“Why—­in the confessional.”

“In—­that box, over there in the corner?  The fact is—­is—­that it does not suit me, your box.”

“How is that?”

“Seeing that—­seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am rather hard of hearing.”

The cure was very affable and said: 

“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor.  We will have it just the two of us, tete-a-tete.  Does that suit you?”

“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”

“Well, then, to-morrow after the days work, at six o’clock.”

“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on.  To-morrow, monsieur le cure.  Whoever draws back is a skunk!”

And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily with a clap that resounded through the church.

Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day.  He had a feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has to be drawn.  The thought recurred to him at every moment:  “I must go to confession this evening.”  And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming dread of the divine mystery.

As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage.  The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked along a little path.  He appeared radiant and greeted him with a good-natured laugh.

“Well, here we are!  Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat you.”

And Sabot preceded him into the house.  He faltered: 

“If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter at once.”

The cure replied: 

“I am at your service.  I have my surplice here.  One minute and I will listen to you.”

The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head, watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds.  The priest beckoned to him and said: 

“Kneel down on this cushion.”

Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel.  He stuttered: 

“Is it necessary?”

But the abbe had become dignified.

“You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”

And Sabot knelt down.

“Repeat the confiteor,” said the priest.

“What is that?” asked Sabot.

“The confiteor.  If you do not remember it, repeat after me, one by one, the words I am going to say.”  And the cure repeated the sacred prayer, in a slow tone, emphasizing the words which the carpenter repeated after him.  Then he said: 

“Now make your confession.”

But Sabot was silent, not knowing where to begin.  The abbe then came to his aid.

“My child, I will ask you questions, since you don’t seem familiar with these things.  We will take, one by one, the commandments of God.  Listen to me and do not be disturbed.  Speak very frankly and never fear that you may say too much.