The faithful are flocking up the steps of the temple; spring toilettes already glitter in the sun; trains sweep the dust with their long flowing folds; feathers and ribbons flutter; the bell chimes solemnly, while carriages keep arriving at a trot, depositing upon the pavement all that is most pious and most noble in the Faubourg, then draw up in line at the farther end of the square.
Be quick, elbow your way through the crowd if you want a good place; the Abbe Gelon preaches to-day on abstinence, and when the Abbe Gelon preaches it is as if Patti were singing.
Enter Madame, pushes the triple door, which recloses heavily, brushes with rapid fingers the holywater sprinkler which that pious old man holds out, and carefully makes a graceful little sign of the cross so as not to spot her ribbons.
Do you hear these discreet and aristocratic whisperings?
“Good morning, my dear.”
“Good morning, dear. It is always on abstinence that he preaches, is it not? Have you a seat?”
“Yes, yes, come with me. You have got on your famous bonnet, I see?”
“Yes; do you like it? It is a little showy, is it not? What a multitude of people! Where is your husband?”
“Showy! Oh, no, it is splendid. My husband is in the churchwarden’s pew; he left before me; he is becoming a fanatic—he speaks of lunching on radishes and lentils.”
“That ought to be very consoling to you.”
“Don’t mention it. Come with me. See; there are Ernestine and Louise. Poor Louise’s nose, always the same; who would believe that she drinks nothing stronger than water?”
The ladies push their way among the chairs, some of which they upset with the greatest unconcern.
Arrived at their places they sink down on their knees, and, moist-eyed and full of feeling, cast a look of veiled adoration toward the high altar, then hide their faces with their gloved hands.
For a very few minutes they gracefully deprecate themselves in the eyes of the Lord, then, taking their seats, coquettishly arrange the immense bows of their bonnet-strings, scan the assembly through a gold eyeglass, with the little finger turning up; finally, while smoothing down the satin folds of a dress difficult to keep in place, they scatter, right and left, charming little recognitions and delightful little smiles.
“Are you comfortable, dear?”
“Quite, thanks. Do you see in front there, between the two tapers, Louise and Madame de C———-? Is it allowable in any one to come to church got up like that?”
“Oh! I have never believed much in the piety of Madame de C———-. You know her history—the story of the screen? I will tell it you later. Ah! there is the verger.”
The verger shows his bald head in the pulpit of truth. He arranges the seat, adjusts the kneeling-stool, then withdraws and allows the Abbe Gelon, who is somewhat pale from Lenten fasting, but striking, as he always is, in dignity, elegance, and unction. A momentary flutter passes through the congregation, then they settle down comfortably. The noise dies away, and all eyes are eagerly looking toward the face of the preacher. With his eyes turned to heaven, the latter stands upright and motionless; a light from above may be divined in his inspired look; his beautiful, white hands, encircled at the wrists by fine lace, are carelessly placed on the red velvet cushion of the pulpit. He waits a few moments, coughs twice, unfolds his handkerchief, deposits his square hat in a corner, and, bending forward, lets fall from his lips in those sweet slow, persuasive tones, by which he is known, the first words of his sermon, “Ladies!”
With this single word he has already won all hearts. Slowly he casts over his audience a mellow glance, which penetrates and attracts; then, having uttered a few Latin words which he has the tact to translate quickly into French, he continues:
“What is it to abstain? Why should we abstain? How should we abstain? Those are the three points, ladies, I shall proceed to discuss.”
He blows his nose, coughs; a holy thrill stirs every heart. How will he treat this magnificent subject? Let us listen.
Is it not true, Madame, that your heart is piously stirred, and that at this moment you feel an actual thirst for abstinence and mortification?
The holy precincts are bathed in a soft obscurity, similar to that of your boudoir, and inducing revery.
I know not how much of the ineffable and of the vaguely exhilarating penetrates your being. But the voice of this handsome and venerated old man has, amidst the deep silence, something deliciously heavenly about it. Mysterious echoes repeat from the far end of the temple each of his words, and in the dim light of the sanctuary the golden candlesticks glitter like precious stones. The old stained-glass windows with their symbolic figures become suddenly illuminated, a flood of light and sunshine spreads through the church like a sheet of fire. Are the heavens opening? Is the Spirit from on high descending among us?
While lost in pious revery, which soothes and lulls, one gazes with ecstasy on the fanciful details of the sculptures which vanish in the groined roof above, and on the quaint pipes of the organ with its hundred voices. The beliefs of childhood piously inculcated in your heart suddenly reawaken; a vague perfume of incense again penetrates the air. The stone pillars shoot up to infinite heights, and from these celestial arches depends the golden lamp which sways to and fro in space, diffusing its eternal light. Truly, God is great.
By degrees the sweet tones of the preacher enrapture one more and more, and the sense of his words are lost; and, listening to the divine murmur of that saint-like voice, your eyes, like those of a child falling asleep in the bosom of the Creator, close.
You do not go to sleep, but your head inclines forward, the ethereal light surrounds you, and your soul, delighting in the uncertain, plunges into celestial space, and loses itself in infinity.
What a sweet and holily intoxicating sensation, a delicious ecstasy! Nevertheless, there are those who smile at this religious raise-en-scene, these pomps and splendors, this celestial music, which soothes the nerves and thrills the brain! Pity on these scoffers who do not comprehend the ineffable delight of being able to open at will the gates of Paradise to themselves, and to become, at odd moments, one with the angels! But what purpose does it serve to speak of the faithless and of their harmless, smiles? As the Abbe Gelon has in his inimitable manner observed, “The heart is a fortress, incessantly assailed by the spirit of darkness.”
The idea of a constant struggle with this powerful being has something about it that adds tenfold to our strength and flatters our vanity. What, alone in your fortress, Madame; alone with the spirit of darkness.
But hush! the Abbe Gelon is finishing in a quivering and fatigued voice. His right hand traces in the air the sign of peace. Then he wipes his humid forehead, his eyes sparkle with divine light, he descends the narrow stairs, and we hear on the pavement the regular taps of the rod of the verger, who is reconducting him to the vestry.
“Was he not splendid, dear?”
“Excellent! when he said, ‘That my eyes might close forever, if...’ you remember?”
“Superb! and further on: ‘Yes, ladies, you are coquettes.’ He told us some hard truths; he speaks admirably.”
“Admirably! He is divine!”
It is four o’clock, the church is plunged in shadow and silence. The confused rumble of the vehicles without hardly penetrates this dwelling of prayer, and the creak of one’s boots, echoing in the distance, is the only human noise which ruffles the deep calm.
However, in proportion as we advance, we perceive in the chapels groups of the faithful, kneeling, motionless and silent. In viewing the despair that their attitude appears to express, we are overwhelmed with sadness and uneasiness. Is it an appeal for the damned?
The aspects of one of these chapels is peculiar. A hundred or a hundred and fifty ladies, almost buried in silk and velvet, are crowded devoutly about the confessional. A sweet scent of violets and vervain permeates the vicinity, and one halts, in spite of one’s self, in the presence of this large display of elegance.
From each of the two cells adjoining the confessional shoot out the folds of a rebellious skirt, for the penitent, held fast at the waist, has been able to get only half of her form into the narrow space. However, her head can be distinguished moving in the shadow, and we can guess from the contrite movements of her white feather that her forehead is bowed by reason of remonstrance and repentance.
Hardly has she concluded her little story when a dozen of her neighbors rush forward to replace her. This eagerness is quite explicable, for this chapel is the one in which the Abbe Gelon hears confessions, and I need not tell you that when the Abbe Gelon confesses it is the same as if he were preaching—there is a crowd.
The good Abbe confesses all these ladies, and, with angelic devotion, remains shut up for hours in this dark, narrow, suffocating box, through the grating of which two penitents are continually whispering their sins.
The dear Abbe! the most likable thing about him is that he is not long over the business. He knows how to get rid of useless details; he perceives, with subtle instinct and a sureness of vision that spares you a thousand embarrassments, the condition of a soul, so that, besides being a man of intelligence and of the world, he renders the repetition of those little weaknesses, of which he has whispered the one half to you, almost agreeable.
In coming to him with one’s little burden of guilt, one feels somewhat embarrassed, but while one is hesitating about telling him all, he, with a discreet and skilful hand, disencumbers one of it rapidly, examines the contents, smiles or consoles, and the confession is made without one having uttered a single word; so that after all is over the penitent exclaims, prostrating one’s self before God, “But, Lord, I was pure, pure as the lily, and yet how uneasy I was!”
Even when he assumes the sacerdotal habit and ceases to be a man, and speaks in the name of God, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his look, reveal innate distinction and that spotless courtesy which can not harm even a minister of God, and which one must cultivate on this side of the Rue du Bac.
If God wills that there must be a Faubourg St.-Germain in the world—and it can not be denied that He does—is it not proper that He should give us a minister who speaks our language and understands our weaknesses? Nothing is more obvious, and I really do not comprehend some of these ladies who talk to me about the Abbe Brice. Not that I wish to speak ill of the good Abbe, for this is neither the time nor the place for it; he is a holy man, but his sanctity is a little bourgeois and needs polish.
With him one has to dot one’s i’s; he is dull in perception, or does not perceive at all.
Acknowledge a peccadillo, and his brows knit, he must know the hour, the moment, the antecedents; he examines, he probes, he weighs, and finishes his thousand questions by being indiscreet and almost improper. Is there not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?
The Abbe Brice—and there is no reason why I should conceal it—smells of the stable, which must be prejudicial to him. He is slightly Republican, too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets new gloves, twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.
I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her “little affairs” to a farmer’s son, and address him as “Father.” Matters must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice always smells detestably of snuff.
He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not pleasant to have one’s maid or one’s cook for one’s visa-vis at the confessional.
There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel in an omnibus. You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy to call your coachman “Brother,” and to say to Sarah Jane, “Sister,” but these worthy folk shall have first passed through purgatory, and fire purifies everything. Again, what is there to assure us that Sarah Jane will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of entering there?
It is hence quite well understood why the Abbe Gelon’s chapel is crowded. If a little whispering goes on, it is because they have been waiting three long hours, and because everybody knows one another.
All the ladies, you may be sure, are there.
“Make a little room for me, dear,” whispers a newcomer, edging her way through trains, kneeling-stools, and chairs.
“Ah! is that you, dear? Come here. Clementine and Madame de B. are there in the corner at the cannon’s mouth. You will have to wait two good hours.”
“If Madame de B. is there, it does not surprise me. She is inexhaustible, and there is no other woman who is so long in telling a thing. Have all these people not had their turn yet? Ah! there is Ernestine.” (She waves her hand to her quietly.) “That child is an angel. She acknowledged to me the other day that her conscience troubled her because, on reading the ‘Passion,’ she could not make up her mind to kiss the mat.”
“Ah! charming; but, tell me, do you kiss the mat yourself?”
“I! no, never in my life; it is so nasty, dear.”
“You confess to the omission, at least?”
“Oh! I confess all those little trifles in a lump. I say, ‘Father, I have erred out of human self-respect.’ I give the total at once.”
“That is just what I do, and that dear Abbe Gelon discharges the bill.”
“Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my little bill.”
Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary, moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks out the prayers appropriate to her condition.
She reads with fervency: “‘My God, crushed beneath the burden of my sins I cast myself at thy feet’—how annoying that it should be so cold to the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,—‘that I cast myself at thy feet’—tell me, dear, do you know if the chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her friends’ sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her foot-warmer—‘I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance, and of........’”
“Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a turkey-cock.”
Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place.
“Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you.”
“But I was here before you, Madame.”
“I beg a thousand pardons, Madame.”
“You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this hallowed spot.”
“Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night, and the two little ones of this morning.”
Madam—(moving her slender fingers)—It is ruched, ruched, ruched, loves of ruches, edged all around with blond.
Her Friend—That is good style, dear.
Madame—Yes, I think it will be the style, and over this snowlike foam fall the skirts of blue silk like the bodice; but a lovely blue, something like—a little less pronounced than skyblue, you know, like—my husband calls it a subdued blue.
Her Friend—Splendid. He is very happy in his choice of terms.
Madame—Is he not? One understands at once—a subdued blue. It describes it exactly.
Her Friend—But apropos of this, you know that Ernestine has not forgiven him his pleasantry of the other evening.
Madame—How, of my husband? What pleasantry? The other evening when the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice were there?
Her Friend—And his son, who was there also.
Madame—What! the Abbe’s son? (Both break into laughter.)
Her Friend—But—ha! ha! ha!—what are you saying, ha! ha! you little goose?
Madame—I said the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice, and you add, ‘And his son.’ It is your fault, dear. He must be a choir-boy, that cherub. (More laughter.)
Her Friend—(placing her hand over hey mouth)—Be quiet, be quiet; it is too bad; and in Lent, too!
Madame—Well, but of whose son are you speaking?
Her Friend—Of Ernestine’s son, don’t you know, Albert, a picture of innocence. He heard your husband’s pleasantry, and his mother was vexed.
Madame—My dear, I really don’t know to what you refer. Please tell me all about it.
Hey Friend—Well, on entering the drawing-room, and perceiving the candelabra lit up, and the two Abbe’s standing at that moment in the middle of the room, your husband appeared as if looking for something, and when Ernestine asked him what it was, he said aloud: “I am looking for the holy-water; please, dear neighbor, excuse me for coming in the middle of the service.”
Madame—Is it possible? (Laughing.) The fact is, he can not get out of it; he has met the two Abbes, twice running, at Ernestine’s. Her drawing-room is a perfect sacristy.
Hey Friend (dryly)—A sacristy! How regardless you are getting in your language since your marriage, dear.
Madame—Not more than before. I never cared to meet priests elsewhere than at church.
Her Friend—Come, you are frivolous, and if I did not know you better—but do you not like to meet the Abbe Gelon?
Madame—Ah! the Abbe Gelon, that is quite different. He is charming.
Her Friend—(briskly)—His manners are so distingue.
Madame—And respectful. His white hair is such an admirable frame for his pale face, which is so full of unction.
Her Friend—Oh! yes, he has unction, and his looks—those sweetly softened looks! The other day, when he was speaking on the mediation of Christ, he was divine. At one moment he wiped away a tear; he was no longer master of his emotions; but he grew calm almost immediately—his power of self-command is marvellous; then he went on quietly, but the emotion in turn had overpowered us. It was electrifying. The Countess de S., who was near me, was bubbling like a spring, under her yellow bonnet.
Madame—Ah! yes, I have seen that yellow bonnet. What a sight that Madame de S. is!
Her Friend—The truth is, she is always dressed like an applewoman. A bishopric has been offered these messieurs, I know, on good authority; my husband had it from De l’Euvre. Well—
Madame—(interrupting her)—A bishopric offered to Madame de S. It was wrong to do so.
Her Friend—You make fun of everything, my dear; there are, however, some subjects which should be revered. I tell you that the mitre and the ring have been offered to the Abby Gelon. Well, he refused them. God knows, however, that the pastoral ring would well become his hand.
Madame—Oh! yes, he has a lovely hand.
Her Friend—He has a white, slender, and aristocratic hand. Perhaps it is a wrong for us to dwell on these worldly details, but after all his hand is really beautiful. Do you know (enthusiastically) I find that the Abbe Gelon compels love of religion? Were you ever present at his lectures?
Madame—I was at the first one. I would have gone again on Thursday, but Madame Savain came to try on my bodice and I had a protracted discussion with her about the slant of the skirts.
Her Friend—Ah! the skirts are cut slantingly.
Madame—Yes, yes, with little cross-bars, which is an idea of my own—I have not seen it anywhere else; I think it will not look badly.
Her Friend—Madame Savain told me that you had suppressed the shoulders of the corsage.
Madame—Ah! the gossip! Yes, I will have nothing on the shoulders but a ribbon, a trifle, just enough to fasten a jewel to—I was afraid that the corsage would look a little bare. Madame Savain had laid on, at intervals, some ridiculous frippery. I wanted to try something else—my plan of crossbars, there and then—and I missed the dear Abbe Gelon’s lecture. He was charming, it seems.
Her Friend—Oh! charming. He spoke against bad books; there was a large crowd. He demolished all the horrible opinions of Monsieur Renan. What a monster that man is!
Madame—You have read his book?
Her Friend—Heaven forbid! Don’t you know it is impossible for one to find anything more—well, it must be very bad ‘Messieurs de l’OEuvre’ for the Abbe Gelon, in speaking to one of these friends of my husband, uttered the word——
Madame—Well, what word?
Her Friend—I dare not tell you, for, really, if it is true it would make one shudder. He said that it was (whispering in her ear) the Antichrist! It makes one feel aghast, does it not! They sell his photograph; he has a satanic look. (Looking at the clock.) Half-past two—I must run away; I have given no orders about dinner. These three fast-days in the week are to me martyrdom. One must have a little variety; my husband is very fastidious. If we did not have water-fowl I should lose my head. How do you get on, dear?
Madame—Oh! with me it is very simple, provided I do not make my husband leaner; he eats anything. You know, Augustus is not very much—
Her Friend—Not very much! I think that he is much too spare; for, after all, if we do not in this life impose some privations upon ourselves—no, that would be too easy. I hope, indeed, that you have a dispensation?
Madame—Oh! yes, I am safe as to that.
Her Friend—I have one, of course, for butter and eggs, as vice-chancellor of the Association. The Abbe Gelon begged me to accept a complete dispensation on account of my headaches, but I refused. Yes! I refused outright. If one makes a compromise with one’s principles—but then there are people who have no principles.
Madame—If you mean that to apply to my husband, you are wrong. Augustus is not a heathen—he has excellent principles.
Her Friend—Excellent principles! You make my blood boil. But there, I must go. Well, it is understood, I count upon you for Tuesday; he will preach upon authority, a magnificent subject, and we may expect allusions—Ah! I forgot to tell you; I am collecting and I expect your mite, dear. I take as low a sum as a denier (the twelfth of a penny). I have an idea of collecting with my little girl on my praying-stool. Madame de K. collected on Sunday at St. Thomas’s and her baby held the alms-bag. The little Jesus had an immense success—immense!
Madame—I must go now. How will you dress?
Her Friend—Oh! for the present, quite simply and in black; you understand.
Madame—Besides, black becomes you so well.
Her Friend—Yes, everything is for the best; black does not suit me at all ill. Tuesday, then. But my dear, try to bring your husband, he likes music so much.
Madame—Well, I can not promise that.
Her Fiend—Ah! mon Dieu! they are all like that, these men; they are strong-minded, and when grace touches them, they look back on their past life with horror. When my husband speaks of his youth, the tears come into his eyes. I must tell you; that he has not always been as he is now; he was a gay boy in his youth, poor fellow. I do not detest a man because he knows life a little, do you? But I am gossiping and time passes; I have a call to make yet on Madame W. I do not know whether she has found her juvenile lead.
Madame—What for, in Heaven’s name?
Her Friend—For her evening party. There are to be private theatricals at her house, but for a pious object, you may be sure, during Lent; it is so as to have a collection on behalf of the Association. I must fly. Good-by, dear.
Madame—Till Tuesday, dear; in full uniform?
Her Friend—(smiling)—In full uniform. Kind regards to your reprobate. I like him very much all the same. Good-by.
Sleeplessness is almost always to be traced to indigestion. My friend, Dr. Jacques, is there and he will tell you so.
Now, on that particular evening, it was last Friday, I had committed the mistake of eating brill, a fish that positively disagrees with me.
God grant that the account of the singular dream which ensued may inspire you with some prudent reflections.
Be that as it may, this was my dream, in all its extravagance.
I had, in this dream, the honor to belong, as senior curate, to one of the most frequented parish churches in Paris. What could be more ridiculous! I was, moreover, respectably stout, possessed a head decked with silver locks, well-shaped hands, an aquiline nose, great unction, the friendship of the lady worshippers, and, I venture to add, the esteem of the rector.
While I was reciting the thanksgiving after service, and at the same time unfastening the cords of my alb, the rector came up to me (I see him even now) blowing his nose.
“My dear friend,” said he, “you hear confessions this evening, do you not?”
“Most certainly. Are you well this morning? I had a good congregation at mass.”
Having said this, I finished my thanksgiving, put my alb into the wardrobe, and, offering a pinch to the rector, added cheerily:
“This is not breaking the fast, is it?”
“Ha! ha! no, no, no! Besides, it wants five minutes to twelve and the clock is slow.”
We took a pinch together and walked off arm in arm by the little side door, for night sacraments, chatting in a friendly way.
Suddenly I found myself transported into my confessional. The chapel was full of ladies who all bowed at my approach. I entered my narrow box, the key of which I had. I arranged on the seat the air-cushion which is indispensable to me on the evenings preceding great church festivals, the sittings at that season being always prolonged. I slipped the white surplice which was hanging from a peg over my cassock, and, after meditating for a moment, opened the little shutter that puts me in communication with the penitents.
I will not undertake to describe to you one by one the different people who came and knelt before me. I will not tell you, for instance, how one of them, a lady in black, with a straight nose, thin lips, and sallow complexion, after reciting her Confiteor in Latin, touched me infinitely by the absolute confidence she placed in me, though I was not of her sex. In five minutes she found the opportunity to speak to me of her sister-in-law, her brother, an uncle who was on the point of death whose heiress she was, her nephews, and her servants; and I could perceive, despite the tender benevolence that appeared in all her words, that she was the victim of all these people. She ended by informing me she had a marriageable daughter, and that her stomach was an obstacle to her fasting.
I can still see a throng of other penitents, but it would take too long to tell you about them, and we will confine ourselves, with your permission, to the last two, who, besides, impressed upon my memory themselves particularly.
A highly adorned little lady rushed into the confessional; she was brisk, rosy, fresh. Despite her expression of deep thoughtfulness, she spoke very quickly in a musical voice, and rattled through her Confiteor, regardless of the sense.
“Father,” she said, “I have one thing that is troubling me.”
“Speak, my child; you know that a confessor is a father.”
“Well, father—but I really dare not.”
There are many of these timid little hearts that require to be encouraged. I said, “Go on, my child, go on.”
“My husband,” she murmured confusedly, “will not abstain during Lent. Ought I to compel him, father?”
“Yes, by persuasion.”
“But he says that he will go and dine at the restaurant if I do not let him have any meat. Oh! I suffer terribly from that. Am I not assuming the responsibility of all that meat, father?”
This young wife really interested me; she had in the midst of one cheek, toward the corner of the mouth, a small hollow, a kind of little dimple, charming in the profane sense of the word, and giving a special expression to her face. Her tiny white teeth glittered like pearls when she opened her mouth to relate her pious inquietudes; she shed around, besides, a perfume almost as sweet as that of our altars, although of a different kind, and I breathed this perfume with an uneasiness full of scruples, which for all that inclined me to indulgence. I was so close to her that none of the details of her face escaped me; I could distinguish, almost in spite of myself, even a little quiver of her left eyebrow, tickled every now and again by a stray tress of her fair hair.
“Your situation,” I said, “is a delicate one; on one hand, your domestic happiness, and on the other your duty as a Christian.” She gave a sigh from her very heart. “Well, my dear child, my age warrants my speaking to you like that, does it not?”
“Oh, yes, father.”
“Well, my dear child”—I fancy I noticed at that moment that she had at the outer corner of her eyes a kind of dark mark something like an arrow-head—“try, my dear child, to convince your husband, who in his heart—” In addition, her lashes, very long and somewhat curled, were underlined, I might almost say, by a dark streak expanding and shading off delicately toward the middle of the eye. This physical peculiarity did not seem to me natural, but an effect of premeditated coquetry.
Strange fact, the verification of such weakness in this candid heart only increased my compassion. I continued in a gentle tone:
“Strive to bring your husband to God. Abstinence is not only a religious observance, it is also a salutary custom. ‘Non solum lex Dei, sed etiam’. Have you done everything to bring back your husband?”
“Yes, father, everything.”
“Be precise, my child; I must know all.”
“Well, father, I have tried sweetness and tenderness.”
I thought to myself that this husband must be a wretch.
“I have implored him for the sake of our child,” continued the little angel, “not to risk his salvation and my own. Once or twice I even told him that the spinach was dressed with gravy when it was not. Was I wrong, father?”
“There are pious falsehoods which the Church excuses, for in such cases it only takes into consideration the intention and the greater glory of God. I can not, therefore, say that you have done wrong. You have not, have you, been guilty toward your husband of any of those excusable acts of violence which may escape a Christian soul when it is struggling against error? For it really is not natural that an honest man should refuse to follow the prescription of the Church. Make a few concessions at first.”
“I have, father, and perhaps too many,” she said, contritely.
“What do you mean?”
“Hoping to bring him back to God, I accorded him favors which I ought to have refused him. I may be wrong, but it seems to me that I ought to have refused him.”
“Do not be alarmed, my dear child, everything depends upon degrees, and it is necessary in these matters to make delicate distinctions.”
“That is what I say to myself, father, but my husband unites with his kindness such a communicative gayety—he has such a graceful and natural way of excusing his impiety—that I laugh in spite of myself when I ought to weep. It seems to me that a cloud comes between myself and my duties, and my scruples evaporate beneath the charm of his presence and his wit. My husband has plenty of wit,” she added, with a faint smile, in which there was a tinge of pride.
“Hum! hum!” (the blackness of this man’s heart revolted me). “There is no seductive shape that the tempter does not assume, my child. Wit in itself is not to be condemned, although the Church shuns it as far as she is concerned, looking upon it as a worldly ornament; but it may become dangerous, it may be reckoned a veritable pest when it tends to weaken faith. Faith, which is to the soul, I hardly need tell you, what the bloom is to the peach, and—if I may so express myself, what the—dew is—to the flower—hum, hum! Go on, my child.”
“But, father, when my husband has disturbed me for a moment, I soon repent of it. He has hardly gone before I pray for him.”
“Good, very good.”
“I have sewn a blessed medal up in his overcoat.” This was said more boldly, though still with some timidity.
“And have you noticed any result?”
“In certain things he is better, yes, father, but as regards abstinence he is still intractable,” she said with embarrassment.
“Do not be discouraged. We are in the holy period of Lent. Make use of pious subterfuges, prepare him some admissible viands, but pleasant to the taste.”
“Yes, father, I have thought of that. The day before yesterday I gave him one of these salmon pasties that resemble ham.”
“Yes, yes, I know them. Well?”
“Well, he ate the salmon, but he had a cutlet cooked afterward.”
“Deplorable!” I exclaimed, almost in spite of myself, so excessive did the perversity of this man seem to me. “Patience, my child, offer up to Heaven the sufferings which your husband’s impiety causes you, and remember that your efforts will be set down to you. You have nothing more to tell me?”
“No, father.”
“Collect yourself, then. I will give you absolution.”
The dear soul sighed as she joined her two little hands.
Hardly had my penitent risen to withdraw when I abruptly closed my little shutter and took a long pinch of snuff—snuff-takers know how much a pinch soothes the mind—then having thanked God rapidly, I drew from the pocket of my cassock my good old watch, and found that it was earlier than I thought. The darkness of the chapel had deceived me, and my stomach had shared my error. I was hungry. I banished these carnal preoccupations from my mind, and after shaking my hands, on which some grains of snuff had fallen, I slackened one of my braces that was pressing a little on one shoulder, and opened my wicket.
“Well, Madame, people should be more careful,” said the penitent on my left, addressing a lady of whom I could only see a bonnet-ribbon; “it is excusable.”
My penitent’s voice, which was very irritated, though restrained by respect for the locality, softened as if by magic at the creaking of my wicket. She knelt down, piously folded her two ungloved hands, plump, perfumed, rosy, laden with rings—but let that pass. I seemed to recognize the hands of the Countess de B., a chosen soul, whom I had the honor to visit frequently, especially on Saturday, when there is always a place laid for me at her table.
She raised her little lace veil and I saw that I was not mistaken. It was the Countess. She smiled at me as at a person with whom she was acquainted, but with perfect propriety; she seemed to be saying, “Good-day, my dear Abbe, I do not ask how your rheumatism is, because at this moment you are invested with a sacred character, but I am interested in it all the same.”
This little smile was irreproachable. I replied by a similar smile, and I murmured in a very low tone, giving her, too, to understand by the expression of my face that I was making a unique concession in her favor, “Are you quite well, dear Madame?”
“Thanks, father, I am quite well.” Her voice had resumed an angelic tone. “But I have just been in a passion.”
“And why? Perhaps you have taken for a passion what was really only a passing moment of temper?”
It does not do to alarm penitents.
“Ah! not at all, it was really a passion, father. My dress had just been torn from top to bottom; and really it is strange that one should be exposed to such mishaps on approaching the tribunal of——”
“Collect yourself, my dear Madame, collect yourself,” and assuming a serious look I bestowed my benediction upon her.
The Countess sought to collect herself, but I saw very well that her troubled spirit vainly strove to recover itself. By a singular phenomenon I could see into her brain, and her thoughts appeared to me one after the other. She was saying to herself, “Let me collect myself; our Father, give me grace to collect myself,” but the more effort she made to restrain her imagination the more it became difficult to restrain and slipped through her fingers. “I had made a serious examination of my conscience, however,” she added. “Not ten minutes ago as I was getting out of my carriage I counted up three sins; there was one above all I wished to mention. How these little things escape me! I must have left them in the carriage.” And she could not help smiling to herself at the idea of these three little sins lost among the cushions. “And the poor Abbe waiting for me in his box. How hot it must be in there! he is quite red. Good Heavens! how shall I begin? I can not invent faults? It is that torn dress which has upset me. And there is Louise, who is to meet me at five o’clock at the dressmaker’s. It is impossible for me to collect myself. O God, do not turn away your face from me, and you, Lord, who can read in my soul—Louise will wait till a quarter past five; besides, the bodice fits—there is only the skirt to try on. And to think that I had three sins only a minute ago.”
All these different thoughts, pious and profane, were struggling together at once in the Countess’s brain, so that I thought the moment had come to interfere and help her a little.
“Come,” I said, in a paternal voice, leaning forward benevolently and twisting my snuff-box in my fingers. “Come, my dear Madame, and speak fearlessly; have you nothing to reproach yourself with? Have you had no impulses of—worldly coquetry, no wish to dazzle at the expense of your neighbor?”
I had a vague idea that I should not be contradicted.
“Yes, father,” she said, smoothing down her bonnet strings, “sometimes; but I have always made an effort to drive away such thoughts.”
“That good intention in some degree excuses you, but reflect and see how empty are these little triumphs of vanity, how unworthy of a truly poor soul and how they draw it aside from salvation. I know that there are certain social exigencies—society. Yes, yes, but after all one can even in those pleasures which the Church tolerates—I say tolerates—bring to bear that perfume of good-will toward one’s neighbor of which the Scriptures speak, and which is the appanage—in some degree... the glorious appanage. Yes, yes, go on.”
“Father, I have not been able to resist certain temptations to gluttony.”
“Again, again! Begin with yourself. You are here at the tribunal of penitence; well, promise God to struggle energetically against these little carnal temptations, which are not in themselves serious sins—oh! no, I know it—but, after all, these constant solicitations prove a persistent attachment—displeasing to Him—to the fugitive and deceitful delights of this world. Hum, hum! and has this gluttony shown itself by more blameworthy actions than usual—is it simply the same as last month?”
“The same as last month, father.”
“Yes, yes, pastry between meals,” I sighed gravely.
“Yes, father, and almost always a glass of Capri or of Syracuse after it.”
“Or of Syracuse after it. Well, let that pass, let that pass.”
I fancied that the mention of this pastry and those choice wines was becoming a source of straying thoughts on my part, for which I mentally asked forgiveness of heaven.
“What else do you recall?” I asked, passing my hand over my face.
“Nothing else, father; I do not recollect anything else.”
“Well let a sincere repentance spring up in your heart for the sins you have just admitted, and for those which you may have forgotten; commune with yourself, humble yourself in the presence of the great act you have just accomplished. I will give you absolution. Go in peace.”
The Countess rose, smiled at me with discreet courtesy, and, resuming her ordinary voice, said in a low tone, “Till Saturday evening, then?”
I bowed as a sign of assent, but felt rather embarrassed on account of my sacred character.