As Good As Gold

Seraphita sat on a bench outside of the church’s office, pretending to be occupied with the lose threads on the buttons of her coat while the priest whisked her mother away. He had wanted to speak to Mme. Dulmouchel urgently, no doubt it was about her, Seraphita was certain. When her mother and the priest vanished from sight, she stood and waited just outside the door, hoping to hear something of importance.

The door was slightly ajar but she still couldn’t quite make out what was being said. They both sounded quite agitated as they fiercely whispered back and forth. Mme. Dulmouchel suddenly exploded into a fit of anger.

“My girl is every bit as good as the others. All she asks is to be treated right--see!”

Seraphita had to give the priest credit, he did not raise his voice but calmly mumbled a reply.

“Manners--what d’you mean?” Her mother snapped.

The priest’s words could finally be heard clearly as he raised his voice in irritation. “She’s rather inclined to be coquettish.”

“What d’you mean--coquettish?” Her mother shouted. “Anyway, what business is it of yours? You’ve no business--you a priest and all! Coquettish! Excuse me, M. le Curé, but I think you’re a lot too young to be talkin’ o’ such things an’ with such a young woman at that!”

Her mother’s footsteps could be heard swiftly approaching the door and Seraphita scrambled to sit back down with her hands in her lap, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Mme. Dulmouchel’s red face was twisted into an ugly scowl as she stormed out of the priest’s office. She exhaled before she spoke to her daughter. “Come along Seraphita.”

Her mother didn’t wait for a response as she briskly walked away. Seraphita quickly stood and scurried after her, trying her hardest not to smile and giggle with glee. Of course her mother had defended her against M. le Curé, she always did. The priest was already disliked in town and so his criticisms and judgements of people’s character were seldom well received. Seraphita realized that she could use this to her advantage.

The priest had emerged from his office and watched the two women walk down the aisle. Seraphita looked over her shoulder and gave the priest an innocent smile before leaving the church.

Seraphita had been drawn to the young priest since he had first arrived to Ambricourt and she saw those mournful, dark eyes of his. She had always been intrigued by priests. They were aloof and unobtainable conduits of God, His obsidian-clad anointed servants on earth. They were holy avatars for the love of God and Seraphita wanted to snatch the young cleric within her grasp and keep him to herself. She wanted to know if she could reach her Creator through him.

The previous clergyman of Ambricourt had retired and Seraphita had always remembered him as being an old man. He had been far too old for her, as were many priests in the neighbouring towns and villages, and she was still too young to pursue any of them. But this new priest was young, sensitive and inexperienced, the subject of gossip and derision in Ambricourt. His innocence surely had to be some sign of his holiness, that he was truly of God. He was an outcast because he was too perfect, too pious for the townspeople to understand him. They couldn’t withstand being in the presence of an angel and so, like mindless beasts, they resorted to attacking him to keep him at bay. Did they not realize what sin they were committing by harming one of God’s messengers?

He had to be some kind of angel and Seraphita was determined to ensnare the celestial man.

Her mother continued to rant and rave about the audacity of the priest to criticize Seraphita so harshly. Seraphita suppressed a smile.

So the angel had noticed her and was thinking of her! She had been following him, observing him, finding every opportunity she could to get close to her angel without arousing suspicion from her family and the townsfolk. Her family was still woefully oblivious, thinking that her trips to church were signs of her religiosity but the priest, the angel, had noticed her. Perhaps, being an angel and therefore wise, he knew what her motives were. She hardly took offense to the fact that the priest thought her coquettish and that her manners needed work. Surely he was saying these things because he recognized that she was a wretched sinner in need of saving. Surely he wanted to help her. Surely he had noticed her admiration and now she had to prove her devotion to him.

She could not give voice to these thoughts however. Instead, she shrugged and tried to calm her mother down. She only half-listened to her mother’s ranting, nodding and making noncommittal noises when appropriate. Mme. Dulmouchel’s ire finally cooled and she shook her head dismissively.

“That priest,” She muttered. “Don’t you let ‘im insult you Seraphita. He’s young and hardly knows what he’s talkin’ about.”

The women walked home briskly and soon were making their way down the road to their cottage. Seraphita would often prowl along that same stretch of road and around town, hoping to see the allusive M. le Curé either on his bicycle or walking on foot to wherever people in the parish needed him.

One afternoon they had caught each other’s eye. Paralyzed by the thrill of actually encountering the priest outside of church, she stood still and watched him as he approached. She was transfixed by his gentleness of manner as he nervously approached her, speaking sweetly to her though she couldn’t recall what he had said. She could not tolerate looking into the eyes of someone so pure and innocent and so she stared at the ground, watching his shadow draw closer. Before he could get close enough, she threw her satchel in the nearby ditch and ran off back home. The priest had an altar boy return the satchel later that day and Seraphita ran her hand over the leather surface, imagining the priest’s frail hands had been there. She was disappointed that he hadn’t returned it himself but he was probably busy otherwise he would have.

For the remainder of the day, Seraphita quietly helped her mother and her siblings with their chores and stayed out of her father’s sight, lest she accidentally incur his wrath. She was a young, unmarried woman who was deeply infatuated with their parish priest; if her father ever caught wind of her sinful thoughts and behaviour he’d never let her leave the house alone. She had to be careful if she wanted to get closer to the angelic priest.

That night, Seraphita laid on her back in the darkness of her room, thinking of how the priest had looked during the High Mass that morning. Her breath quickened as she remembered the green and gold of his chasuble, the lace details on the skirt and sleeves of his alb, the soft cadence of his voice as he spoke in Latin over the Body and Blood of Christ. She had knelt at the communion rail, her mind straying into forbidden territory as he stood in front of her and placed the consecrated host on her tongue. She returned to her pew and knelt in prayer, asking God to forgive her for thinking such devious things about one of His servants right after she had received communion.

Seraphita hardly remembered his homilies and sermons, it was the usual tripe she had heard from dozens of priests before him, but she remembered how smooth and assured his voice always was. He may be a friendless, reserved man but the priest most certainly believed in what he said, believed and had faith in his God.

She didn’t know her angel’s real name, he never told her nor did anyone in her acquaintance know the priest well enough to learn his name. M. le Curé or Curé de Ambricourt were the appropriate ways of addressing him and inquiring into his given name was invasive and against social decorum. She longed to know what his real name was but she would have to earn his trust and affection first.

It wasn’t enough to just watch from a distance anymore. She had to get closer to the priest. She had to prove that she could be a well mannered, modest, Catholic woman if she tried. Perhaps he would begin to soften his heart then.