Page 4 of The Priest

I cross the hall to get my coat. By now, Henri and Amelie will be in their room, doing their best to muffle sounds I’d rather not hear. The two of them are incandescent with joy, so besotted with each other they barely seem to notice the world around them.

It shouldn’t, but my brother’s newfound happiness only makes me feel more alone—never more so than at this moment.

I’ve just pulled on my coat when I hear Edouard’s tread behind me. After three years of being desperately in love with him, I’ve memorized every one of his sounds—his footfall, his laugh, the length of his sighs. I could probably even identify his silences with my eyes closed.

“We should talk,” he says, and I turn reluctantly. His face is so grave, his eyes so full of regret that I already know exactly what he’s going to say.

I tug the coat tight around me. “It’s not necessary. I already know.”

His mouth opens to reply—an apology, no doubt.

“I know you regret it,” I whisper. “But I’d rather not hear you say so.”

I open the door and walk out into the clear cold night as tears stream down my face. I hear him step out after me just as Irene calls to him, and I’m grateful when he retreats. He doesn’t need the added guilt of my misery, and I don’t deserve to be consoled.

Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t dare hope Edouard would think of me in this way. I shouldn’t be so hurt by something I never had a right to want in the first place.

4

Edouard

I hear Irene calling for me and grit my teeth as Marie walks away.

It was not how I wanted tonight to go. The problem is that I have no idea what I was going to say anyhow.

I want you in a way I’ve never wanted anything before, and I’m scared I’ll ruin you if I pursue it.

I promised God I’d give you up if you returned. And it will be you the town punishes if I fail.

I allowed myself to forget today, when I held her in my arms, what things are like in Saint Antoine now. I wasn’t even all the way back to the church before I was stopped by “concerned” citizens, troubled by where I’d spent my afternoon. It was a reminder that weighed heavily on me: the people of this town are eager to find a scapegoat for the woes that have befallen us since the war began, and they’re trying very hard to make that scapegoat the Durands.

All night I’ve struggled with this—the harm I might cause her versus my own desire. And in the end, still floundering, I just let her walk away. It feels like the wrong choice.

* * *

It’s a relief to finally return to my room. I loosen my collar and sink into a chair, closing my eyes to relive each moment we spent in the orchard. I remember all of it: the feel of Marie in my hands, her soft gasp as my lips moved over her skin. Her smell, her taste. The delicious torment of her body curving into mine.

I should be on my knees begging God’s forgiveness, but it’s hopeless right now. I’m nothing but this fire, a desperate, painful sort of want I can’t seem to rid myself of.

I drink two glasses of wine, trying to diminish it all—the pain and the desire both—but when I climb into bed it remains. I turn onto my stomach and find my hips pressing to the mattress, as if she were beneath me. It is the sweetest torture and when I can take no more, my hand slips into my boxers to relieve the ache. Another sin, another broken vow and not the first time I’ve done it, thinking of her. I picture her smile, the curve of her hips, her breasts pressed against me when I held her, the way she gave herself over to me so completely.

I spill into my hands and across my chest in barely a moment’s time, yet the fire isn’t diminished at all. Within seconds I’m rigid again, thinking of her.

If this is a test from God, it needs to end soon...or I am going to fail.

Part Two

5

Edouard

I wake feeling sick with shame.

Sick over the many ways I broke my vows yesterday and last night. Sick because I hurt Marie. Sick because in spite of everything that happened, all I want in the world when I rise from my morning prayers is to see her face again today.

When the daily service—short and to the point—is complete, I walk into the parish hall. It’s a single large room that seems to serve a different purpose each hour of the day. At present, people are gathering for Marie’s language class, and I’m here mostly for a chance to lay eyes on her, insufficient though it will be.

As soon as I enter, Irene Rousseau is by my side, asking some question she surely already knows the answer to. I scan the room quickly, and, when I don’t see what I came here for, I turn to her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “What did you ask?”