Gabriel again hesitated.  His blushes increased.  Father d’Aigrigny could scarcely restrain a start of impatience and anger.

“You gave me a book,” resumed the young priest, with a great effort to control himself, “a book containing questions to be addressed by a confessor to youths, and young girls, and married women, when they present themselves at the tribunal of penance.  My God!” added Gabriel, shuddering at the remembrance.  “I shall never forget that awful moment.  It was night.  I had retired to my chamber, taking with me this book, composed, you told me, by one of our fathers, and completed by a holy bishop.[18] Full of respect, faith, and confidence, I opened those pages.  At first, I did not understand them—­afterwards I understood—­and then I was seized with shame and horror—­struck with stupor—­and had hardly strength to close, with trembling hand, this abominable volume.  I ran to you, father, to accuse myself of having involuntarily cast my eyes on those nameless pages, which, by mistake, you had placed in my hands.”

“Remember, also, my dear son,” said Father d’Aigrigny, gravely, “that I calmed your scruples, and told you that a priest, who is bound to hear everything under the seal of confession, must be able to know and appreciate everything; and that our Company imposes the task of reading this Compendium, as a classical work, upon young deacons seminarists, and priests, who are destined to be confessors.”

“I believed you, father.  In me the habit of inert obedience was so powerful, and I was so unaccustomed to independent reflection, that, notwithstanding my horror (with which I now reproached myself as with a crime), I took the volume back into my chamber, and read.  Oh, father! what a dreadful revelation of criminal fancies, guilty of guiltiest in their refinement!”

“You speak of this book in blamable terms,” skid Father d’Aigrigny, severely; “you were the victim of a too lively imagination.  It is to it that you must attribute this fatal impression, and not to an excellent work, irreproachable for its special purpose, and duly authorized by the Church.  You are not able to judge of such a production.”

“I will speak of it no more, father,” said Gabriel:  and he thus resumed:  “A long illness followed that terrible night.  Many times, they feared for my reason.  When I recovered, the past appeared to me like a painful dream.  You told me, then, father, that I was not yet ripe for certain functions; and it was then that I earnestly entreated you to be allowed to go on the American missions.  After having long refused my prayer, you at length consented.  From my childhood, I had always lived in the college or seminary, to a state of continual restraint and subjection.  By constantly holding down my head and eyes, I had lost the habit of contemplating the heavens and the splendors of nature.  But, oh! what deep, religious happiness I felt, when I found myself suddenly transported to