"I am possessed by her," as if he felt the desire of this girl within him with as much dominating force as one of the powers of Hell. He scarcely bothered himself about her transgression. So much the worse, after all; it did her no harm, and he bore no grudge against Victor Lecoq. But if the cure was not going to succeed, what was he to do? He did not dare to think of it, so much did this anxious question torment him. He reached the presbytery and seated himself near the little gateway to await for the priest's return. He was there perhaps half-an-hour when he heard steps on the road, and he soon distinguished although the night was very dark, the still darker shadow of the sautane. 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 gayly: "Well, my lad, 'tis 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, while 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 savings had become livid, 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, powdered as they had been in the pleasant month of their blossoming. This day, the big northern clouds, the gray clouds laden with glittering rain 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 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 they 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: "It is not the hour--is it?" Cesaire replied: "I am much afraid it is."