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 Abbé 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 Abbé 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 Abbé’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 sure.... Those old demons are jolly tough, you know.’ He was already raising his whip, when Abbé Mouret stopped him. ‘Stay! what o’clock do you make it, uncle?’ ‘A quarter to eleven.’ The Abbé hesitated; he already seemed to hear La Teuse’s terrible voice bawling in his ears that his luncheon was getting cold. But he plucked up courage and added swiftly: ‘I’ll go with you, uncle. The unhappy man may wish to reconcile himself to God in his last hour.’ Doctor Pascal could not restrain a laugh. ‘What, Jeanbernat!’ he said; ‘ah, well! if ever you convert him! Never mind, come all the same. The sight of you is enough to cure him.’