At the
corner of a street, while the young priest's attention was momentarily
turned in another direction, a negro page, fantastically garbed,
approached me, and without pausing on his way slipped into my hand
a little pocket-book with gold-embroidered corners, at the same time
giving me a sign to hide it. I concealed it in my sleeve, and there kept
it until I found myself alone in my cell. Then I opened the clasp. There
were only two leaves within, bearing the words, 'Clarimonde. At the
Concini Palace.' So little acquainted was I at that time with the things
of this world that I had never heard of Clarimonde, celebrated as she
was, and I had no idea as to where the Concini Palace was situated. I
hazarded a thousand conjectures, each more extravagant than the last;
but, in truth, I cared little whether she were a great lady or a
courtesan, so that I could but see her once more. My love, although the growth of a single hour, had taken imperishable
root. I did not even dream of attempting to tear it up, so fully was I
convinced such a thing would be impossible. That woman had completely
taken possession of me. One look from her had sufficed to change my very
nature. She had breathed her will into my life, and I no longer lived
in myself, but in her and for her. I gave myself up to a thousand
extravagancies. I kissed the place upon my hand which she had touched,
and I repeated her name over and over again for hours in succession. I
only needed to close my eyes in order to see her distinctly as though
she were actually present; and I reiterated to myself the words she had
uttered in my ear at the church porch: 'Unhappy man! Unhappy man! What
hast thou done?' I comprehended at last the full horror of my situation,
and the funereal and awful restraints of the state into which I had just
entered became clearly revealed to me. To be a priest!--that is, to be
chaste, to never love, to observe no distinction of sex or age, to turn
from the sight of all beauty, to put out one's own eyes, to hide for
ever crouching in the chill shadows of some church or cloister, to visit
none but the dying, to watch by unknown corpses, and ever bear about
with one the black soutane as a garb of mourning for oneself, so that
your very dress might serve as a pall for your coffin. And I felt life rising within me like a subterranean lake, expanding
and overflowing; my blood leaped fiercely through my arteries; my
long-restrained youth suddenly burst into active being, like the aloe
which blooms but once in a hundred years, and then bursts into blossom
with a clap of thunder. What could I do in order to see Clarimonde once more? I had no pretext
to offer for desiring to leave the seminary, not knowing any person in
the city. I would not even be able to remain there but a short time,
and was only waiting my assignment to the curacy which I must thereafter
occupy. I tried to remove the bars of the window; but it was at a
fearful height from the ground, and I found that as I had no ladder it
would be useless to think of escaping thus. And, furthermore, I could
descend thence only by night in any event, and afterward how should I be
able to find my way through the inextricable labyrinth of streets? All these difficulties, which to many would have appeared altogether
insignificant, were gigantic to me, a poor seminarist who had fallen in
love only the day before for the first time, without experience, without
money, without attire. 'Ah!' cried I to myself in my blindness, 'were I not a priest I could
have seen her every day; I might have been her lover, her spouse. Instead of being wrapped in this dismal shroud of mine I would have had
garments of silk and velvet, golden chains, a sword, and fair plumes
like other handsome young cavaliers. My hair, instead of being
dishonoured by the tonsure, would flow down upon my neck in waving
curls; I would have a fine waxed moustache; I would be a gallant.' But
one hour passed before an altar, a few hastily articulated words, had
for ever cut me off from the number of the living, and I had myself
sealed down the stone of my own tomb; I had with my own hand bolted the
gate of my prison! I went to the window. The sky was beautifully blue;
the trees had donned their spring robes; nature seemed to be making
parade of an ironical joy. The _Place_ was filled with people, some
going, others coming; young beaux and young beauties were sauntering in
couples toward the groves and gardens; merry youths passed by, cheerily
trolling refrains of drinking-songs--it was all a picture of vivacity,
life, animation, gaiety, which formed a bitter contrast with my mourning
and my solitude. On the steps of the gate sat a young mother playing
with her child. She kissed its little rosy mouth still impearled with
drops of milk, and performed, in order to amuse it, a thousand divine
little puerilities such as only mothers know how to invent. The father
standing at a little distance smiled gently upon the charming group, and
with folded arms seemed to hug his joy to his heart. I could not endure
that spectacle. I closed the window with violence, and flung myself on
my bed, my heart filled with frightful hate and jealousy, and gnawed my
fingers and my bedcovers like a tiger that has passed ten days without
food. I know not how long I remained in this condition, but at last, while
writhing on the bed in a fit of spasmodic fury, I suddenly perceived
the Abbé Sérapion, who was standing erect in the centre of the room,
watching me attentively. Filled with shame of myself, I let my head fall
upon my breast and covered my face with my hands. 'Romuald, my friend, something very extraordinary is transpiring within
you,' observed Sérapion, after a few moments' silence; 'your conduct is
altogether inexplicable. You--always so quiet, so pious, so gentle--you
to rage in your cell like a wild beast! Take heed, brother--do not
listen to the suggestions of the devil The Evil Spirit, furious that you
have consecrated yourself for ever to the Lord, is prowling around you
like a ravening wolf and making a last effort to obtain possession of
you. Instead of allowing yourself to be conquered, my dear Romuald,
make to yourself a cuirass of prayers, a buckler of mortifications, and
combat the enemy like a valiant man; you will then assuredly overcome
him. Virtue must be proved by temptation, and gold comes forth purer
from the hands of the assayer. Fear not. Never allow yourself to become
discouraged. The most watchful and steadfast souls are at moments liable
to such temptation. Pray, fast, meditate, and the Evil Spirit will
depart from you.' The words of the Abbé Sérapion restored me to myself, and I became a
little more calm. 'I came,' he continued, 'to tell you that you have
been appointed to the curacy of C------. The priest who had charge of
it has just died, and Monseigneur the Bishop has ordered me to have you
installed there at once. Be ready, therefore, to start to-morrow.'