D Agostino Mafia 3 Broken Innocence

1st Edition Brook Wilder

Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmeta.com/product/d-agostino-mafia-3-broken-innocence-1st-edition-broo
k-wilder/
More products digital (pdf, epub, mobi) instant
download maybe you interests ...

Broken Bride Belaya Bratva 2 1st Edition Brook Wilder

https://ebookmeta.com/product/broken-bride-belaya-bratva-2-1st-
edition-brook-wilder/

Broken Shadows The Broken Series Second Generation 2

1st Edition Heather D Agostino

https://ebookmeta.com/product/broken-shadows-the-broken-series-
second-generation-2-1st-edition-heather-d-agostino/

Broken Crown (Mafia Royals #5) 1st Edition Rachel Van

Dyken

https://ebookmeta.com/product/broken-crown-mafia-royals-5-1st-
edition-rachel-van-dyken/

The Broken Battlemage 1st Edition D Levesque

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-broken-battlemage-1st-edition-
d-levesque/
Valentine Veto Sycamore Mountain 3 1st Edition Claire
Wilder

https://ebookmeta.com/product/valentine-veto-sycamore-
mountain-3-1st-edition-claire-wilder/

Austin Wilder Brothers Rodeo 3 1st Edition Kali Hart

https://ebookmeta.com/product/austin-wilder-brothers-rodeo-3-1st-
edition-kali-hart/

Dead Sea Book 2 Crimson Surge 1st Edition D F Brook

Mike Kraus

https://ebookmeta.com/product/dead-sea-book-2-crimson-surge-1st-
edition-d-f-brook-mike-kraus/

The Broken Cross Series 1 Broken Cross 1 3 1st Edition

Bri Blackwood

https://ebookmeta.com/product/the-broken-cross-series-1-broken-
cross-1-3-1st-edition-bri-blackwood/

Broken Winchester Academy 3 1st Edition Madison Faye

https://ebookmeta.com/product/broken-winchester-academy-3-1st-
edition-madison-faye/
This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, events, and
incidents are products of the
author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to

actual events, locales, organizations, or persons—living or dead—is

entirely coincidental.

BROKEN INNOCENCE copyright @ 2021 by Brook Wilder and

Scholae Palatina Inc. All rights

reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any

manner whatsoever without written

permission except in the case of brief quotations embedded in

critical articles or reviews.

Join my mailing list and receive your copy of Widow Maker, prequel
of the Rough Jesters MC series:

https://dl.bookfunnel.com/vu0t02km9b

BOOK 3 of the D’Agostino Mafia trilogy

BOOKS IN THE D’AGOSTINO MAFIA TRILOGY:

BROKEN INNOCENCE

CHAINED POSSESSION

WOUNDED REDEMPTION

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

CHAINED POSSESSION

OTHER BOOKS BY BROOK WILDER

Chapter 1
Rory

August 2019

I smiled at the doorman as he held the door open for me, the lobby
of the building a welcome respite

from the sweltering heat outside. My thin sundress clung to my

sweat-drenched body; my thick hair

was pulled up high off my neck so I didn’t look like I had just
stepped out of the shower. The

weatherman had claimed a heat wave, and I believed it, given the
sorry state of my appearance.

Walking over to the elevator, I punched at the button, waiting for it

to arrive. The building where I

was sucking in the air conditioning was the same building that my
fiancé, Tim, worked in, and today I

felt like surprising him with his favorite lunch. His work had kept him
away from me lately, and while I had been trying to be supportive of
his growing real estate business, I missed him as well. We had

been together for four years, engaged for two, and were in no hurry
to get married. I mean, one day I

wanted to marry him, but it just was working for us right now.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped in, pressing the familiar
floor. I had met Tim at a party and knew immediately that he was
going to be a major part of my life. The funny thing was, we hadn’t

moved in together yet. It would be so much easier to see each

other, and I spent more time than I cared to admit at his apartment
than mine, but I don’t know. I guess I liked my space.
Maybe we wouldn’t ever get married.

The doors opened once more, and I stepped out into the offices of
Snyder and Grant. Tim had been

trying to become partner for two years, hence the reason he’d been
having to work so hard, but I knew

the moment he did, I would get my Tim back. The fun times would
begin again, and we would go back

to the way things were.

He was just stressed about the job.

See? I was really trying to be the ultra-supportive fiancée.

Clutching the paper bag, I walked down the hall to Tim’s office,
noting that his door was cracked

open. He was going to be surprised that I was here, but I was

hoping that we could talk about the

weekend and maybe plan a getaway to reconnect.

When I reached the door, I adjusted my dress and put a smile on my

face before pushing it open.

Unfortunately, my smile didn’t stay on my face for long. Tim was

behind his desk and his assistant

was in his lap, his hand resting on her hip. Their encounter was cozy,
and I felt the blood drain from my face, dropping the sandwiches
before I realized it.

The noise caused them both to look at me, and Tim nearly dumped
the woman off his lap as he stood,
smoothing down his tie. “Rory,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

I couldn’t push the words past my tongue. Was that—was she really
in his lap?

His assistant—Ginger, I think was her name—gave out a little laugh

and straightened her pencil skirt

as she brushed past me, her fruity perfume assaulting my senses.

This had to be a dream. No. A nightmare.

“What were you doing with her?” I finally said after I found my
voice.

I wanted Tim to tell me I was overreacting, that what I had seen

wasn’t what it looked like.

But instead, my fiancé, the man who was to love me above all else,
pinched the bridge of his nose and

destroyed my life with one sentence. “I didn’t want you to find out
like this.”

“What?” What was it that he didn’t want me to find out about? In

my heart of hearts, I already knew

what he was going to say, but until he did, it wasn’t real.

None of this was real.

“Hey, Rory,” he started, refusing to look me in the eye. “We’ve had a

good run, but our relationship,

it’s just not working anymore. Surely you can see that we’ve just
grown apart.”
I stood there, staring at him like a gaping fish. “Have you been
cheating on me?”

Tim rubbed the back of his neck and my heart sank. He never did
that unless he was uncomfortable,

and heck, now was the time to be super uncomfortable. “Yeah, I

have. I mean, haven’t you?”

No, I hadn’t. I had been the one that was loyal to the end. “I can’t
believe this.”

Again, the neck rub. “I never meant to hurt you, Rory, but I have
needs.”

I let out a harsh laugh, very unlike me. I was the quiet one, the loyal
one, the one not to shake up

anything about my life or anyone else’s. “That’s not love, Tim.”

He sighed, finally meeting my gaze. “Love doesn’t make the world

go round, Rory. Money does. I

will admit, in the beginning, I had a sort of affection for you, but we
just grew apart, and I filled my time with someone else.”

Tears burned my eyes, but I held them back, not wanting this
asshole to see me cry. I would cry later, when I was alone, maybe
with a bottle of wine. Grabbing the ring that had sat on my finger for
two

years, I yanked it off and threw it at Tim. “If you want to service
your needs, go ahead, but I won’t be here for you to fall back on,
Tim. Don’t contact me.”

His expression darkened. “Don’t be a bitch, Rory.”

A bitch. Really? I had every right to be a bitch and a heck of a lot
more. “Goodbye, Tim.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I was already walking away.

I was through.

***

I cried all the way to my apartment, ignoring the looks of those that
I passed. It wasn’t until I was

behind my locked door that I slid down it, trying to catch my breath.

Four years. I had wasted four years of my life with an asshole who
didn’t care anything about me. It

was probably a good thing that I hadn’t moved in with him then, or I
would be homeless right now.

Rubbing my now-empty finger absently, I tried to think of the last

time I had felt this sort of loss. I really shouldn’t be crying over Tim,
but I had loved him. Sure, we hadn’t had the most loving

relationship or the greatest one, but he had still been a major part of
my life, and now that part was gone.

Everything I thought I knew was gone.

I don’t know how long I stayed sitting on the floor, but I finally made
myself get to my feet and fish out my cell phone from my bag. Now
that the initial shock was over, it was time to move on.

She answered on the first ring. “What’s up, bitch?”

“He was cheating on me,” I blurted out, holding back the sob. “All
this time, he was cheating on me,
Emilia.”

“Oh, honey,” my best friend sighed. “I’m so sorry. Give me ten and I
will be there.”

Emilia hung up before I could say anything else, and I pressed the
cell phone to my forehead. Em and

I had met in college, both taking an art appreciation class that was
required for our freshman year. I was a journalism major with
dreams of being a Nobel Prize winner with my own line of books.

Emilia was a high-flying socialite with a trust fund and a father who
had demanded she get a college

degree. Despite our differences in our life, Emilia had been my rock
from day one. You see, my

parents died in a car crash the day after I moved into my dorm at
Princeton, on their way to their first vacation in ten years. I had
fallen apart that day and wanted to quit, but Emilia wouldn’t let me.

It was because of her that I graduated, even if the expensive degree

hadn’t paid off in the end. My

current job was as a columnist for the Midtown Post, a tabloid paper
that New Yorkers loved to hate.

Really, the tabloid did pretty well, considering that one could just pull
out their phone and find the same information.

I tried to find the craziest news to report, hoping that one day the
real newspapers would come

calling.

It had yet to happen, but hey, it was steady work, and my boss was
a good guy, so I didn’t mind so
much.

Now I was a single tabloid writer who had just been cheated on.
Maybe I should write about that in

my next column.

Sighing, I walked over to the fridge and yanked on the handle,

finding it nearly empty like my soul

was. I couldn’t even veg out on junk food because I didn’t have any.

I was pathetic.

Luckily, Emilia arrived at my doorstep exactly ten minutes later, her

arms full of bags. “Sorry, honey,”

she said as she breezed past me into the apartment. “The corner
store didn’t have much of a

selection.”

I shut the door behind her and locked it, watching as she pulled out
items from the bag. “What did you do? Buy them out?”

She turned, a smirk on her face. “Of course not, though I probably
could. I just got the essentials when one is dealing with a broken
heart.” Holding up the bag of chocolates and a six-pack of beer,
Emilia

gave me a shrug. “Which one do you want to start with first?”

I opted for the chocolates, tearing them open and spilling them into
my waiting palm. “I just can’t

believe he would do this to me.”

“You know that Tim wasn’t anyone I liked,” Emilia stated as I pushed
the candies into my mouth,

letting the flavor burst on my tongue. “But I know how much you
loved him, so yeah, it does suck.”

I chewed slowly, thinking about her words. I did love him, right? I
mean, he had been part of my life

for four years. It had happened naturally, the feelings, that is. Saying
it had felt right, believing it.

Well, now that my relationship was over, I wasn’t so sure I did

believe it. “I don’t think I will miss him too much,” I finally said once
I had swallowed the candies.

Emilia reached over and squeezed my hand. “I won’t let you. He’s
not worth your time or effort, hon.

You will find someone else, someone to give a damn about.”

I looked at her, taking in her honey-colored hair that had signs of a

recent trip to the salon. Emilia was the perfect rich socialite, her
wide blue eyes matching the cute nose and pink lips that she rarely
wore lipstick on. Her body was honed from years of yoga, and her
clothing was always impeccable, no

matter what we had gotten into.

Me, I wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. My dark brown hair refused
to do anything but hang down my

back, my eyes nearly the same color. My features were plain, my

body a little curvier than I would

prefer.
And clearly I didn’t have my daddy’s fortune to make me more
attractive to the outside world.

Not that Emilia did that. She was probably the most down-to-earth
person that I had the pleasure of

knowing. Everyone just assumed she was a rich snob. “I don’t want
anyone else,” I finally said. “I’m

done.”

Emilia smiled. “You are only twenty-three, hon. I promise you will
have another shot at happiness. I

wouldn’t give up that quickly.”

I put the chocolate on the counter. “Well, I’m not going to just jump
right back in, that’s for sure. I have to do a better job of learning
someone’s character first.”

Emilia took me by the shoulders, a tender smile on her face. “You

are like the best judge of character, Rory. I mean, look at me.”

Snorting, I let her wrap me in a hug, resting my head on her

shoulder. “You are like the best person

ever, Em.”

“Oh I know,” she said. “And tonight, I’m going to make you forget all
about what’s-his-name when

you come to the party with me.”

I pulled back immediately, shaking my head. “Oh no. My answer is

still no.” Em had been talking

about this rooftop party for weeks, some boring political party, and I
had declined each time. While I wrote for the masses, I didn’t like to
be part of them. I wasn’t as socially inclined as Emilia was, nor was I
really good at just random conversation. I tended to get awkward,
and the words, well, I

couldn’t control what came out of my mouth at all.

“Come on, Rory!” she said, practically begging with her eyes. “I
mean, you just found out that your

fiancé has been cheating on you.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I muttered.

“You know what I mean. It’s the perfect time to be on the rebound!
The guys that will be there tonight will be filthy rich, and with the
right dress, you will knock them dead.”

“Great. Just what I need, a rich man who thinks that money is the
answer.”

“Stop being such a bitch,” Emilia glowered, her eyes flashing. “This
will be a good way to blow off

some steam, Rory. I mean, it could happen, you finding your rich Mr.
Right tonight. Just think about

what Tim will say if you do.”

“This has nothing to do with him,” I replied angrily. I wasn’t one to

hold a grudge, no matter how

painful, nor was I going to put myself out there just to prove a point.
“I’m not going.”

Emilia clucked in disappointment. “Well, then maybe you should just

go as my friend. I don’t ask you
for a lot, Rory, but I think you need this far more than I do.” She put
her hand on my shoulder.

“Besides, the alcohol will be top-shelf. When’s the last time you had
anything that expensive?”

I burst into laughter. Only Emilia would think that I could be swayed
by expensive alcohol.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she was right. If
I didn’t go with her, what was I going to do? Sit here and wallow in
my self-pity? Tim wasn’t, so why should I? It was only one night,

not the rest of my life, and Em would be there with me.

“Fine,” I finally said, surprising her. “I’ll go, but don’t make me regret
it, all right?”

Em squealed and threw her arms around my neck, squeezing me

tightly. “Oh, we are going to have so

much fun!”

Chapter 2

Nico

I looked down at the man in the hospital bed, wondering if anyone

would even care if I put a pillow

over his fucking face and smothered him with it. It was a thought I
often had in visiting him like this.

In that bed, he wasn’t Carmine D’Agostino, feared Mafia don.

He was just a frail old man that could easily be squashed out of this
life if only I was willing to do so.
Of course, I wasn’t. I just hoped he stayed in the coma for the rest
of his miserable life.

“Don.”

I turned to find one of my many capos standing in the doorway, his

hands clasped in front of him.

“What?”

“You’re going to be late for the meeting.”

The meeting. Yet another meeting that I was forced to attend as the
acting don of the D’Agostino

Mafia just so the attendees could whisper amongst themselves that I

wasn’t truly don.

That I wasn’t my fucking father.

“Fine,” I growled, giving my father one last look. This was a ritual I
did every week since he had

fallen ill, coming to the hospital like I gave a shit just so I could have
the self-satisfaction of seeing him in such a vulnerable state. He
would hate it.

My father had survived many of the other Mafias in New York over
the years, including the FBI on

more than one occasion. The D’Agostino name was associated with
drugs, prostitution, and the

occasional shipment of weapons, all meant to build power and

influence over anyone that got in my

father’s way. I knew early on who he was and what our family name
meant. I knew what sort of
power my father had, how he would have visitors late at night that
might not make it out of his

mansion.

And it was all supposed to be mine.

“Don,” the capo said softly, his voice urgent.

“Coming,” I growled, striding away from my father’s hospital bed

without a goodbye. The capo

bowed his head as I passed, and I walked out into the hallway,
starting the long walk to the waiting

SUV that would take me to the meeting. They were all the same.
Most of the time they didn’t even

bother including me in the discussion, not caring that I carried my

father’s name.

I wasn’t him. I would never be him. My voice would never invoke

fear in anyone or demand respect

as he did.

Hell, I might as well not even be present.

Vincent was waiting for me as I rounded the corner, and he fell in

step beside me. Vincent DiMara

was the only one I trusted to be this close to me, knowing that he
didn’t see this position I had been put in as temporary. My father
could very well still die, and all the D’Agostino clan would have to

start listening to me.

I had plans, big ones, but they had nothing to do with making my
father’s legacy grow. “He’s still

alive,” I said as the front doors came into view. “No change.”

“I will make sure they keep you informed,” Vincent replied as he

pushed open the door for me to step

out into the morning.

Smirking, I climbed into the SUV. “I’m sure I am to be the first to

know.”

“I will make sure of it,” Vincent replied as he climbed in behind me,

shutting the door. “Mayor Cosey

called. He wanted to make sure you were attending tonight.”

The fucking party that had been funded by my family’s money. It

was yet another hobby of my father’s

to pay the way for some of the political figures in New York. I knew
he had higher aspirations, such

as getting his claws into a higher political office around the country,
but for now, he had to be

satisfied with those around here. “I’m going to skip tonight.”

Vincent shook his head. “You can’t. Even if you want to, his
campaign can’t fail. The moment it does,

they will come after you.”

I arched a brow. “With pitchforks? I didn’t know they still made

those these days.”
Vincent let out a heavy sigh and I grinned, unable to help it. “You
can tell the fat bastard that I will be there.” The last thing I wanted
to do was rub elbows with New York’s elite. My father had

connections all over the city, some spreading into Jersey, but no
matter how much I tried, I couldn’t

even make my first.

“Yes, don,” Vincent said as the SUV pulled into the morning traffic,
heading to the meeting location.

Pulling out my phone, I checked the reason for this meeting. More
capos ensuring that I stayed well

informed of the projects we had in the city, the enemies that we

needed to follow through on and

eliminate if necessary. It wasn’t a job I enjoyed, to be honest.

But it was a duty I would uphold for now. I could take the stares,
the whispers, the eye cutting. I

wasn’t a man that was easily rattled by those things.

I would not, however, bend. As long as my father was in a coma, he

was unfit to make decisions, unfit

to make suggestions, unfit to carry out his threats.

I had been learning some of what was needed for my grand finale,
that is, if we still had a need. If my father didn’t make it, then my
life would get a hell of a lot more interesting.

***

The rest of my day was filled with meetings, and by the time the sun
set, it had taken every ounce of
patience for me not to kill someone. The meetings were like
adorations of my father and a constant

reminder to me that I would never take his place with these Capos.
They saw me as nothing more than

a stand-in and wouldn’t even take my fucking advice without telling

me how my father would do it.

When he died, I would destroy them all, but for now, I played nice.

The party was in full swing when I arrived, throwing my tie in the
SUV seat before exiting. The warm

New York City night couldn’t have been a better backdrop for a
rooftop party, but I just hoped they

had a shitload of alcohol for me to drink away some of the pain from
today.

“Mr. D’Agostino,” the bouncer at the door said, inclining his head as
he opened the door.

I didn’t answer him, though I wanted to tell him that he was the
only person that had treated me with a measure of the respect that
a don deserved. For many years I’d watched my father instill fear in

people with just a look, the same dark look I had learned to master.
In the Mafia, it was all about

respect. Money, of course, played a huge factor, but money would

only get someone so far.

There had to be fear. Fear turned into respect, though in my case, I

had no respect for my father, nor did I fear him. Hell, I would much
rather ignore him.
Vincent followed me into the elevator, and we took it up to the top
level of the building, where the

party was. “Get you a drink tonight,” I told him as the floors passed
by. “You deserve it.”

Vincent chuckled. “I think you need one more, don.”

“More than one,” I grumbled, running my hand through my hair. “I’m

in and out in an hour. Keep the

time for me.”

“Yes, don.”

Don. I still couldn’t get used to the word. At twenty-five, I was a

young don, though I’d been in this business since my mother pushed
me out. I’d been groomed to take my father’s place, though no one

anticipated it would be this soon.

Now, if the bastard would just die, I could completely pull the Mafia
under my nails, but as long as he was still hanging on, I would never
have full control.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out, noting already
those that were in attendance. This

wasn’t the type of party I enjoyed, but my family’s money went to

support whatever political figure

was running for office, and we had to keep close tabs on those that
our money bought.

Our influence over those in power was important for the needs of
the Mafia, and as the current don,
my needs were the same as my father’s. It kept the feds off our
backs and the influence in what

happened not only in the city but across the country. Many of the
drugs that were funneled through the organization came from an
outside source and went to another outside source. My father had
capos

that did cross state lines, and the last thing they needed was to be
worried about the law.

That, and we had to stay out of the headlines.

I greeted some of the ones near the door, my smile polished and my
handshake firm. The party was

full of powerful people, and it was my job to make my rounds, to

find out if there was anyone not

happy with the D’Agostino family.

It would be a hell of a lot easier just to kill them all.

Somehow I finally made it to the bar. “Whiskey, double.”

“Right away,” the bartender said, turning to pull the bottle. I

drummed my fingers along the wood as I looked at the other
patrons sidled up to the bar, noting a socialite or two in attendance.
A woman

stood only a few feet away from me, but it wasn’t the woman that
caught my attention.

It was the asshole that had his arm around her waist, pulling her
close so she couldn’t see the vial

he’d just slipped into her drink. I bristled at the sight, hating that the
woman would be a victim in a matter of minutes. While I was not an
angel, I preferred my women willing.

Clearly this asshole didn’t.

I shouldn’t get involved, but my feet moved my body over there

regardless. “Do I know you?” I asked

the man, startling the couple.

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t think so.”

Sticking out my hand, I put on my easy smile. “Nico D’Agostino.”

He might not have recognized the face, but the name was all that I
needed. “Luke. Luke Timmerman.”

His grip was weak, which told me everything I needed to know.

Turning to the woman at his side, I

was momentarily distracted by her whiskey-colored eyes. “And you?”

“Rory,” she answered, picking up her drink.

I looked over her shoulder. “I think that drink was fixed for Mr.
Timmerman here, isn’t that correct?”

The man paled, and my grin widened. He knew immediately that I

knew what he had done, and if he

didn’t take the fucking drink from his victim, there was a good
chance I might throw him off the

building.

“You’re right, Mr. D’Agostino,” he finally said, plucking the drink out
of Rory’s hand. “That’s mine,

babe.”
Rory’s gaze narrowed at the word, and I found myself intrigued by
her. Maybe it was because it had

been too fucking long since I’d indulged in a female, but either way,
I wasn’t leaving until I learned more. “Good night, Luke,” I told him.

He visibly swallowed. “Good night,” he said hastily, dodging me as he

left with the ruined drink.

I turned back to Rory. “He spiked your drink.”

She sighed. “I should never have come to this thing.”

“Why did you?” I asked, curious to know. She didn’t look like the
women that frequented parties like

this to begin with. There was something wholesome about her,

something that wasn’t hidden under

heavy layers of makeup or glittering diamonds, and hell, I was far

more curious than I should have

been.

“To forget,” she finally said, before turning back to the bar. “Can I
get another drink?”

I took Luke’s place next to her, and the bartender placed my drink in
front of me. “Do you need me to

taste that for you?” Rory asked.

“Taste it?”

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “Someone could be taking

advantage of you, Mr. D’Agostino.”
I wanted to tell her that no one would dare, but her teasing words
shot straight to my cock anyway. So, I held up the drink to her pink
lips. “Is that a risk you would take for me, Rory?”

She laughed, her husky voice tearing into me. “Well, it’s all that I
can do for you since you saved me from his pawing hands tonight.”
Rory plucked the drink out of my hand and tossed it back, not even

grimacing at the taste. “Tastes fine to me,” she answered, handing

me the empty glass.

Fuck me, I was enthralled. “Tell me, Rory,” I said as I placed the
glass on the bar top. “Do you make

it a habit to drink the entire drink?”

She smiled cheekily. “No, but since you offered.”

I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I threw my head back

and laughed, feeling some of the

tension from the day’s meetings ease out of my body. This was the
distraction I needed tonight; a

sharp-tongued, beautiful woman to remind me that my entire

fucking life wasn’t about me trying to

prove myself.

Somehow we moved from the bar to one of the couches tucked

away from the crowd. Vincent came

around precisely an hour into our time, and I waved him away. “Do
you really have a bodyguard?”

she asked as Vincent disappeared into the crowd once more. “Like
what do you do outside of your
full-time job saving women?”

I rested my arm along the couch, close enough that my fingers

brushed the back of her exposed neck.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She kicked off her heels and drew her legs under her, the hem of her
black cocktail dress riding high

on her creamy thighs. “All right then, don’t. I think after tonight, you
are inclined to talk about anything you like, Mr. D’Agostino.”

“Nico,” I said, not liking that my family name had passed her lips. It
was my father’s name when she

said it like that, not mine. “Call me Nico.”

Rory tilted her head to one side, her long hair like a chocolate
waterfall as she did so. “Nico then.”

“Tell me, Rory,” I said, leaning closer. “What did you come to forget
tonight?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know?”

I wanted to tell her that I felt the same way, that I had come to
forget who I was for a few hours, but instead I just smiled. “Another
fault of mine, I’m afraid. Besides, you told me yourself an hour ago.”

Her cheeks pinkened, and I groaned inwardly as my cock jumped to

attention. Where else would Rory

pinken if I undressed her?

She sighed. “I’m going through a breakup. My fiancé, I mean ex-

fiancé now, told me that I was boring
in so many words. How can you be great one minute and completely
boring the next?”

If she was fucking boring, then I was the king of boring. Her ex was
an asshole. “Then you should do

something that doesn’t make you boring.”

Rory looked around before placing her glass on the table in front of
the sofa. “This is going to sound completely crazy,” she said,
lowering her voice. “But I want to do something crazy. Would you be
up

for crazy, Nico?”

I looked into her eyes, seeing that they looked completely normal.
No drugs, no drunken stare. Good.

The last thing I needed was for some woman to think I had taken
advantage of her. “Depends on what

it is.”

Her tongue darted out over her pink lips, and I tracked every
movement with rapt attention. “I saw a

pool.”

I instantly knew where she was going with this. The warm night
would be perfect for a swim, and the

pool was on the other side of the rooftop, behind some hedges that
were tall enough to hide prying

eyes. With the music playing and the conversation, one could easily
sneak over there and take a swim.
“Do you know how to swim, Rory?” I asked, my fingers boldly
brushing the back of her neck now.

“Of course,” she said, standing. “Who doesn’t?” She held her hand
out to me. “You want to be non-

boring with me, Nico?”

Hell, right now I would go anywhere with her. I placed my hand in

hers, and she smirked as she left

her heels behind, moving barefoot through the crowd. When we

reached a glass door, I pulled out my

key card, swiping it over the black box. “Oh, so there is more to
you,” she murmured as the door

opened.

Oh, there was a lot more to me that she would never find out.

We moved through the glass door to the other side of the roof, one
meant for the owners of the condos

below. My family. We owned the fucking building. “Just like there’s

probably more to you,” I told her

as the pool came into view, illuminated by the lights under the
water.

“Touché,” she answered, reaching down to touch the water. “Thank

God it’s warm, or I might have

had to back out of this crazy challenge.”

I chuckled, already kicking off my shoes. I didn’t have long before

Vincent would notice I was gone,
and there was still one more stop I had to make tonight, but this
pleasant diversion was going to make it a hell of a lot better night
than I was anticipating.

Rory noted my urgency and reached for the zipper on the back of
her dress, shimmying out of it before

letting it pool at her feet. I paused as I took in her full breasts, flat
stomach, and hips that were made for holding onto, knowing that
there was no doubt she could see my reaction.

Hell, I could feel the tent in front of my pants. “You’re gorgeous.”

She flushed, fumbling with the clasp of her black bra. “Thanks.”

It was the way she said it that told me she didn’t get many
compliments, but I let it go, stripping off the rest of my clothing. I
heard the splash in time to watch her body flash through the water,
noting that her undergarments were on top of her dress.

Fuck me, she was giving me a clear signal that this just wasn’t a
swim.

I jumped into the water and fought my way to the surface, the warm
water caressing my bare skin.

Rory was treading water a few feet away from me, so I swam over,
trapping her against the wall of

the pool. She gasped as I pressed my body against hers, bracing my

hands on either side of her body.

“I don’t have long,” I said honestly. “So, if this isn’t what you fucking
want, tell me now.”

Her lips parted. “I don’t normally do this sort of thing.”

“Yeah, I know,” I told her, leaning down to graze the side of her neck
with my nose. Rory gasped, and

I smiled against her skin, removing one of my hands to slide into the
water and cover her breast.

“Touch me, Rory.”

Her hand lay against my abdomen, and I pressed my lips against her
neck, suckling right where her

pulse was rapidly beating against the skin. Every touch of her hand
was torture, and a groan slipped

through my lips as she gripped my cock, sliding it over the length.

Pulling back, I met her gaze.

“Fuck.”

A smile crossed her lips, and she boldly grasped it harder. Pleasure
shot through my entire body at

her touch, and I swore my knees would have buckled at her bold
touch if we were on land. She might

not have done this before, but hell, she was far too good at it.

“Are you going to cuss at me or touch me, Nico?” she asked softly as
her finger found the vein on the

underside of my cock.

I leaned close, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I’m going to do
more than just touch you,” I said gruffly as my hand delved into her
folds. “I’m going to fuck you, Rory.”

“Nico,” she gasped, her hand stilling on my cock as I touched her

swollen nub. “Oh God.”
Now we were getting somewhere. My cock throbbed in her hand,
pressing hard into her stomach, but

I was going to ensure she came first, wanting to see this delicious
female fall apart in my arms.

And when she did, it was glorious. Her entire body trembled as she
cried out my fucking name,

bucking against the relentless pursuit of my fingers on her clit. I

wasted no time slamming into her as the orgasm started to die,
groaning against her shoulder as her body clenched around me
tightly.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She did as I asked, her hands clenching my shoulders and finding a

rhythm that suited us both. The

water made gentle waves around us as I fucked her, her mewling

sounds driving me crazy with want.

“Fuck me,” she cried out as another orgasm shattered her body.
“Yes, Nico.”

I growled in response, feeling my own need creeping up on me.

What I wouldn’t give to have a few

hours in bed with her to do just this.

I brought her to orgasm one more time before I let go, roaring her
name as I poured into her. She clung to me, her hands in my hair,
and I felt the last bit of tension eased out of my body.

Fuck me, that was good.

Slowly, reality started to crash back down, and I pulled away from
her warmth to meet her eyes. “You
are protected, right?”

“Of course,” she answered with a tiny smile. “I’m not a complete
idiot.”

“Good,” I replied, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips were as warm and
soft as I imagined, and she wound

her arms around my waist as our tongues tangled together in

perfect harmony. “I’ve got to go,” I told

her once I had kissed her thoroughly.

She nodded, and we dislodged ourselves from each other, Rory the
first to exit the water. Damn, her

body was gorgeous. I followed close behind, and after locating some
towels, I pulled her in for a

final kiss. “Thank you, Nico,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “I needed
this.”

Yeah, I had needed it too. “Take care of yourself, Rory, and watch
your drinks from now on.”

“I will.”

When I walked back to the party, Vincent was waiting on me. “Good
night?” he smirked.

I tucked my hands in my pockets. “Hell yeah, it was.”

Chapter 3

Rory

November 2019
I clutched the side of the toilet as I heaved the remains of my
breakfast, gasping for air. It sucked, this throwing up every morning,
but I had been assured that it was a passing symptom by my doctor.

Somehow, at this moment, I doubted it. Maybe it was penance for

what I had done, one night of

recklessness on my part to be coupled with a lifetime reminder.

Or maybe it was just a symptom.

I grabbed the cloth from the sink and pushed back against the wall,
wiping my face as I did so. At

least I only threw up in the mornings. I couldn’t imagine if this were

something that happened all day long.

One thing was for certain; I would be skinny for the first time in my
life.

A laugh escaped me, followed by a sob, tears sliding down my face.

Hormones, ugh. Was I really

going to go through six more months of this roller-coaster ride?

Yeah. Yeah, I was. When I had first missed my period, I chalked it

up to the stress of my job and

failed relationship. I had never been one to be regular to begin with,

not even on birth control.

But when I started to notice signs that my body was trying to tell
me, I got worried and took a test.

Then another. I think I was up to six before I finally accepted the

truth.

I was pregnant.
It wasn’t Tim’s, of course. We hadn’t had sex in months leading up
to our breakup, which I now

realized was because he was getting it somewhere else.

No, it was that one wild moment in my life where I hadn’t stopped
to think about anything other than

the need to have random sex with a stranger.

Now I was carrying his child.

Anyone in my position would be booking it to the nearest clinic, but I

couldn’t. It wasn’t in me to kill an innocent child because I wasn’t
the responsible one for the first time in my life.

I was having this baby. I was going to be a single mom.

Oh God, I was going to be a single mom!

“Come on, Rory,” I told myself as I wiped away the tears. “It’s not all
that bad.” People did it every day, raised kids in a one-parent
household. I was lucky that my job allowed for some flexibility to

begin with, and while I had a shoebox apartment, I could afford it. I
wasn’t on the street, nor was I

starving. I just might have to curb my love for books and coffee for
a while.

I could do this.

Renewed by my pep talk, I pushed myself off the floor and brushed
my teeth, careful not to gag myself

and start all over again. When I had found out a month ago, the first
person I told was not my best
friend but my boss, Harvey. He was like a father figure to me,
someone I trusted to always give me

the best advice, and the advice he had given me was in the form of
working from home while I dealt

with this life-changing experience.

For that I couldn’t be more grateful.

Emilia, well, she hadn’t taken it as well as Harvey had, but I thought
she was getting used to the idea.

Of course she wanted to know who the father was, and I told her I
never got his name. It was one of

the few lies I had told her, but the last thing I needed for her to do
was to track him down. I had

known the repercussions of my actions, and it wasn’t his fault that

my birth control had failed.

Thank God it hadn’t been Tim. I would take a random stranger over
my ex any day.

Walking out of the bathroom, I located my cell phone, dialing my

boss’s number. He had stated he had

a new job for me, an interview of a lifetime, and I was completely

surprised by it. I hoped that

Harvey wasn’t trying to baby me. He had often told me I reminded

him of his daughter, who was

estranged from him, and while I appreciated his watching out for
me, I didn’t need angry coworkers
in the process. “Hey, Rory,” he said, picking up on the first ring. “Are
you ready for your

assignment?”

I smiled at his antsy voice. “Is it like the president or something?

You could have warned me that it’s someone important. I might
need to go buy a wardrobe on the company’s dime if it is.”

He laughed, the type of laugh that always shook his large belly and
warmed me. “No, it’s not that. It’s someone else. This will be a social
piece.”

I groaned. I hated social drama. New York was full of it, with many
socialites like Emilia who only

wanted to talk about how much money they were worth. “Really,
Harvey?”

“You’ll enjoy this one, I swear it,” he continued. “This one has
intrigue written all over it. Rumor is that he’s some kind of a Mafia
don.”

That did sound intriguing. When I first started to write for Harvey, I
had focused my efforts on things that were unexplained, like
murders or people disappearing in New York. He had indulged me
for a

while, but then my column started to flounder, and Harvey had put
an end to my investigative

journalism, opting for pieces that didn’t have the paper in danger of
being killed off. “You sure you

want to do this?” I asked lightly. “Because you know I will so go

there.”
“Yeah, sure, I think so,” he stated. “The Mafia is a big part of the
city, and I’m thinking about running a new line on its beginnings and
current status. This guy would be a good place to start.”

“All right,” I answered, excitement drumming through my veins. This

was something to keep my mind

off my current situation and a chance for me to show off my skills.

While I loved Harvey and was

grateful for everything he had given me, I didn’t want to write for a
tabloid for the rest of my life.

The flip side of that was that since I did write for the tabloid, no one
took me seriously.

“I’ve set you up a meeting this afternoon at two at Ai Fiori at his

request. I know it’s not your cup of tea.”

It wasn’t. I was more of a burger and fries type of girl. “I’ll manage.”

“Just keep your receipts,” he said. “I’ll pay you back.”

At this rate, I wasn’t going to be eating much anyway. The last thing
I needed was to throw up on this guy. “I got it. What’s his name?”

“Nico D’Agostino.”

My knees buckled, and I grabbed the counter for support. “What?”

“Nico D’Agostino,” Harvey repeated. “His father is Carmine

D’Agostino.”

I didn’t care about his father. All I cared about was that flash of a
smile he had given me, the way he had felt inside me. The
memories, they haunted me in my dreams, torturing me in my lonely
bed until I
touched myself to relieve the pressure.

Oh God.

“You still there, Rory? Are you throwing up?”

I forced myself to breathe, pushing past the panic. “I’m here. Are
you sure it’s him?”

“Yeah, pretty darn sure. Listen, I’ve got to go. Two o’clock, all right?
I was only able to secure an

hour with him, so don’t blow it.”

“I got it,” I said faintly, ending the call. Of all the people I could have
met that night, why did it have to be him?

A Mafia don? Really?

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I forced myself to relax. If Nico was

who Harvey was under the

impression he was, then he wouldn’t remember me. Likely I was

part of a long list of girls in his life, likely even that night. I wouldn’t
be anything special.

But what if he did?

I wandered over to my sofa, a secondhand purchase from the local

thrift store, and sat down before

my knees gave out on me. If he did recognize me, then I needed to

fess up to what was going on. It

wouldn’t be right to be there in front of him and not tell him that I
was having his baby.
If he didn’t, then I would go about my merry way. I didn’t want to
tie someone down with what was

my error in judgment, too, and clearly our fabulous but brief time
together had been meant to be just

that. One time, chockful of memories that kept me warm afterward.

So, I would play it up then, see if Nico noticed, and if he didn’t, then
he would be none the wiser to my pregnancy.

Setting my jaw, I pushed off the sofa and headed for my closet. It
was time to dress the part of an

accomplished writer.

***

My stomach was in knots by the time I arrived at the restaurant that

afternoon, the famed lobby of the Langham Hotel on 5th Avenue
taking my breath away. Luckily I had found a pair of black pants with
a

stretchy band and a prim pink blouse that matched the flush on my
cheeks, paired with some cute flats

that Emilia had given me on my birthday by a ritzy designer. Though

we weren’t the same size in most

clothing, I could at least wear her shoes, and when she grew tired of
them, she gave them to me.

Honestly I could probably afford a year’s worth of rent if I sold some

of the shoes I had in my current closet.

Clutching my bag, I followed the maître d through the restaurant,

nearly empty due to the lateness of
the afternoon. A guard in a suit was standing near the bar, stopping
us as we approached. “Who are

you?” he asked, giving me the once-over.

I lifted my chin. “I’m Rory Evans, from the Midtown Post. I have an
appointment.”

The guard arched a brow. “Do you now? I was expecting a dude.”

“Yeah, most people are, buddy,” I muttered, the smell of the food in
the air turning my stomach. “Do

you want to see my ID?”

He chuckled as he moved aside. “No, I don’t think I need to. Mr.

D’Agostino is waiting for you.”

I stepped forward, hoping he couldn’t see how my entire body

literally trembled at the name. I was

having a Mafia don’s baby. It was like the stuff of movies, honestly.

He was fiddling with his cell phone as I approached, and I took a

moment to drink in the sight of him, remembering the hard lines of
his face, the strong jaw that was dusted with just the right amount
of

stubble. His hair was jet black, but his eyes were a startling shade of
green, and his body…I grew hot just thinking about it.

Today he was dressed in what looked like an expensive gray suit, the
flash of a designer watch

peeking out under a black sleeve every time he moved his arm. His
hair was artfully ruffled, and that
stubborn stubble graced his jaw, doing funny things to my lower
half. This was the guy I had

experienced hot sex with in the pool?

What had I done to make that happen?

Nico chose that moment to look up, and I gave him a small smile as
a flash of recognition crossed his

face. “Rory?” he asked, standing abruptly. “What the hell?”

Time to be professional. “Mr. D’Agostino,” I started out, my voice

shaking more than I would have

liked. “I’m Rory Evans, from the Midtown Post. I believe you know
my boss?”

His jaw clenched. “You’re the columnist.”

Okay, so he didn’t like journalists. “Yes, yes I am.”

His mouth opened and then shut, and he lowered himself back to
the chair. “Sit then.”

I did as he asked, placing my bag on the floor and removing the

small notebook I carried around in

case inspiration hit. “Thank you for the opportunity to interview you.
I know you are a busy man.”

“Rory.”

I looked up, finding Nico’s eyes on me. “What?”

“Are you really going to do this?” he asked, leaning forward.

“Do what?” I asked, losing all train of thought at the look in his eye.
“This interview,” he said, linking his fingers together. “I admit. I am
surprised to see you. It’s been what, two months?”

“Three,” I blurted out, cursing myself for sounding overeager. I had

slept with this guy one time, but it felt like he already had some sort
of pull on me, on my body.

Well, certainly that. I was pregnant.

Nico arched a brow, a hint of a grin coming over his handsome face.
“Three then. Had I known it was

you that was coming to interview me, I would have picked a more
intimate setting.”

I barely heard any words between three and intimate, fixated on the
patch of tanned skin that was visible through the opening on his
shirt. Had I really kissed him?

Oh yeah, I had kissed him all right. I had reached out and touched
his penis like it was mine, shattered with more than one orgasm that
Tim had never been able to give me, and told him thank you

afterward. Every moment of that night was etched in my mind, on

my skin, in my body now. “I’m

pregnant,” I blurted out, gasping as I realized what I had done.

Nico’s teasing nature changed drastically, and his expression grew

hard. “What?”

Great, just great. Way to go, Rory. “I’m pregnant,” I said softly,
drawing in a breath. “I swear to you I was on the pill, but
something, well, it didn’t work.” Swallowing, I looked down at my
hands,
trembling in my lap. “I know you probably think I’m here to get
something from you, but I don’t want

anything. I just thought you should know.” The weight felt like it was
crushing down on me little by

little, but I hadn’t told Nico for child support or whatever.

I had told him because it was the right thing to do.

“Rory.”

His voice was deadly calm, and I forced myself to meet his eyes,
finding his expression hard to read.

“I don’t think that at all,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “And I’m
not going to ask if it’s mine.

You’re not the type.”

I didn’t know what type he was referring to, but I think he had just
told me I wasn’t a slut. “I think I should go,” I said, tucking the
notebook back into my bag. Screw Harvey and his grand idea. I
would

come up with something else for him, but there was no way I could
sit here now and do an interview.

Nico stood as I did, reaching out to grasp my hand. My skin sizzled

on contact, and I gasped as a

thousand emotions threaded through me. He must have felt them,

too, because he dropped his touch

immediately, running a hand through his hair.

His nervous gesture. “I will be in touch.”

I opened my mouth and then promptly shut it. What could I say? To
not bother? It was his child, too,

and if he wanted to know how things were going, he had every right
to do so. “I don’t want anything

from you,” I repeated, figuring he needed to hear it again. “I know

who you are, but I hope you don’t

think I’m after your money or anything like that.”

His eyes turned on me. “No, Rory,” he said softly, a hint of steel
laced in his words. “I don’t think that at all. There are other things
we need to discuss.”

I turned and walked away before I could say something else stupid,
berating myself all the way to the

waiting taxi.

What had I done?

Chapter 4

Nico

I flexed my left hand as I watched the rain trail down the window,
seeing the heavy gray clouds over

the city from my vantage point. The weather was a perfect cover for
my mood as of late, and while I

wanted to blame it on the rain, I couldn’t.

Hell, the rain couldn’t screw up any worse than I had.

Turning away from the window, I approached the hospital bed.

“You’re still fucking out, I guess,” I
told my father, looking for any indication that he could hear me.

Not even a blip on the heart monitor. Good. Checking to make sure
the door was closed, I sat in the

chair next to the bed, ensuring that I was close enough to him. “I
hope you fucking die like this,” I

stated. “Unable to screw up anyone else’s life like you have mine.”
He had been the thorn in my and

my sister Leda’s side since we were born, ruling our lives as he saw
fit.

I was tired of it. “You will be glad to know that I’ve made some
changes in your rankings,” I

continued, a smirk crossing my lips as the words came out. “I’ve,

well, let’s just say I’ve cleaned

some house that sorely needed dusting.” My father had kept the
same capos in power since he had

come into his own power years ago, and they were fiercely loyal to
him, so much so that they

wouldn’t even give me the time of day.

So, I got rid of them. It was my first move against my father’s

wishes, and though the shit had hit the fan, my father wasn’t there
to call my bluff. Their replacements were men I actually trusted,
men that wouldn’t stab me in the fucking back the first chance they
got.

It was the beginning of the end for Carmine D’Agostino’s legacy.

Some would say that I was crazy to
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Lui qui vous tint longtemps et si longtemps là closes,
Mais qui vous délivra de sa main au temps vrai.
Suivez-le : sa houlette est bonne. — Et je serai,
Sous sa voix toujours douce à votre ennui qui bêle,
Je serai, moi, par vos chemins, son chien fidèle.

C’est alors qu’intervint la volonté. Le poète Lucrèce la définit,

avec une superbe vigueur, une puissance arrachée aux destins, fatis
avulsa potestas. Or, le destin que m’eût assigné mon passé, si Dieu
n’était intervenu, ç’aurait été de continuer à poursuivre, jusqu’à la fin
de mes jours terrestres, les illusions qu’une conception athée de
l’existence faisait miroiter devant moi. Mais je ne le pouvais plus. La
Vérité unique s’imposait à mon âme si impérieusement qu’il me
fallait vouloir vivre pour Elle.
Je voulus — mais il y eut, en effet, arrachement, car ce divorce
avec mes habitudes et mes mœurs anciennes n’alla point sans de
vives souffrances. Ce furent ces combats et ces rechutes
momentanées dans le mal que j’ai décrits tout le long de Du diable à
Dieu. Notre nature déchue est si foncièrement encline au péché que,
même étreinte par la Grâce, elle tendrait toujours à retourner au
Démon si la volonté, vivifiée d’En-Haut, ne lui barrait la route. C’est
ce que saint Thomas d’Aquin a lucidement indiqué lorsqu’il posa cet
axiome : l’amour de Dieu est dans la volonté.
La volonté se fortifie en s’unissant à l’oraison. Et cette alliance
engendre ce recours constant à Dieu, — source et principe de toutes
les énergies rédemptrices — qu’on appelle la foi et qui est, en
somme, de la volonté arrivée, surnaturellement, à sa plus grande
concentration.
Dès que j’eus senti la foi garder toutes les avenues de mon âme,
je saisis la nécessité des sacrements pour la maintenir solide contre
les attaques du Mauvais. J’allai au prêtre en m’écriant : Cor
contritum et humiliatum Deus non despicies !…
 En résumé : pour opérer ma conversion, Dieu me prit d’abord par
le sentiment irrésistible de sa présence, puis par la contemplation de
sa parfaite beauté. Ensuite il me fit imaginer les attraits et les
bienfaits de la vertu. Par là, il suscita en moi le besoin irrésistible de
me purifier par la pénitence et la réforme de mon âme afin que je
méritasse désormais sa miséricorde adorable. Quand je me fus
confessé, pour mûrir les fruits de mon rachat, il me reçut à la Sainte
Table. L’Eucharistie m’illumina de clartés nouvelles. Mon intelligence
fut conquise à son tour. J’étudiai ; j’assurai les fondements de ma
certitude. Et ainsi je sus que les affirmations des sophistes qui
déclarent la foi incompatible avec la raison ne sont que du vent et
que croire en Dieu est une chose infiniment raisonnable.
Assez parlé de moi. Les pages ci-après contiennent le sujet
principal de mon livre. Puissent-elles accroître chez quelques-uns le
désir de rester fidèles à Notre-Seigneur dans la solitude où
l’abandonne une société qui se détourne de Lui toujours davantage.
— Par moi-même, je ne vaux rien, je ne puis rien ; je ne suis qu’une
lanterne fumeuse. Mais peut-être que, sanctifiant ce lumignon, le
Soleil incréé daignera l’alimenter d’une parcelle de sa splendeur
pour sa gloire — et non pour la mienne.
REFLETS DES ÉVANGILES

Il s’agit ici de ce qui vit toujours, de ce qui

nous est éternellement contemporain dans la
plus lointaine histoire.

Louis Bertrand : Sanguis martyrum.

 LE BON SAMARITAIN

Un homme descendait de Jérusalem vers Jéricho et il tomba

entre les mains des voleurs qui le dépouillèrent, et, après l’avoir
couvert de plaies, ils s’en allèrent le laissant à demi-mort. Or il arriva
qu’un prêtre descendait par le même chemin et, l’ayant vu, il passa
outre. Pareillement, un lévite, étant venu là, le vit et passa outre.
Mais un Samaritain, qui était en voyage, vint près de lui, et, le
voyant, fut touché de compassion. Il s’approcha, banda ses plaies, y
versa de l’huile et du vin. Puis il le plaça sur sa monture, le
transporta dans une hôtellerie où il prit soin de lui. (Saint-Luc, X.)

L’abbé Dieuze était un prêtre exact qui administrait d’une façon

correcte la paroisse de quatre cents âmes où son évêque l’avait
placé douze ans auparavant.
Dans ce village, assez à l’écart, la pratique religieuse se
maintenait à un niveau moyen. Le dimanche, il y avait du monde à la
messe. Aux grandes fêtes, la population remplissait l’église. En
semaine, cinq ou six femmes âgées — vierges quinquagénaires ou
veuves — y venaient à peu près régulièrement. Tous les enfants
suivaient le catéchisme et faisaient leur première communion. Et
c’est tout au plus si une poignée d’hommes, à l’esprit gâté de
politique, se déclaraient libres-penseurs sans trop savoir pourquoi et
manquaient au devoir pascal. Encore ne se montraient-ils guère
agressifs. — Sauf en temps d’élection où, afin d’obtenir quelque
avantage personnel, ils répétaient à la sourdine, les diatribes des
feuilles radicales et les harangues saugrenues du candidat désigné
par les Loges et appuyé par le préfet. Mais ce n’était qu’un feu de
paille. D’habitude, ils ne tracassaient pas le curé, échangeaient avec
lui des coups de chapeau ou, s’ils le rencontraient en promenade, lui
parlaient volontiers de l’état des cultures et des variations de
l’atmosphère. La plus grande marque de leur opposition consistait à
lui faire refuser le vote d’un crédit municipal pour la réparation du
presbytère, bâtisse du XVIIe siècle qui commençait à tomber en
ruine.
D’ailleurs, l’abbé Dieuze ne manifestait aucune velléité de les
réfuter ou de les convertir. Ami de son repos, satisfait de ne se point
connaître d’adversaires virulents, il accomplissait, selon une routine
honnête, les fonctions extérieures de son ministère, visitait les
malades lorsqu’il en était requis, soignait son potager à ses heures
de loisir, ne lisait rien hormis le journal bien pensant de la région et
s’appliquait à ne contredire personne.
Il avait une qualité : à moins d’urgence il ne s’absentait que pour
une retraite, tous les deux ans, au grand séminaire du diocèse. Il
estimait que se tenir en permanence, à la disposition de ses
paroissiens constituait l’essentiel de sa mission. Comme on ne le
dérangeait presque jamais pour lui soumettre un cas de conscience
ou lui demander des prières, il en concluait que tout allait au mieux
dans le village. Paisible, il s’endormait, chaque soir, en remerciant le
Seigneur de n’être pas un serviteur inutile.
Un matin de juillet, il reçut une lettre où le notaire d’une bourgade
située dans un autre département l’informait qu’une cousine
éloignée, avec laquelle il n’avait que fort peu de relations, venait de
mourir lui léguant une somme de quinze mille francs.
L’abbé Dieuze n’avait pas de fortune. Né de parents besogneux,
boursier durant ses études, il était entré dans le sacerdoce sans
autre revenu que sa part de denier du culte et le produit d’un casuel
assez maigre. En effet, sa paroisse, toute paysanne, trouvait fort bon
que le curé ne fût pas mis à même de thésauriser. Il ne s’en plaignait
point, car il n’était pas obsédé du désir d’accumuler de l’argent.
Résigné à la gêne, il ne couchait pas en joue les économies des
dévotes. Le village ne comptant nul indigent, il n’avait l’occasion de
distribuer des secours qu’aux rares vagabonds qui agitaient de loin
en loin sa sonnette. Après avoir un peu hésité, il leur faisait remettre
par sa servante un sou — quelquefois un reste de légumes ou un
morceau de pain rassis. C’était sans enthousiasme qu’il pratiquait
ainsi l’aumône mais enfin — il la pratiquait.
L’héritage suscita en lui un nouvel état d’âme.

Quand l’abbé Dieuze sortit de l’étude du notaire qui venait de lui

compter les quinze mille francs, il leva les yeux vers les panonceaux
dorés qui surmontaient la porte de la rue et il poussa un grand soupir
de satisfaction. Il lui sembla qu’il était un autre homme — doré lui
aussi à l’intérieur. Il se sentait comme dilaté ; son cœur battait plus
largement ; ses regards, tandis qu’il gagnait la station du chemin de
fer, se promenaient sur les gens et les choses avec une assurance
qu’il ne s’était jamais connue. Il se disait : — Tout de même c’est
agréable d’avoir un peu d’argent à soi, au-delà du strict
nécessaire !…
Et, de minute en minute, il tâtait la poche intérieure de sa
soutane, pour vérifier si le portefeuille contenant les précieux billets
ne s’était pas évaporé.
Dès qu’il se fut installé, bien à l’avance, dans le train qui le
ramènerait à sa paroisse, afin de tuer le temps, jusqu’au sifflet du
départ, il entreprit de lire son bréviaire car, tout distrait par
l’impatience de l’argent à toucher, il n’y avait pas pensé depuis la
veille. Il se reprocha cet oubli comme un manque de gratitude
envers Dieu pour l’aubaine dont il était favorisé. Mais il ne réussit
pas à fixer son attention sur le texte sacré. En vain, il le chuchotait
d’une lèvre machinale, ce restait pour lui un exercice dénué de sens.
Il se revoyait palpant, un à un, les papiers de la Banque, traçant,
avec une hâte fébrile, la signature du reçu. Il entendait encore le
grattement de la plume, puis la voix grasse du tabellion qui, après
l’avoir félicité, lui suggérait, par une transition adroite, un placement
hypothécaire de tout repos. Or il ne s’était pas laissé convaincre : —
Non, pas tout de suite… Il verrait… Il réfléchirait…
En fait, il était bien décidé à garder l’argent par devers lui au
moins pendant plusieurs jours. Et il savourait déjà le plaisir de
compter, manier, soir et matin, les billets et de les glisser ensuite
dans quelque cachette choisie avec soin. Mais laquelle ? Comme de
juste, il ne possédait pas de coffre-fort ; et l’armoire où il avait
coutume de ranger son chétif pécule fermait assez mal. Cette
préoccupation lui fut la première ombre sur l’allégresse qui lui
ensoleillait l’âme.
Cependant le train s’était mis en marche. Et, son bréviaire tombé
sur les genoux, l’abbé Dieuze furetant, par la pensée, dans tous les
coins de son presbytère, n’en découvrait aucun où son legs se
trouvât en sûreté. Il commençait à s’en dépiter sérieusement lorsque
— tout près d’un passage à niveau que le train franchissait d’une
allure ralentie, — s’encadra dans la fenêtre du wagon la façade
d’une chapelle récemment construite et dépendant, selon toute
apparence, d’un monastère. Au dessus du portail, le prêtre eut le
temps de lire l’inscription suivante qui se détachait en lettres rouges
sur la pierre blanche : Amassez-vous dans le ciel des richesses qui
ne périssent pas.
Impulsivement, il eut un geste de mauvaise humeur. Cette
sentence, d’un ascétisme sans fard, lui produisit l’effet d’un coup
d’air froid parmi la tiède félicité où il baignait son âme.
Puis un scrupule lui vint : — Je ne dois pas traiter avec légèreté
cette parole du Sermon sur la Montagne…
Mais aussitôt, une voix insidieuse murmura en lui : — Sans
doute, sans doute, c’est très beau… Néanmoins, l’argent qu’on
touche ici bas a bien aussi son mérite !
Cet argument lui parut la raison même. Il se le répétait avec
complaisance — et il se sentait tout proche de tenir pour dénué de
sens commun quiconque en aurait méconnu la valeur. — Dès lors,
l’amour croissant de sa petite fortune lui forma dans le cœur comme
une concrétion pierreuse.
De retour au village, il inquiéta sa servante par son agitation. Du
reste, depuis qu’il avait reçu la lettre du notaire, il était tout changé à
son égard. D’habitude, il commentait, pour elle, avec bonhomie, les
menus incidents de l’existence et même faisait cas de ses avis dans
les circonstances importantes. Maintenant un sentiment de défiance
insolite l’obligeait de garder le secret sur l’héritage comme il s’était tu
sur le motif de son déplacement. La vieille Eulalie ne méritait
pourtant pas qu’il la soupçonnât d’indiscrétion ou de convoitise
coupable. C’était une âme très pure et très simple qui, persuadée
que le fait de servir un prêtre lui assurait le paradis à la fin de ses
jours terrestres, n’eût pour rien au monde changé de condition. Sans
récriminer, elle s’accommodait de la pénurie des ressources pour la
cuisine et le confortable. La seule chose qui l’attristât, c’était de ne
pouvoir assister les miséreux autant qu’elle l’aurait souhaité. Ayant
souffert de la faim, avant que le curé la recueillît, elle gardait un
souvenir si poignant de sa détresse ancienne qu’il lui arrivait de
partager son écuelle de panade ou sa portion de ragoût avec les
trimardeurs qui, comme on l’a dit, frappaient parfois à la porte du
presbytère. Entre ceux-ci, il y en avait de fort mal famés, d’autres
d’une saleté répugnante. Mais elle ne les jugeait pas : c’était des
pauvres et cela suffisait à émouvoir sa charité. Et non seulement elle
les secourait dans la mesure de ses moyens, mais elle égrenait de
multiples chapelets pour les placer sous la protection de la Vierge :
— Bonne Mère, disait-elle, ils ont des poux plein les cheveux et j’ai
peur qu’ils n’en aient aussi dans l’âme. Délivrez-les des uns et des
autres.
L’abbé Dieuze aurait été bien inspiré de consulter cette humble
amie de Jésus sur l’emploi de l’argent dont il venait d’être gratifié
d’une façon tellement imprévue. Mais cet homme en péril ne pouvait
plus y songer. Une tentation des plus sordides ne cessant de
l’assiéger, son cœur était où était son trésor. Un être sombre, bas et
tenace s’était installé en lui pour lui présenter sans trêve des
pensées d’avarice et d’égoïsme.
N’ayant point découvert de cachette qui lui parût assez sûre, il
gardait tout le jour les billets dans sa poche. Le soir, il glissait le
portefeuille sous son oreiller et, la nuit, il se réveillait souvent en
sursaut avec la crainte qu’une main subtile ne le lui eût dérobé.
Partout il en était possédé : à sa messe, qu’il expédiait avec
distraction, à table où il ne mangeait plus guère, à la promenade où
il errait les yeux vagues, le front plissé, sans voir le paysage. Sa
quiétude un peu somnolente de naguère avait fui. Il était très
malheureux — d’autant que plus il souffrait de cet argent néfaste qui
lui empoisonnait l’âme d’une idée fixe, plus il s’y attachait.
Eulalie, consternée, risqua de timides questions. Mais il la
rabroua d’une intonation si rude qu’elle n’osa l’interroger davantage.
Comme elle était loin de soupçonner la cause de ce trouble, elle crut
que son maître couvait une maladie et pria éperdûment pour que
Notre-Seigneur lui rendît la santé.
Un mois passa de la sorte. Puis l’abbé Dieuze finit par se dire
qu’il était absurde de laisser les quinze mille francs improductifs.
Mais comment les faire fructifier ? Il consulta des journaux de
finance. Toutes les opérations qu’ils préconisaient lui semblèrent
douteuses ou d’un revenu trop mince.
Un moment, la pensée lui traversa l’esprit d’une restauration, au
moins partielle, de son église presque aussi délabrée que le
presbytère. Ou bien pourquoi ne pas remplacer ses chasubles et ses
aubes qui ne tenaient plus qu’à force de raccommodages ?
Ce ne furent que des velléités sans consistance.
— Ah ! non, s’écria-t-il, plein d’une singulière aversion pour cette
dépense peu profitable, il vaudrait mieux me donner quelque bien-
être… Il y a si longtemps que je me prive !…
Alors, faire bâtir ? Quitter la masure où le confinait la lésinerie de
la commune, avoir une maison à soi ? Aussitôt il se représenta la
cherté des matériaux, les exigences de la main d’œuvre. Les prix
avaient si fort augmenté depuis la guerre. Il craignit, les quinze mille
francs ne couvrant pas les frais, de s’endetter.
Acheter une maison toute construite ? Il passa en revue celles
qu’il savait à vendre dans le village. Aucune ne lui parut convenable.
Il flottait parmi cent projets disparates lorsque, soudain, sans qu’il
réalisât d’où lui venait cette image, se dessina nettement en lui le
profil d’un terrible pince-mailles, l’huissier Crochard qui, sous le
masque de sa profession, pratiquait l’usure avec autant d’astuce que
de froide cruauté. Tapie dans la ruelle la plus sombre d’un faubourg
du chef-lieu de canton, cette araignée recherchait les occasions
d’étendre sa toile sur les campagnes à la ronde. Force mouches s’y
prenaient dont elle suçait le sang à mort. Des gens bien informés
rapportaient que Crochard acceptait des commanditaires auxquels il
gardait, d’une façon inviolable, le secret sur leur participation à ses
trafics. Et il leur servait, disait-on, de leurs fonds des intérêts tels que
nulle banque n’en offrit jamais d’aussi plantureux à ses clients.
Une impulsion dont il ne percevait pas la virulence projeta, tout
d’abord, le curé vers ce placement si lucratif. Mais aussitôt sa
conscience se réveilla de la torpeur où elle s’enlisait depuis le jour
de l’héritage pour lui crier les infamies dont il se rendrait le complice
s’il traitait avec Crochard. Il crut entendre les victimes de l’usurier en
appeler à la justice de Dieu.
A ce tournant décisif, s’il eût prié, son âme s’échappait de la
fondrière qui la tenait captive. Or, telle était la séduction du mirage
opulent dont il était circonvenu, qu’il n’eut point recours à l’aide d’En-
Haut. Et la grâce libératrice s’éclipsa.
Dès lors des ténèbres l’envahirent où il voyait briller, comme un
phare aux clartés fauves, un monceau d’écus qui allait toujours
s’augmentant. Il se peignit la volupté d’y plonger les mains, d’en
goûter longuement la possession sans en rien distraire pour qui que
ce soit. Toutefois un petit reste de scrupule subsistait tout au fond de
son cœur. Afin de l’étouffer, il se dit qu’il ne s’associerait pas aux
crimes de l’usurier et qu’il se bornerait à le consulter sur un autre
placement. Mais il sentait bien la fragilité de ce subterfuge et que ce
n’était qu’un prétexte qu’il se donnait pour se voiler la gravité de sa
faute. Puis même cette vague échappatoire s’effaça de son esprit. Il
vit de nouveau le tas d’or rutiler devant lui. Et son âme ne fut plus
que convoitise déréglée, soumission à l’iniquité. Il avait hâte de
conclure le pacte qui le ferait riche — très riche — encore plus riche.
Déjà il avait pris sa canne et son chapeau pour courir à la ville,
quand une idée brusque l’arrêta.
Attention, pensa-t-il, je ne connais pas ce Crochard. Est-il
prudent de lui confier mon capital sans avoir étudié les garanties que
je suis en droit d’exiger ?… On le dit très captieux. Peut-être que si
je lui remettais tout de suite la somme, j’aurais bientôt lieu de m’en
repentir. Prendre le temps de la réflexion serait sage… Mais alors il
ne faut pas emporter les billets… Et qu’en faire tandis que j’irai
m’aboucher avec cet homme ? Les laisser ici serait absurde puisque
rien ne ferme…
Perplexe, il médita un bon quart d’heure, ne sachant à quoi se
résoudre. D’aventure, son regard, à travers la fenêtre, se posa sur la
porte de l’église entr’ouverte, juste en face du presbytère.
Tout allègre, il s’exclama — J’ai trouvé !… Je vais placer mon
argent sous la garde de Notre-Seigneur !
L’acte suivit immédiatement.
Il traverse la place à larges enjambées, s’engouffre dans l’église
et gagne l’autel. Puis, esquissant à peine une génuflexion, il ouvre le
tabernacle, pose le précieux portefeuille à côté du ciboire où veille la
Présence Réelle, referme, glisse la clef dans son gousset, et, sans
avoir articulé une syllabe d’oraison, s’élance sur la route qui mène à
l’antre de Crochard. Trois minutes plus tard il était hors de vue.

Dans le même temps, un séminariste, du nom de Bercy,

appartenant à une famille de cultivateurs aisés, et qui venait de
recevoir le diaconat, prenait ses vacances au village.
Fort intelligent, doué, à un degré rare, pour les langues mortes et
vivantes, ayant le goût de la dialectique, de la philosophie et de
l’exégèse, il faisait preuve d’un esprit si délié que ses maîtres le
tenaient pour un sujet de grand avenir et qui, plus tard, marquerait
dans l’Église. Peut-être le lui disaient-ils un peu trop. Mais le
supérieur du séminaire, homme d’expérience et fort avancé dans
l’oraison, l’avait observé de près et il formulait des réserves.
Certes, il ne contestait pas la valeur intellectuelle de l’abbé Bercy
il lui reconnaissait du brillant et une extraordinaire facilité
d’assimilation. Seulement, il avait remarqué que, chez lui, le cœur
était loin de valoir le cerveau. En outre, ce jeune homme, s’infatuant
de son mérite, tenait à interpréter les dogmes d’une façon téméraire
et à méconnaître la tradition. Enfin, il laissait parfois deviner qu’il se
considérait comme très au-dessus de ceux de ses camarades qui,
moins aptes que lui aux abstractions, demandaient à la prière ce
qu’il demandait trop exclusivement à l’étude, c’est-à-dire les vertus
qui font le bon prêtre.
Le supérieur craignait que cette âme ne se desséchât totalement
au contact des livres. C’est pourquoi, avec prudence et avec une
ferme douceur, il s’efforçait de la mettre en garde contre les excès
de la connaissance. Et il l’avertissait que la recherche outrée de la
certitude mène à l’orgueil lorsqu’elle ne s’accompagne point du
sentiment très humble de notre impuissance à expliquer le mystère
de la perfection divine.
Cette année-là, au départ pour les vacances, il avait dit à l’abbé
Bercy : — Mon enfant, je vous donne à méditer cette parole de saint
Paul : « La science enfle mais la charité construit. Si quelqu’un
présume de sa science, il n’a encore rien connu comme on doit le
connaître. Mais si quelqu’un aime Dieu, celui-là est connu de Dieu. »
Et pour tout commentaire, il avait ajouté, d’après saint Augustin :
« Ama scientiam sed antepone caritatem [1] . »
[1] Aimez la science mais faites marcher devant
l’amour de Dieu.

L’abbé Bercy s’était incliné respectueusement mais sans émettre

la moindre phrase qui pût donner à son supérieur l’espoir qu’il
accueillait avec gratitude cette monition si mesurée.
C’est qu’à part soi-même, il avait ressenti une piqûre d’amour-
propre. Qu’on semblât rabaisser ses capacités en leur opposant un
texte dont la signification profonde lui échappait, cela blessait sa
superbe.
— M. le Supérieur, pensait-il, est un Saint mais, vraiment, il ne
fait pas assez de cas du savoir. Voudrait-il donc que j’emploie mes
vacances à réciter des chapelets ?…
 Il n’en récita point. Et plutôt que de se recueillir dans la prière, il
se complut à lire ardemment une foule de publications d’une doctrine
suspecte et dont les auteurs, sous prétexte d’adapter les
enseignements de l’Église aux « exigences du progrès »,
équivoquaient sur les dogmes avec l’arrière-pensée de substituer
leur sens propre aux préceptes de la Sagesse révélée.
Le diacre se passionna pour ces audaces. Il crut découvrir des
vérités nouvelles là où il n’y avait que des erreurs dûment réfutées
dès les premiers siècles du christianisme. Il éprouva une sorte
d’ivresse intellectuelle à se persuader qu’il rendrait service à l’Église
en réduisant la part du surnaturel dans la formation des âmes. Sa
confiance dans la rectitude de son jugement s’en accrut au point
qu’il aboutit assez vite à cette imagination pernicieuse que la nature
humaine possède, par elle-même, la notion du divin et non par un
effet de la Grâce. Ce faisant, il s’incarcérait dans cette geôle
d’orgueil : le modernisme. Que cette hérésie eût été condamnée par
le pape Pie X, cela ne l’arrêtait pas. Sans trop se l’avouer encore, il
mettait en doute l’infaillibilité pontificale, et si on l’avait sommé de
s’expliquer sur ce point, il est probable qu’il se fût soumis de bouche,
mais, intérieurement, comme la majorité des modernistes, il aurait
persisté dans son aberration et usé plus tard de subterfuges
déloyaux pour propager le Non serviam sous une apparence
d’orthodoxie.
Il n’en était pas encore à ce point d’insurrection sournoise. Mais
déjà il élevait autour de son âme des murailles de rationalisme si
épaisses que l’écho de la voix de Notre-Seigneur ne lui parvenait
presque plus.
En conséquence, il avait réduit la pratique au strict minimum.
Cœur aride, intelligence embrasée d’un feu sinistre, il entassait
sophisme sur sophisme pour s’affermir dans son illusion ou bien il
dépensait des heures à noircir du papier pour fixer les arguments
tortueux que lui insinuait l’esprit de révolte.
Lorsqu’il se sentait la tête lasse, il parcourait le pays à bicyclette,
afin de donner un peu d’exercice à ses muscles. Et est ainsi que
l’après-midi où l’abbé Dieuze se rendit chez l’usurier, il roulait à
grande vitesse sur le chemin de la ville.

A deux kilomètres environ de la paroisse et à cinq du chef-lieu, la

route s’incline brusquement pour suivre une pente escarpée et
atteindre la plaine, toute en blés et en betteraves, qui s’étend jusqu’à
l’horizon occidental. Raboteuse, parmi des rocs à fleur de sol, elle
s’encaisse entre des talus ravinés par les pluies d’hiver et feutrés
d’une herbe malingre dont les plaques jaunâtres alternent avec des
ronciers bourrus.
A mi-côte, à gauche en descendant, le talus s’interrompt,
l’espace d’une vingtaine de pas. Il y a en cet endroit, une sorte de
plate-forme, couleur d’ocre. Un petit taillis de frênes et d’acacias
chétifs, que la poussière soulevée par les automobiles habille de
gris, la limite en demi-cercle vers le sud. Au centre, on a bâti une
maisonnette en torchis, couverte avec des fragments de vieilles
tuiles moussues et dont la pièce unique s’ouvre, du côté de la route,
par une porte en sapin vermoulu dont la peinture s’écaille. Une seule
fenêtre, étroite et basse, garnie de carreaux fendillés par où la
lumière du dehors ne semble pénétrer qu’à regret.
Dans cette cahute logeait le cantonnier chargé d’entretenir la
route, un certain Lefalot mais dont les gens du pays ne
connaissaient que le prénom : Jacques. C’était un homme de petite
taille, maigre, voûté, lent d’allure. Par surcroît, il boitait un peu. Vêtu
d’une bure râpée et de nuance indécise, coiffé d’un débris de
casquette, il offrait un aspect si minable que jusqu’aux plus pauvres
le toisaient avec mépris. Les gamins le huaient et lui jetaient du
crottin et des épluchures lorsqu’il traversait le village pour quelque
achat modique chez la fruitière ou le boulanger. Il ne s’en courrouçait
pas : on eût dit que ni les invectives, ni les projectiles, ni les regards
dédaigneux ne parvenaient à l’émouvoir. Il s’en allait, très tranquille,
la tête baissée, les mains ballantes, comme absorbé en lui-même.
Pourtant, si quelqu’un avait pris la peine de détailler sa
physionomie, il aurait été frappé de la grande douceur
qu’exprimaient ses yeux d’un bleu-pâle et du sourire de bonté un
peu triste qui se jouait sur ses lèvres exsangues. — Mais personne
n’y faisait attention. Au surplus, comme il ne parlait guère, comme,
interpellé, il n’émettait en réponse que des phrases brèves et
timides, l’opinion publique le tenait pour un imbécile — d’ailleurs
inoffensif.
Il pouvait avoir trente ans mais les rides précoces qui sillonnaient
son front et ses joues hâlées le faisaient paraître plus âgé.

Jacques était le fils de vanniers ambulants et fort miséreux que

cahotait à travers la France une petite roulotte branlante, attelée
d’une mule poussive. Son enfance fut sombre car son père, aigri par
les privations, et de caractère morose, le rudoyait, le considérant
comme une bouche inutile. Pour sa mère, elle lui donnait, d’une
façon toute instinctive, quelques soins. Mais elle était si déprimée
par les soucis perpétuels d’une vie précaire qu’elle demeurait, le
plus souvent, recluse dans un mutisme hébété. Lorsqu’elle en
sortait, c’était pour se plaindre du destin. Son mari, alors, lui criait
des injures puis lui enjoignait de se taire. Elle pliait le dos et ne
manifestait plus sa peine que par de longs soupirs sanglotés.
Jacques la regardait, le cœur serré, les yeux gros de larmes. Il aurait
voulu l’embrasser, trouver des mots pour la consoler. Mais n’ayant
pour ainsi dire jamais été caressé, n’ayant jamais entendu que des
phrases plaintives ou des récriminations pleines d’amertume, il ne
savait comment s’y prendre.
Père et mère moururent le même jour, d’une grippe infectieuse,
lorsque l’enfant comptait à peine dix ans. Il fut recueilli par d’autres
nomades, vaguement ses cousins, qui tressaient çà et là quelques
corbeilles ou des chaises de jonc afin de justifier d’une occupation
vis-à-vis des gendarmes et des gardes-champêtres, mais qui
subsistaient surtout de chapardages et de mendicité. Ils abattirent la
mule et se régalèrent de sa viande aussi coriace que filandreuse et
firent du feu avec la roulotte qui, du reste, ne tenait plus ensemble.
L’enfant eut, pour sa part d’héritage, sept sous et quelques guenilles.
 Jacques était d’une grande sensibilité mais précocement habitué
à se replier sur soi, il n’en laissait rien voir. Les vagabonds parmi
lesquels il grandissait ne pouvaient comprendre son caractère.
Grossiers, brutaux, hargneux à l’égard les uns des autres, ils
ressemblaient à des fauves toujours enclins à mordre. Satisfaire
leurs appétits en toute occurrence, ne craindre que la prison dévolue
aux maladroits, tels étaient pour eux la règle et le précepte. Jacques
risquait fort de se pervertir à leur contact. Or, par une prédestination
évidente, il se trouva que malgré les exemples qu’on lui offrait et les
incitations à mal faire, il ne voulut jamais ni voler ni se conformer aux
mœurs crapuleuses des pauvres êtres dégradés qui pourrissaient
autour de lui. Cette conduite lui valut force raclées, des apostrophes
boueuses et une persécution constante. Il demeura pourtant
irréductible. Quoi qu’il souffrît beaucoup de cette malveillance
opiniâtre, il ne fit rien pour en atténuer les effets. Réfractaire à la
maraude, il tâchait de se rendre utile en tressant le plus de paniers
possible. Il les vendait parfois aux ménagères des fermes et des
hameaux. Les très petites sommes qu’il tirait de son industrie, il les
remettait, sans en distraire un centime, au vieux chenapan qui
exerçait un simulacre d’autorité sur la déplorable tribu. Ce pourquoi,
les enfants des nomades l’appelaient « tourte » et « gourdiflot ».
Plusieurs années passèrent de la sorte. Jacques atteignait sa
dix-neuvième année lorsque se produisit l’accident qui donna un
cours différent à son existence.
Un soir, un des plus audacieux de la horde réussit à dérober un
litre d’alcool chez un mastroquet où il était entré sous prétexte de
quémander un verre de piquette. De retour au campement, il se
garda bien de révéler l’aubaine aux camarades et il alla se tapir
derrière un buisson, à l’écart, pour se vider la bouteille, en trois
lampées, dans le gosier. Comme ensuite, afin de se rendre compte
si nul ne l’avait aperçu, il explorait, d’un œil furtif, la pénombre, il
découvrit Jacques étendu dans l’herbe à quelques pas.
— Tu m’as vu boire ! gronda-t-il.
Jacques hocha la tête en silence.
 L’ivrogne grinça des dents car déjà le poison faisait de lui une
bête féroce. Il craignait une dénonciation et il savait ce qui en
résulterait, la seule loi que la bande se fît gloire d’observer étant
celle-ci : tout produit d’un larcin devrait être partagé entre tous sous
peine de bastonnade pour le délinquant.
— Eh bien, reprit-il, d’une voix que la fureur étouffait presque, tu
ne parleras pas.
Il bondit sur Jacques, lui déchargea sur le crâne un coup de
poing si violent que le sang gicla et que l’assailli perdit
connaissance. En même temps, d’une atteinte frénétique de son
soulier à clous, il lui cassa net le tibia. Puis, faisant un crochet dans
les labours, il rejoignit le bivouac comme si de rien n’était. Les autres
dormaient et lui-même s’ensevelit bientôt dans le lourd sommeil de
l’ivresse. Jacques restait évanoui, face aux étoiles.
Le lendemain, dès l’aube, la bande leva le camp et reprit le
« trimard » sans qu’aucun fît une remarque sur son absence. Tout au
plus, y en eut-il un ou deux pour penser qu’il dormait encore dans
quelque creux et pour supposer qu’il rejoindrait au soleil levé.
Comme de juste, l’assassin ne soufflait mot.
Ce fut seulement vers midi que des faucheurs qui revenaient du
travail découvrirent Jacques. Quoique, par nature, peu faciles à
émouvoir et surtout peu portés à s’apitoyer sur un galvaudeux sans
toit ni pécune, la vue du sang, la jambe cassée, la pâleur et la
tristesse résignée de ce maigre visage aux traits tirés leur inspirèrent
quelque compassion. Ils le transportèrent à la métairie où ils étaient
employés. La, on lui bâcla un pansement hâtif puis on prévint le
maire. Celui-ci, jugeant que le blessé, victime peu intéressante d’une
rixe entre vagabonds, n’avait pas assez d’importance pour qu’on
ouvrît une enquête, le fit évacuer sur l’hôpital de la ville la plus
proche.

Long fut le séjour de Jacques dans la salle de chirurgie où on le

plaça. La blessure de la tête guérit assez vite, mais la fracture était
d’importance et lorsque les os se furent ressoudés, sa jambe droite
resta un peu plus courte que l’autre — infirmité qui, par la suite, le
dispensa du service militaire.
Puis, à peine commençait-il à se lever qu’une typhoïde d’une
malignité insolite l’abattit de nouveau. On crut bien qu’elle
l’emporterait. Néanmoins après des rechutes, on put replacer dans
le placard le linceul qu’on lui avait préparé. Mais la convalescence
dura. Une anémie persistante le maintenait si faible que, durant
plusieurs semaines, il demeura tout chancelant : c’était une fatigue
pour lui que de se traîner jusqu’au jardin où il s’asseyait sur un banc
qu’ombrageait un massif de lilas.
D’ailleurs, on ne se pressa pas de le renvoyer. D’abord, à cette
époque, il n’y avait pas affluence de malades. Ensuite, le personnel
l’avait pris en gré. La surveillante comme les infirmiers louaient sa
patience et sa discrétion. Il ne se plaignait pas ; la sincérité de sa
gratitude, dès qu’on lui marquait de l’intérêt, touchait les plus
sceptiques ; il s’efforçait de rendre de petits services à ses
compagnons d’infortune et aux employés. Quand on l’interrogeait
sur l’agression qu’il avait subie, il se bornait à dire : — C’est un
malheur… Si l’on insistait, sa figure exprimait de l’embarras et même
une sorte de souffrance. Visiblement il ne voulait ni récriminer ni
dénoncer le coupable. Certains s’imaginèrent que c’était par esprit
de solidarité envers les trimardeurs. Mais de plus perspicaces
devinèrent qu’il pardonnait ; et cette mansuétude, d’une qualité si
rare, augmenta l’affection qu’ils lui portaient, car ils sentirent qu’il eût
agi pareillement avec quiconque.
Sitôt que Jacques redevint capable de quelque travail, il sollicita
et obtint de quoi fabriquer des nattes et des paillassons dont il fournit
la plupart des salles. Entre temps, utilisant les numéros dépareillés
de revues illustrées qui s’accumulaient çà et là sur les consoles, il
apprit à lire, ce qu’il désirait depuis son enfance. En cela, il fut aidé
par un vieil arthritique, son voisin de lit, qui se plaisait à lui défiler ses
réminiscences d’une vie jadis prospère. Jacques l’écoutait sans
avoir l’air d’être excédé par ses rabâcheries désuètes. Le vieillard,
heureux de cette attention à laquelle on ne l’avait guère accoutumé,
mit du zèle à le faire épeler et, les premières difficultés vaincues, à
lui expliquer, d’une façon plus ou moins exacte, la signification des
proses qui leur passaient sous les yeux.
Cependant Jacques reprenait des forces, et, non sans quelque
anxiété, se demandait ce qu’il allait entreprendre à sa sortie de
l’hôpital. Rejoindre la bande, il y répugnait. Mais où découvrir un
emploi qui lui permît de gagner honnêtement son pain quotidien ?
La question fut résolue par le médecin qui l’avait soigné. Celui-ci,
brave homme et pitoyable aux indigents, éprouvait pour Jacques un
penchant indéfinissable qu’il formulait en une phrase peut-être à son
insu divinatoire :
— Il y a en ce garçon quelque chose qui retient, on ne saurait
spécifier pourquoi. Il se tait presque toujours ; il semble prendre
plaisir à s’effacer et pourtant, c’est étrange, on dirait qu’un être
supérieur l’a doué d’un charme spécial qui rayonne autour de lui et
qui nous oblige à l’aimer.
Une fois certain que Jacques était désormais valide, il
l’interrogea : — Possédez-vous quelques ressources ? Avez-vous
des parents ? Espérez-vous trouver de l’occupation ?
Jacques répondit : — Je ne possède rien sauf les vêtements qui
me couvrent. Je suis seul au monde. Je ne sais à qui m’adresser
pour trouver du travail.
— Oh bien, reprit le docteur, cela ne se passera pas ainsi. Je vais
m’occuper de vous…
Il était en relations suivies avec un conseiller général, gros
propriétaire bien vu à la préfecture et dont il avait sauvé la fille,
naguère mise en danger de mort par une fluxion de poitrine. En
retour, ce personnage influent lui avait affirmé, à maintes reprises,
qu’il lui rendrait volontiers service. Le docteur n’hésita donc pas à
recommander son protégé. L’autre, enchanté de tenir parole,
s’enquit dans les bureaux, apprit qu’un poste de cantonnier vaquait
sur la route décrite ci-dessus, mena au pas de charge les formalités,
culbuta les objections, éperonna les torpeurs administratives et, bref,
arracha la nomination du jeune homme.
 Jacques s’adapta aisément aux conditions d’existence que lui
imposait son nouveau métier. Ce qui lui en plut par-dessus tout, ce
fut qu’elles lui permettaient de passer des journées entières sans
dialoguer avec personne. Nulle misanthropie ne lui dictait cet état
d’âme mais une disposition innée de son caractère lui faisait préférer
à tout les enchantements de la solitude. D’ailleurs, qu’il s’activât au
dehors, sous les ardeurs de la canicule ou sous la bise âpre de
décembre, qu’il se reclût, la nuit, dans sa maisonnette, il ne lui
semblait pas être seul. Il sentait, d’une façon permanente, autour de
lui, une Présence qui lui voulait du bien, le comblait de douceur et le
maintenait dans une paix ineffable. Parfois aussi, lorsque ses
regards erraient sur la campagne, le paysage lui apparaissait
transfiguré. L’ondulation des blés, le balancement des feuillages, le
bleu profond du ciel prenaient une signification intense, devenaient
les symboles d’une vaste oraison par où la nature célébrait cet Être
mystérieux dont la munificence n’avait d’égale que la splendeur.
Alors son âme ingénue se joignait, d’un élan spontané, à l’hymne
universel puis s’épanouissait comme une touffe de roses au premier
soleil d’avril. Sa simplicité ne s’étonnait pas de ses ravissements. S’il
lui eût fallu en rendre compte, il aurait été fort embarrassé mais il s’y
abandonnait, le cœur en fête : il était l’enfant qui, découvrant une
source cachée au fond des grands bois, y étanche sa soif avec
allégresse et la remercie naïvement d’être si limpide et si fraîche.
Ainsi, sa prière fut assez longtemps celle d’une âme toute
primitive, ignorant Qui elle adore. Mais un jour, une circonstance
providentielle lui fit connaître la Voie, la Vérité et la Vie.
Il était allé à la ville pour s’acheter une paire de sabots, les siens
s’étant usés et prenant l’eau. Dans un coin de la boutique où il entra,
il y avait un tas de vieux papiers et de livres mis au rebut. Pendant
que le sabotier ajustait les brides, il ramassa un volume au hasard,
l’ouvrit et se prit à lire. Or, c’était, sous une reliure en cuir roussâtre
et à moitié décousue, un exemplaire tout fripé du Nouveau-
Testament. Beaucoup de pages manquaient, le sabotier s’en étant
servi pour allumer sa pipe — non par impiété mais par insouciance,
car comme nombre de nos contemporains, il n’avait reçu aucune