CHAPTER EIGHT
Pere Mourier, now fully regained in his composure, entered the reception salon of the rectory to meet his announced guest. Meanwhile the beauteous Amazonian housekeeper, the widow Desiree, hastened to procure a tray of cakes and two glasses and a bottle of excellent Burgundy, which she set down on a table between the two priests. She did not at once withdraw, but stood at the doorway, making languishing eyes at the newcomer. He had evidently taken her fancy, for he was indeed a handsome and mature man in the full prime of his faculties. I suspected that it was he who had disarranged the widow's blouse.
Father Lawrence was a man just under six feet in stature, in his late forties, I should judge, with an abundant shock of brown hair only partly streaked with gray. He had vigorous, rugged features, with intense blue eyes, very thick brows, a strong roman nose and a firm, decisive mouth and chin. He was so much more prepossessing that Pere Mourier that I had no doubt the handsome widow was regretting she had made the impulsive offer to become the latter's housekeeper when a man of Father Lawrence's vitality and robustness appeared upon the scene.
“I bid you welcome to the village of Languecuisse, Father,” the obese holy man obsequiously greeted his confrere, extending his pudgy hand—the very one which had just dealt poor little Laurette such a thrashing on her naked behind. “May I ask to what order you belong?”
“Why, to tell the truth, Pere Mourier, it happens that I have a third cousin of my family residing in a town some fifty miles from your charming little village. As I was on vacation, after my visit to my cousin, I decided to see the rest of the countryside, particularly this area which is so famous for its excellent wines.”
“Indeed, Father, you have come to the right place for wines. This very day just past, we held a grape- trampling contest to celebrate the harvest of the good grapes that make such delicious wine as this. Dear Madame Desiree, will you not do the honors?”
The handsome widow was only too happy to be called back to service in the presence of so virile and splendidly vital a visitor. As she opened the bottle and poured out the mellow red wine, her eyes fixed on Father Lawrence with an intense admiration, the while her superb and columinous bosom swelled with ardor. He lifted his glass to toast the health of Pere Mourier and laughingly declared: “To your health, my worthy colleague of France, and to the health of this attractive housekeeper. Now then, you asked me to what order I belong. I was about to say that after my vacation, I shall go to a new parish, having served faithfully my little flock in the Soho district of London. I have been assigned to the seminary of St. Thaddeus, and I am to return there in about a month. I look forward to my new duties, Pere Mourier, but until that time I should much prefer to be treated like a visitor and to enjoy my leisure in this beautiful country of Provence.”
With which gallant speech, he lifted his glass first to the obese holy man, and then towards Desiree herself, who modestly lowered her eyes and blushed properly, as a chaste widow should. Yet I remember how boldly she had exhibited her charms only that afternoon, when in the cask she had lofted skirt and petticoat to expose herself without drawers.
Yet what was most important to me was the memory that Father Lawrence's information about his new assignment wakened. For, dear reader, the same seminary to which he would be delegated to begin his ecclesiastical duties was none other than the one to which Julia and Bella had gone to find a spiritual refuge after their orphanage and, as you recall, had found instead that they would serve as the handmaidens and concubines of many virile, lecherous men of the cloth.
Pere Mourier fairly beamed at this news. “Why, then, Father Lawrence,” he unctuously replied (he spoke English passably well), “since that is your disposition, I should like nothing better than to invite you in my capacity as spiritual leader of this pleasant little community, to spend the rest of your vacation here. It is true that we do not have the excitement of the large cities, but we have many interesting sights and quite a few philosophical problems to occupy your alert mind, I am sure. As a matter of fact, just as I came to receive you, I was wrestling with the Devil himself in seeking to drive him forth from a charming damsel who is without a doubt the most beautiful in our village.
The bushy eyebrows of the English ecclesiast arched with interested surprise. “I should be most happy to accept your invitation. You know that the country where I come from is but an island subject to fog and rain and cloudy weather so much of the time. But here in beautiful Provence, I have already fallen in love with the sun and the green fields and the simple people of the earth. Of course, I should have to find accommodations somewhere.” As he said this, he glanced artfully at the Amazonian housekeeper who stood beside him, ready to fill his glass once again. Her red full lips curved in a comprehending smile, as she favored him with a sultry glance from under lowered lashes.
“That would be no problem,” Pere Mourier at once responded, “for I know a number of families who would be privileged to take you in as their guest.”
“I should not like to discommode anyone, really. The ideal thing would be to find some little place and to engage a housekeeper, such as yours, for example, good Pere Mourier.”
The fat priest pursed his fleshy lips and furrowed his brow in concentration. “I know of one such place. It is a little cottage to the other side of the village, rather humble, and in it dwells an estimable widow by the name of Madame Hortense Bernard. I am certain that if I spoke to her, she would be happy to put you up as a guest.”
“Naturally I should pay for my food and lodging,” Father Lawrence smiled. “But tell me of this good soul. She is doubtless one of your parishioners?”
“Oh, to be sure,” Pere Mourier smiled with a knowing wink, for it was obvious that he felt already a certain bond of kinship between himself and the virile-looking English churchman. “She is the soul of devotion herself. She was bereaved two years ago when her husband lamentably fell into a vat of wine and was drowned. It was a dark night without stars or moon to guide the unfortunate man's footsteps, and it appeared that he had stumbled from a window, lost his balance and toppled down into the vat. Since then, Madame Bernard has grieved unceasingly for him. Indeed, had it not been for my good fortune in finding that Madame Desiree wished a situation and was in urgent need of it, I should doubtless have engaged Madame Bernard. She has, you see, tenancy of a few acres of grapevines, and the past two summers her neighbor's husband, the industrious Jules Dulac, has done a charitable work under heaven's eye by looking after them for her. Yet unfortunately her soil was not blessed and thus the harvest has not been prosperous for her either time. She could very well use the francs you could pay her for your keep, good Father Lawrence.”
“Then I should be indebted to you, Pere Mourier, if you would, as is convenient, speak to this soul on my behalf.”
“It is already done. But meanwhile you will do me the honor of staying here for the night. In the morning, I shall go to Madame Benard and make the arrangements, Madame Desiree?”
“Yes, Your Reverence,” the beautiful Amazon cooed.
“I am certain that we can find a place for Father Lawrence to sleep tonight. Will you see to it, my dear.”
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Reverence,” Desiree purred, and with a glance she gave Father Lawrence to understand that the remark was really meant for him.
“So that is settled,” the fat priest chuckled. “Now, Father Lawrence perhaps you will lend me your spiritual aid in conversing with the fair penitent of whom I was speaking but a moment ago. Hers is a most distressing case, and I fear that because of her youth and innocence she is not yet resigned to her duty.”
“I shall be most happy to collaborate with you, Pere Mourier, in any way that you deem advisable,” said the vigorous English ecclesiastic. Since Pere Mourier was not looking at him at the moment he hazarded a glance at the chestnut-haired housekeeper, and it was such a look as gave her to understand that he found her comely. She flushed hotly beneath that gaze, and then volunteered, “If Your Reverence has no further need of me at the moment, I will go to prepare a bed for Father Lawrence.”
“Do so indeed, my dear,” Pere Mourier beamed and gave a lordly flourish of his hand. “Come, Father Lawrence, and let us attend this charming penitent. I have only just finished giving her the discipline so that she may see the error of her ways.”
Father Lawrence rose from the table and moved to follow his French colleague. But as Desiree had not yet left the room, he took stealthy advantage of her presence to pass his left hand quickly over her magnificent backside and to give it a most familiar little squeeze. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp of surprised delight, and then, flashing him an enamoured look from those magnificent eyes of hers, promptly left the room.
En route to the room in which he had left poor Laurette still kneeling on the straight-backed chair, Pere
