‘No, thanks,’ he answered, laughing. ‘You should give them to the Curé’s sister; she is very fond of pets. Good day, Jeanbernat.’ Albine, however, had fastened on the priest. ‘You are the vicar of Les Artaud, aren’t you? You have a sister? I’ll go and see her. Only you must not speak to me about God. My uncle will not have it.’ ‘You bother us, be off,’ exclaimed Jeanbernat, shrugging his shoulders. Then bounding away like a goat, dropping a shower of flowers behind her, she disappeared. The slam of a door was heard, and from behind the house came bursts of laughter, which died away in the distance like the scampering rush of some mad animal let loose among the grass. ‘You’ll see, she will end by sleeping in the Paradou,’ muttered the old man with indifference. And as he saw his visitors off, he added: ‘If you should find me dead one of these fine days, doctor, just do me the favour of pitching me into the muck-pit there, behind my lettuces. Good evening, gentlemen.’ He let the wooden gate which closed the hedge fall to again, and the house assumed once more its aspect of happy peacefulness in the noonday sunlight, amidst the buzzing of the big flies that swarmed all up the ivy even to the roof tiles. IX The gig once more rolled along the road skirting the Paradou’s interminable wall. Abbé Mouret, still silent, scanned with upturned eyes the huge boughs which stretched over that wall, like the arms of giants hidden there. All sorts of sounds came from the park: rustling of wings, quivering of leaves, furtive bounds at which branches snapped, mighty sighs that bowed the young shoots--a vast breath of life sweeping over the crests of a nation of trees. At times, as he heard a birdlike note that seemed like a human laugh, the priest turned his head, as if he felt uneasy. ‘A queer girl!’ said his uncle as he eased the reins a little. ‘She was nine years old when she took up her quarters with that old heathen. Some brother of his had ruined himself, though in what I can’t remember. The little one was at school somewhere when her father killed himself. She was even quite a little lady, up to reading, embroidery, chattering, and strumming on the piano. And such a coquette too! I saw her arrive with open-worked stockings, embroidered skirts, frills, cuffs, a heap of finery. Ah, well! the finery didn’t last long!’ He laughed. A big stone nearly upset the gig. ‘It will be lucky if I don’t leave a wheel in this cursed road!’ he muttered. ‘Hold on, my boy.’ The wall still stretched beside them: the priest still listened.