Fools!  And when the priest succumbs and their shame is noised abroad, they make a great uproar and complain to all the echoes, instead of bowing their head and humbly saying:  mea culpa.

What? silly fool, you cast the modesty of your young wife and the virginity of your daughter as food for that envious celibate, you leave them alone in the mysterious tete-a-tete of the confessional, with no obstacle between his burning lust and the object of that lost, between those mouths which speak so low![1]

What will stop them?  Duty?  Virtue?  His duty to himself?  Laughable obstacles.  Fragile plank on which you place your honour.

Her own virtue?  Trust not to it overmuch, for he will know how to lead her to the will of his appetite.  He will form her in such a way that she will pass by all the roads by which he will wish to guide her.  It is a gate which he will contrive sooner or later to force, however it may be bolted, however it may be guarded by those sleepy gaolers which we call Principles.

The Confessional!  Marvellous invention of greedy curiosity, satanic work of some hoary sinner!  Hallowed goad of concupiscence, blessed antechamber which leads to the alcove, mysterious retreat where the priest sits between husband and wife, listens to their private talk and stands by, panting at all their excesses.  Refuge more secret than the best padded boudoir.  Formidable entrenchment sacred to all!  What jealous lover would dare to lift that curtain of serge behind which are murmured so many secret confidences?

It is there that the artless virgin utters her first confessions; there, that the plighted maid reveals the beatings of her heart; there, that the blushing bride unveils the secrets of the nuptial couch.

He, the man of God, he listens ... he collects all their voluptuous nothings and out of them creates worlds.  Do you see him give ear?  His face has kept its sanctimonious expression, but the fire gleams forth beneath his drooping eye-lid.  He is leaning near, as near as possible to those stammering lips....  The penitent is silent.  What! already? everything said already?  Oh! that is not enough.  She has passed too quickly over certain faults the remembrance of which covers her forehead with a blush.  He is not satisfied.  He wishes to know further.  He reproves gently, “Why hesitate?  God is full of pity; but in order that the pardon may be complete, the confession must be complete,” and anew he questions, he presses ... his temples throb, his blood boils, his hands burn, the demon of the flesh completely embraces him.

Come, incautious girl, speak, explain, give details, and by the confession of your pleasant faults, plunge into ecstasy the ruttish confessor.

[Footnote 1:  In the confessionals of the Church of St. Gudule at Brussels and in those of the majority of Belgian churches an opening may be seen contrived in the screen, through which it is easy for mouths to meet.]