Chương Chương 140 · FAUCHELEVENT IN THE PRESENCE OF A DIFFICULTY

It is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions,

notably priests and nuns, to wear a grave and agitated air on critical

occasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of

preoccupation was imprinted on the countenance of the prioress, who was

that wise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur, Mother Innocente, who

was ordinarily cheerful.

The gardener made a timid bow, and remained at the door of the cell.

The prioress, who was telling her beads, raised her eyes and said:—

“Ah! it is you, Father Fauvent.”

This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent.

Fauchelevent bowed again.

“Father Fauvent, I have sent for you.”

“Here I am, reverend Mother.”

“I have something to say to you.”

“And so have I,” said Fauchelevent with a boldness which caused him

inward terror, “I have something to say to the very reverend Mother.”

The prioress stared at him.

“Ah! you have a communication to make to me.”

“A request.”

“Very well, speak.”

Goodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to the category of

peasants who have assurance. A certain clever ignorance constitutes a

force; you do not distrust it, and you are caught by it. Fauchelevent

had been a success during the something more than two years which he

had passed in the convent. Always solitary and busied about his

gardening, he had nothing else to do than to indulge his curiosity. As

he was at a distance from all those veiled women passing to and fro, he

saw before him only an agitation of shadows. By dint of attention and

sharpness he had succeeded in clothing all those phantoms with flesh,

and those corpses were alive for him. He was like a deaf man whose

sight grows keener, and like a blind man whose hearing becomes more

acute. He had applied himself to riddling out the significance of the

different peals, and he had succeeded, so that this taciturn and

enigmatical cloister possessed no secrets for him; the sphinx babbled

all her secrets in his ear. Fauchelevent knew all and concealed all;

that constituted his art. The whole convent thought him stupid. A great

merit in religion. The vocal mothers made much of Fauchelevent. He was

a curious mute. He inspired confidence. Moreover, he was regular, and

never went out except for well-demonstrated requirements of the orchard

and vegetable garden. This discretion of conduct had inured to his

credit. Nonetheless, he had set two men to chattering: the porter, in

the convent, and he knew the singularities of their parlor, and the

grave-digger, at the cemetery, and he was acquainted with the

peculiarities of their sepulture; in this way, he possessed a double

light on the subject of these nuns, one as to their life, the other as

to their death. But he did not abuse his knowledge. The congregation

thought a great deal of him. Old, lame, blind to everything, probably a

little deaf into the bargain,—what qualities! They would have found it

difficult to replace him.

The goodman, with the assurance of a person who feels that he is

appreciated, entered into a rather diffuse and very deep rustic

harangue to the reverend prioress. He talked a long time about his age,

his infirmities, the surcharge of years counting double for him

henceforth, of the increasing demands of his work, of the great size of

the garden, of nights which must be passed, like the last, for

instance, when he had been obliged to put straw mats over the melon

beds, because of the moon, and he wound up as follows: “That he had a

brother”—(the prioress made a movement),—“a brother no longer young”—(a

second movement on the part of the prioress, but one expressive of

reassurance),—“that, if he might be permitted, this brother would come

and live with him and help him, that he was an excellent gardener, that

the community would receive from him good service, better than his own;

that, otherwise, if his brother were not admitted, as he, the elder,

felt that his health was broken and that he was insufficient for the

work, he should be obliged, greatly to his regret, to go away; and that

his brother had a little daughter whom he would bring with him, who

might be reared for God in the house, and who might, who knows, become

a nun some day.”

When he had finished speaking, the prioress stayed the slipping of her

rosary between her fingers, and said to him:—

“Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening?”

“For what purpose?”

“To serve as a lever.”

“Yes, reverend Mother,” replied Fauchelevent.

The prioress, without adding a word, rose and entered the adjoining

room, which was the hall of the chapter, and where the vocal mothers

were probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.