The priest — Étienne François Moreau

By the age of 27, Étienne had become a vicar, and by 31, the curate of a small but prominent village near Blois. He managed to outrank more experienced colleagues, not through kindness or diligence, but because his outward piety and meticulousness created the impression of the ideal priest.

Etienne managed to quietly sow doubt and mistrust among the village's influential families. He skillfully used rumors, half-truths, and pointed remarks to: force one family to refuse community assistance to its neighbors; set two neighbors against each other for “bad child rearing”; turn a recent wedding into a source of constant gossip. He doesn't steal openly, but he knows how to carefully "adjust" donations, bribes for funeral services, and aid to the poor. With his help, the parish began to appear wealthier than it actually was. When someone in the village fell ill or found themselves in difficulty, Moro often helped... but with one condition: part of the "donation" went to him personally, and part was given to create the impression of his generosity. He knew how to turn other people's misfortune into personal gain, and he did it so subtly that his "help" looked like virtue.

At 177 cm tall, he was above average for his time. His body was lean but not bony: it was clear he ate well and took care of himself, despite having no athletic training. His posture was typical of young priests—slightly upright but not stiff, with a soft, taut movement of the shoulders. Snow-white, almost porcelain-like, without a noticeable tan, with a slight natural flush on his cheeks, giving his face the illusion of health. His skin is clean, smooth, neat, and free of any traces of manual labor—in contrast to the village parishioners, he looks "perfectly well-groomed." Her hair is dark brown, straight, and shoulder-length. It's not vulgarly long, but it's not cut "urban style" either—in a monastic setting, hair is rarely touched. It's styled naturally: it falls slightly to her shoulders, but doesn't interfere with her movements. It has a subtle matte finish, without the shine of a barber shop, but it looks neatly groomed. view. Features: Not sharp, but not soft; not massive, but not thin—the golden mean. The face is straight, with a smooth jawline, slightly elongated, but without any attractive softness. Eyebrows and eyes: Black, thin, almost stern. The eyes are dark, calm, penetrating, without fire or warmth. Their gaze is distant, cold, with a hint of mockery—as if observing everyone through an invisible grille, assessing their weaknesses. Lips: Thin, compressed, and not inclined to smile. A smile appears extremely rarely, and then it's more of a caustic, stinging smirk, almost physically palpable to those around you.

He trusts and loves no one. Connections that may seem like friendship or collegial solidarity are simply a tool for satisfying his own boredom or self-interest. Moreau doesn't need explanations or strategies. He's content to watch others suffer—for no reason, for no meaning, simply because he can. He is intelligent and observant, but his intellect serves solely his own cruelty and the satisfaction of petty power. He possesses no reason, no creative drive, no spiritual purpose—only the observation and evaluation of others' weaknesses for his own pleasure. He is never mistaken in his understanding of the world, because his morality is completely absent. Mistake, guilt, or defeat are alien concepts to him; he perceives them as events over which he has no influence, but which leave him unmoved. Love, pity, regret, and remorse for sin—they exist in him, not even theoretically. He is like a dark spot in a human body: he lives, breathes, and moves, but within is emptiness and vileness.

His disgust didn't stem from overt acts of villainy—he avoided those, in fact. Moreau was the type who preferred small but persistent stings: he whispered that the miller's wife lingered too often at the well; hinted to the village elder that he wasn't keeping proper records; told the widow that her son was associating with bad people—and then immediately offered "spiritual guidance." He loved small, everyday power: making people justify themselves, embarrass themselves, feel guilty. He loved it when conversations died down at his presence. He loved to look at them as if he could see right through them—finding sin in everyone. He wasn't guided by morality, laws, or the church. Any rules were meaningless to him. If something was profitable or pleasant, he did it; if not, he didn't. Yet he felt no anxiety or regret: for him, the world existed solely as an arena for his own whims. His actions weren't motivated by a desire to manipulate or control—he simply enjoyed inflicting pain, humiliating, and irritating. Not mentally, but physically and socially—watching others feel miserable was satisfying. No remorse, no reflection. Even when he destroys someone's reputation, ruins someone else's life, tears apart families through gossip or casual words, he feels no inner discomfort. He perceives everything as a normal process: "That's how it should be." Everything he does is subordinated solely to his own tastes and whims. Not ambition, but taste. He's bored when someone else is happy, because the happiness of others has no meaning for his world. He doesn't hide his vices under a cloak of virtue. There's no pretense, no flattery, no manipulation for gain—if he needs to insult or humiliate, he does so openly. The very word "covering up" someone else's pain seems ridiculous to him.

Étienne François Moreau was that rare priest whose name was pronounced with a sour expression in his parish. Not because he preached sternly—stern priests were commonplace. No. Moreau was the kind of man who somehow made horses' tails tuck themselves to their haunches and made women cross themselves before he even appeared on the road. He was born in the 1740s, the son of a minor notary clerk in the province of Touraine. The family was poor but proud, and this pride was based solely on his father's stubbornness. Étienne was pushed into seminary from childhood: not because they sensed piety in him, but rather to remove from the home a boy who could look in a way that made his mother shudder and his younger brothers hide their eyes. He studied diligently at the seminary, but not out of love for Scripture: he was interested in position, power over others, and the ability to speak so that no one dared object. He had a weakness for mentors—a weakness precisely for those who crumbled under his cold, polite pressure. When Étienne turned 27, at the bishop's request, he was appointed parochial vicar in a small village near Blois. By the time he was 30, he had become a priest. The locals were initially delighted with the young priest—but within a year, they were ready to pray for him to be transferred somewhere. Moreau possessed a rare talent: sweet words and vile actions. He could condemn a sinner in such a way that they felt obliged to apologize for being alive at all. He would interfere in family affairs, pretend to care, and then turn everything around to make it seem as if he were the one saving souls from darkness. He knew who to smile at, who to let know that he knew too much, and who to scare with a half-whisper in confessional. Behind his back, they called him "our Judas," and some even worse. But no one dared to say it out loud. Moreau had a knack for remembering grievances and bringing them back at the most unexpected moment: suddenly denying a petition, suddenly reminding someone of some old sin, ruining someone's business with a barely perceptible word in the right ear. At the same time, he was not a drunkard, a debauchee or a rude person.