Meanwhile, Don Rocco was leaning over his paper, wondering still at what he had seen, unable in his unsuspiciousness to draw any inferences, listening to the steps and the noises in the next room with a torpid uneasiness that had about the same resemblance to fear as the intelligence of Don Rocco himself had to understanding. “’You will understand later,’” he repeated to himself.  “What am I to understand?  That he knows where the money is?” He kept it in a box in his bed-chamber, but there were only two ten-franc pieces, and Don Rocco reflected with satisfaction that the new wine was not yet sold, and that that money at least was safe from the clutches of the Moro.

It did not appear as if the latter threatened violence.  “At the worst I should lose twenty francs,” concluded Don Rocco, seeking refuge in his philosophical and Christian indifference to money.  He mentally abandoned the twenty francs to their destiny and sought to concentrate his thoughts on the sacred text:  Nemo potest duobus dominis servire.  At the same moment he seemed to hear, between the hasty steps of the Moro, a heavy, dull thud from a greater distance, as of a door being broken open; then the bang of a chair knocked down in the kitchen; then still another distant noise.  The Moro entered the sitting-room and violently closed the door behind him.

“Here I am, Don Rocco,” said he.  “Have you also finished?”

“Now is the time,” thought the priest, who immediately forgot everything but the presence of this man.

“Not finished yet,” he answered.  “But I will finish after you have gone.  What do you wish?”

The Moro took a seat opposite him and crossed his arms on the table.

“I am living a bad life, sir,” said he.  “The life of a dog and not of a man.”

At this Don Rocco, although he had resigned himself to the worst, felt his heart expand.  He answered severely, and with his eyes cast down:  “You can change, my son, you can change.”

“That’s why I am here, Don Rocco,” said the other.  “I want to make confession.  Now, at once,” he added when he saw that the priest remained silent.

Don Rocco began to wink and to squirm somewhat.

“Very well,” said he, still with his eyes cast down.  “We can talk about it now, but the confession can come later.  You can return for it to-morrow.  It requires a little preparation.  And it must be seen whether you have received proper instruction.”

The Moro immediately fired off, with all placidity and sweetness, three or four sacrilegious oaths against God and the sacraments, as if he were reciting an Ave, and drew the conclusion that he knew as much about it as a member of the clergy.

“There, there, you see!” said Don Rocco, squirming more than ever.  “You are beginning badly, my son.  You want to confess, and you blaspheme!”

“Oh, you mustn’t notice little things like that,” answered the Moro.  “I assure you that the Lord doesn’t bother about it.  It is a habit, so to speak, of the tongue, nothing more.”