“I am possessed by her,” as if the desire for this girl within him were as dominating as one of the powers of hell. He scarcely bothered himself about her transgression. It was a pity, but, after all, it did her no harm, and he bore no grudge against Victor Lecoq. But if the cure should not succeed, what was he to do? He did not dare to think of it, the anxiety was such a torture to him. He reached the presbytery and seated himself near the little gateway to wait for the priest's return. He was there perhaps half an hour when he heard steps on the road, and although the night was very dark, he presently distinguished the still darker shadow of the cassock. He rose up, his legs giving way under him, not even venturing to speak, not daring to ask a question. The clergyman perceived him and said gaily: “Well, my lad, it's all right.” Cesaire stammered: “All right, 'tisn't possible.” “Yes, my lad, but not without trouble. What an old ass your father is!” The peasant repeated: “'Tisn't possible!” “Why, yes. Come and look me up to-morrow at midday in order to settle about the publication of the banns.” The young man seized the cure's hand. He pressed it, shook it, bruised it as he stammered: “True-true-true, Monsieur le Cure, on the word of an honest man, you'll see me to-morrow-at your sermon.” PART II The wedding took place in the middle of December. It was simple, the bridal pair not being rich. Cesaire, attired in new clothes, was ready since eight o'clock in the morning to go and fetch his betrothed and bring her to the mayor's office, but it was too early. He seated himself before the kitchen table and waited for the members of the family and the friends who were to accompany him. For the last eight days it had been snowing, and the brown earth, the earth already fertilized by the autumn sowing, had become a dead white, sleeping under a great sheet of ice. It was cold in the thatched houses adorned with white caps, and the round apples in the trees of the enclosures seemed to be flowering, covered with white as they had been in the pleasant month of their blossoming. This day the big clouds to the north, the big great snow clouds, had disappeared and the blue sky showed itself above the white earth on which the rising sun cast silvery reflections. Cesaire looked straight before him through the window, thinking of nothing, quite happy. The door opened, two women entered, peasant women in their Sunday clothes, the aunt and the cousin of the bridegroom; then three men, his cousins; then a woman who was a neighbor. They sat down on chairs and remained, motionless and silent, the women on one side of the kitchen, the men on the other, suddenly seized with timidity, with that embarrassed sadness which takes possession of people assembled for a ceremony. One of the cousins soon asked: “Is it not the hour?” Cesaire replied: “I am much afraid it is.” “Come on! Let us start,” said another.