afraid to confess your sinful thoughts as well as deeds. A good confession is half the battle towards redemption of the sinner. Never forget this.”
“I will remember it, my father,” Laurette meekly returned.
“Now, answer me truthfully. You are certain that this rogue did not deflower you? I know that you are still a tender maiden, dear Laurette, but since you are intended for your nuptials within a fortnight, surely your worthy parents must have given you some inkling of the duties which fall upon you as the bride of the patron. You understand, then, what I mean?”
Laurette's fair, milky cheeks turned a vivid crimson as she nodded. Drawing a deep breath, and keeping her eyes modestly lowered, she faintly replied, “He—he didn't do it to me, my father.”
“But he was about to, was he not?”
Another nod and a heartfelt little sigh: doubtless once again poor Laurette was remembering the forbidden moment of near-ecstasy which the worthy priest had so unexpectedly halted.
“But did you not struggle and resist this ravisher?” he sternly resumed his interrogation.
“N… no, my father. I—I love him so and it was to be the last time we met before—before -”
“Before you took your vows of matrimony, I daresay. Well, my daughter, as a compassionate man who understands the foibles of his brothers, I can perhaps understand your weakness. But surely you could not think of wedding Pierre Larrieu. And to give yourself to a man out of wedlock is surely sinful, this you know from all my teaching and that of your good parents, do you not?”
Laurette's golden head dropped even more as she whispered an affirmative.
“Now, if he had forced you against your will, and if you had cried out for help, my daughter,” the obese priest pursued, “the sin would not have been yours. Am I to understand that you allowed him to unclothe your private parts so shamefully? When I came upon you, my child, I blanched with horror to observe that your drawers were lying upon the grass beside you and that your petticoat and skirt were rolled up to your belly. Was this done by force, my daughter? Be truthful now!”
“It—it was not done by force, my father,” Laurette quavered, and two big tears glistened in her large blue eyes.
“Alas, what you have just told me fills my heart with sorrow. For a pure maiden to permit such licentiousness is indeed reprehensible, my poor child. Do you give me your promise never to see this wretch again?”
“But, my father, I would do so, and yet what if through no fault of mine he appears before me?”
“Take care, my daughter,” Pere Mourier's shaggy brows knitted in a stern and foreboding look. “Do not try to entrap me in such devil's logic! Why, then, in that instance, you will modestly remember your station in life and the fact that you must not allow a blemish to stain the good Christian name of Claude Villiers. And you will tell this scoundrel that it is odious to you to be accosted by him. So much for that. And now, my daughter, the moment has come for your chastisement. Are you prepared to submit to it at my hand?”
Laurette, who was blushing from her temples to her milky throat, uttered a poignant sigh and nodded.
Removing his little hat of office, the portly priest moved now to a chest of drawers beside his narrow, low bed, opened the top drawer and drew out a scourge. It was made of brown leather, with a short stocky handle from
