"I want you to save me. Have pity on me. If you do not come to my
assistance, I am lost."
He looked at her, asking himself whether she was not mad, and then said:
"What can I do for you?"
He was a tall, and somewhat stout young man, with full, pendulous
cheeks, dark, with a carefully shaven face, a good-looking city curate
belonging to a wealthy district, and accustomed to rich penitents.
"Hear my confession, and advise me, sustain me, tell me what I am to
do."
He replied: "I hear confessions every Saturday, from three to six
o'clock."
Having seized his arm, she gripped it tightly as she repeated: "No, no,
no; at once, at once! You must. He is here, in the church. He is waiting
for me."
"Who is waiting for you?" asked the priest.
"A man who will ruin me, who will carry me off, if you do not save me.
I cannot flee from him. I am too weak--too weak! Oh, so weak, so weak!"
She fell at his feet sobbing: "Oh, have pity on me, father! Save me, in
God's name, save me!"
She held him by his black gown lest he should escape, and he with
uneasiness glanced around, lest some malevolent or devout eye should see
this woman fallen at his feet. Understanding at length that he could not
escape, he said: "Get up; I have the key of the confessional with me."
And fumbling in his pocket he drew out a ring full of keys, selected
one, and walked rapidly towards the little wooden cabin, dust holes of
the soul into which believers cast their sins. He entered the center
door, which he closed behind him, and Madame Walter, throwing herself
into the narrow recess at the side, stammered fervently, with a
passionate burst of hope: "Bless me father, for I have sinned."
Du Roy, having taken a turn round the choir, was passing down the left
aisle. He had got half-way when he met the stout, bald gentleman still
walking quietly along, and said to himself: "What the deuce is that
customer doing here?"
The promenader had also slackened his pace, and was looking at George
with an evident wish to speak to him. When he came quite close he bowed,
and said in a polite fashion: "I beg your pardon, sir, for troubling
you, but can you tell me when this church was built?"
Du Roy replied: "Really, I am not quite certain. I think within the last
twenty or five-and-twenty years. It is, besides, the first time I ever
was inside it."
"It is the same with me. I have never seen it."
The journalist, whose interest was awakened, remarked: "It seems to me
that you are going over it very carefully. You are studying it in
detail."
The other replied, with resignation: "I am not examining it; I am
waiting for my wife, who made an appointment with me here, and who is
very much behind time." Then, after a few moments' silence, he added:
"It is fearfully hot outside."
Du Roy looked at him, and all at once fancied that he resembled
Forestier.
"You are from the country?" said he, inquiringly.
"Yes, from Rennes. And you, sir, is it out of curiosity that you entered
this church?"
"No, I am expecting a lady," and bowing, the journalist walked away,
with a smile on his lips.
Approaching the main entrance, he saw the poor woman still on her knees,
and still praying. He thought: "By Jove! she keeps hard at it." He was
no longer moved, and no longer pitied her.
He passed on, and began quietly to walk up the right-hand aisle to find
Madame Walter again. He marked the place where he had left her from a
distance, astonished at not seeing her. He thought he had made a mistake
in the pillar; went on as far as the end one, and then returned. She had
gone, then. He was surprised and enraged. Then he thought she might be
looking for him, and made the circuit of the church again. Not finding
her, he returned, and sat down on the chair she had occupied, hoping she
would rejoin him there, and waited. Soon a low murmur of voices aroused
his attention. He had not seen anyone in that part of the church. Whence
came this whispering? He rose to see, and perceived in the adjacent
chapel the doors of the confessional. The skirt of a dress issuing from
one of these trailed on the pavement. He approached to examine the
woman. He recognized her. She was confessing.
He felt a violent inclination to take her by the shoulders and to pull
her out of the box. Then he thought: "Bah! it is the priest's turn now;
it will be mine to-morrow." And he sat down quietly in front of the
confessional, biding his time, and chuckling now over the adventure. He
waited a long time. At length Madame Walter rose, turned round, saw him,
and came up to him. Her expression was cold and severe, "Sir," said she,
"I beg of you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come to
my house alone. You will not be received. Farewell."
And she walked away with a dignified bearing. He let her depart, for one
of his principles was never to force matters. Then, as the priest,
somewhat upset, issued in turn from his box, he walked up to him, and,
looking him straight in the eyes, growled to his face: "If you did not
wear a petticoat, what a smack you would get across your ugly chops."
After which he turned on his heels and went out of the church, whistling
between his teeth. Standing under the porch, the stout gentleman, with
the hat on his head and his hands behind his back, tired of waiting, was
scanning the broad squares and all the streets opening onto it. As Du
Roy passed him they bowed to one another.
The journalist, finding himself at liberty, went to the office of the
_Vie Francaise_. As soon as he entered he saw by the busy air of the
messengers that something out of the common was happening, and at once
went into the manager's room. Daddy Walter, in a state of nervous
excitement, was standing up dictating an article in broken sentences;
issuing orders to the reporters, who surrounded him, between two
paragraphs; giving instructions to Boisrenard; and opening letters.
As Du Roy came in, the governor uttered a cry of joy: "Ah! how lucky;
here is Pretty-boy!" He stopped short, somewhat confused, and excused
himself: "I beg your pardon for speaking like that, but I am very much
disturbed by certain events. And then I hear my wife and daughter
speaking of you as Pretty-boy from morning till night, and have ended by
falling into the habit myself. You are not offended?"
"Not at all!" said George, laughingly; "there is nothing in that
nickname to displease me."
Daddy Walter went on: "Very well, then, I christen you Pretty-boy, like
everyone else. Well, the fact is, great things are taking place. The
Ministry has been overthrown by a vote of three hundred and ten to a
hundred and two. Our prorogation is again postponed--postponed to the
Greek calends, and here we are at the twenty-eighth of July. Spain is
angry about the Morocco business, and it is that which has overthrown
Durand de l'Aine and his following. We are right in the swim. Marrot is
entrusted with the formation of a new Cabinet. He takes General Boutin
d'Acre as minister of war, and our friend Laroche-Mathieu for foreign
affairs. We are going to become an official organ. I am writing a
leader, a simple declaration of our principles, pointing out the line to
be followed by the Ministry." The old boy smiled, and continued: "The
line they intend following, be it understood. But I want something
interesting about Morocco; an actuality; a sensational article;
something or other. Find one for me."
Du Roy reflected for a moment, and then replied: "I have the very thing
for you. I will give you a study of the political situation of the whole
of our African colony, with Tunis on the left, Algeria in the middle,
and Morocco on the right; the history of the races inhabiting this vast
extent of territory; and the narrative of an excursion on the frontier
of Morocco to the great oasis of Figuig, where no European has
penetrated, and which is the cause of the present conflict. Will that
suit you?"
"Admirably!" exclaimed Daddy Walter. "And the title?"
"From Tunis to Tangiers."
"Splendid!"
Du Roy went off to search the files of the _Vie Francaise_ for his first
article, "The Recollections of a Chasseur d'Afrique," which, rebaptized,
touched up, and modified, would do admirably, since it dealt with
colonial policy, the Algerian population, and an excursion in the
province of Oran. In three-quarters of an hour it was rewritten, touched
up, and brought to date, with a flavor of realism, and praises of the
new Cabinet. The manager, having read the article, said: "It is capital,
capital, capital! You are an invaluable fellow. I congratulate you."
And Du Roy went home to dinner delighted with his day's work, despite
the check at the Church of the Trinity, for he felt the battle won. His
wife was anxiously waiting for him. She exclaimed, as soon as she saw
him: "Do you know that Laroche-Mathieu is Minister for Foreign Affairs?"
"Yes; I have just written an article on Algeria, in connection with
it."
"What?"
"You know, the first we wrote together, 'The Recollections of a Chasseur
d'Afrique,' revised and corrected for the occasion."
She smiled, saying: "Ah, that is very good!" Then, after a few moments'
reflection, she continued: "I was thinking--that continuation you were
to have written then, and that you--put off. We might set to work on it
now. It would make a nice series, and very appropriate to the
situation."
He replied, sitting down to table: "Exactly, and there is nothing in the
way of it now that cuckold of a Forestier is dead."
She said quietly, in a dry and hurt tone: "That joke is more than out of
place, and I beg of you to put an end to it. It has lasted too long
already."
He was about to make an ironical answer, when a telegram was brought
him, containing these words: "I had lost my senses. Forgive me, and come
at four o'clock to-morrow to the Parc Monceau."
He understood, and with heart suddenly filled with joy, he said to his
wife, as he slipped the message into his pocket: "I will not do so any
more, darling; it was stupid, I admit."