Only two days more.  Madame Joubert put them through the rehearsal, a most important part of the preparation, almost as important as catechism—­how to enter the church, how to hold the candle, how to advance, how to kneel, retire—­everything, in fact.

Only one day more, the quietest, most devotional day of all.  Pupasse lost her sins!

Of course every year the same accident happened to some one.  But it was a new accident to Pupasse.  And such a long list!

The commotion inside that retreat!  Pupasse’s nasal whine, carrying her lament without any mystery to the outside garden.  Such searching of pockets, rummaging of corners, microscopic examination of the floor!  Such crimination and recrimination, protestation, asseveration, assurances, backed by divine and saintly invocations!  Pupasse accused companion after companion of filching her sins, which each after each would violently deny, producing each her own list from her own pocket,—­proof to conviction of innocence, and, we may say, of guilt also.

Pupasse declared they had niched it to copy, because her list was the longest and most complete.  She could not go to confession without her sins; she could not go to communion without confession.  The tears rolled down her long thin nose unchecked, for she never could remember to use her handkerchief until reminded by Madame Joubert.

She had committed it to memory, as all the others had done theirs; but how was she to know without the list if she had not forgotten something?  And to forget one thing in a general confession they knew was a mortal sin.

“I shall tell Madame Joubert!  I shall tell Madame Joubert!”

“Ma chere!’” whispered the little ones outside.  “Oh, but look at them! Elles font les quatre cents coups!” which is equivalent to “cutting up like the mischief.”

And with reason.  As if such an influx of the world upon them at this moment were not sufficient of itself to damn them.  But to tell Madame Joubert!  With all their dresses made and ready, wreaths, veils, candles, prayer-books, picture-cards, mother-of-pearl prayer-beads, and festival breakfasts with admiring family and friends prepared.  Tell Madame Joubert!  She would simply cancel it all.  In a body they chorused: 

“But, Pupasse!”

“Chere Pupasse!”

“Voyons, Pupasse!”

“I assure you, Pupasse!”

“On the cross, Pupasse!”

“Ah, Pupasse!”

“We implore you, Pupasse!”

The only response—­tears, and “I shall tell Madame Joubert.”

Consultations, caucuses, individual appeals, general outbursts.  Pupasse stood in the corner.  Curiously, she always sought refuge in the very sanctum of punishment, her face hidden in her bended arms, her hoops standing out behind, vouchsafing nothing but tears, and the promise to tell Madame Joubert.  And three o’clock approaching!  And Madame Joubert imminent!  But Pupasse really could not go to confession without her sins.  They all recognized that; they were reasonable, as they assured her.