—­What do you mean by honest girl?

She looked at him attentively: 

—­You know very well, she said.

—­But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to be honest.

—­Was I not obliged to go to confession before?

—­Ah, I can explain it all now.  You have been washed from your sins.  That is well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again.

—­Fall where?

—­Into your sins.

—­That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many of them.

—­Many! so young!  How old are you?

—­Sixteen.

—­Sixteen; and so grown-up already.  But what are the sins that you can commit at sixteen?

—­Many.  The Cure of the Hospital has assured me so.  He said to me that I was a cup of iniquity.

—­Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated.  What sins do you commit then?

—­I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass.

—­What then?

—­Others besides.

—­What are they?

—­I do not know; there are so many.

—­Which are those that you commit by preference?  The sins which you have just related to me are infractions of the Church’s laws.  But the others ... you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing?

—­They all give me pleasure.  If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure, is it not?  If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin.

—­But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others.

—­Assuredly.  Are not all pleasures sins?

—­All those which are not innocent, yes.

—­How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so?

—­Your conscience is the best judge.

—­And when my conscience says nothing?

—­That is not a sin.

—­Well, Monsieur le Cure of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sins for which my conscience does not reproach me at all.

—­My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age to have a hardened heart.  I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, is kind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance.  What are then those great faults?

—­Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl?

—­Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some good advice.  Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition, exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are.

—­Pretty! you think me pretty?

—­Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don’t you know it?

—­Oh, no, you are not the first.  When I am passing by somewhere, or when I am taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say:  Eh, the pretty girl!  But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure to hear it.  Is that a sin too?