A male penitent! a rare and exceptional thing at Saint Médard. But,
distinguishing by the red light of the lamp hanging from the roof of the
chapel the short white jacket and the heavy nailed shoes of the kneeling
man, the Abbé Faber believed him to be some workman who had kept his
rustic faith and his early habits of religious observance. Without doubt
the confession that he was about to hear would be as stupid as that of
the cook of the Rue Monge, who, after having accused himself of petty
thefts, exclaimed loudly against a single word of restitution. The
priest even smiled to himself as he remembered the formal confession of
one of the inhabitants of the faubourg, who came to ask for a billet of
confession that he might marry. "I have neither killed or robbed. Ask me
about the rest." And so the vicar entered very tranquilly into his
confessional, and, after having taken a copious pinch of snuff, opened
without emotion the little curtain of green serge which closed the
wicket.
"Monsieur le curé," stammered a rough voice, which was making an effort
to speak low.
"I am not a curé, my friend. Say your _confiteor_, and call me father."
The man, whose face the abbé could not see among the shadows, stumbled
through the prayer, which he seemed to have great difficulty in
recalling, and he began again in a hoarse whisper:
"Monsieur le curé--no--my father--excuse me if I do not speak properly,
but I have not been to confession for twenty-five years--no, not since I
quitted the country--you know how it is--a man in Paris, and yet I have
not been worse than other people, and I have said to myself, 'God must
be a good sort of fellow.' But to-day what I have on my conscience is
too heavy to carry alone, and you must hear me, monsieur le curé: I
have killed a man!"
The abbé half rose from his seat. A murderer! There was no longer any
question of his mind wandering from the duties of his office, of half
annoyance at the garrulity of the old women, to whom he listened with a
half attentive ear, and whom he absolved in all confidence. A murderer!
That head which was so near his had conceived and planned such a crime!
Those hands, crossed on the confessional, were perhaps still stained
with blood! In his trouble, perhaps not unmixed with a certain amount of
fear, the Abbé Faber could only speak mechanically.
"Confess yourself, my son. The mercy of God is infinite."
"Listen to my whole story," said the man, with a voice trembling with
profound grief. "I am a workingman, and I came to Paris more than twenty
years ago with a fellow-countryman, a companion from childhood. We
robbed birds'-nests, and we learned to read in school together--almost a
brother, sir. He was called Philip; I am called Jack, myself. He was a
fine big fellow; I have always been heavy and ill-formed. There was
never a better workman than he--while I am only a 'botcher'--and so
generous and good-natured, wearing his heart on his sleeve. I was proud
to be his friend, to walk by his side--proud when he clapped me on the
back and called me a clumsy fellow. I loved him because I admired him,
in fact. Once here, what an opportunity! We worked together for the same
employer, but he left me alone in the evenings more than half the time.
He preferred to amuse himself with his companions--natural enough, at
his age. He loved pleasure, he was free, he had no responsibilities. All
this was impossible for me. I was forced to save my money, for at that
time I had an invalid mother in the country, and I sent her all my
savings. As for me, I stayed at the fruiterer's where I lodged, and who
kept a lodging-house for masons. Philip did not dine there; he used to
go somewhere else, and, to tell the truth, the dinners were not
particularly good. But the fruiterer was a widow, far from happy, and I
saw that my payments were of help to her; and then, to be frank, I fell
at once in love with her daughter. Poor Catherine! You will soon know,
monsieur le curé, what came from it all. I was there three years
without daring to tell her of the love I had for her. I have told you
that I am not a good workman, and the little that I gained hardly
sufficed for me and for the support of my mother. There could be no
thought of marrying. At last my good mother left this world for a
better. I was somewhat less pressed for money, and I began to save, and
when it seemed to me that I had enough to begin with, I told Catherine
of my love. She said nothing at first--neither yes nor no. Well, I knew
that no one would fall upon my neck; I am not attractive. In the mean
time Catherine consulted her mother, who thought well of me as a steady
workman, as a good fellow, and the marriage was decided upon. Ah, I had
some happy weeks! I saw that Catherine barely accepted me, and that she
was by no means carried away with me; but as she had a good heart, I
hoped that she would love me some day--I would make her love me. As a
matter of course, I told everything to Philip, whom I saw every day at
the work-yard, and as Catherine and I were engaged, I wanted him to meet
her. Perhaps you have already guessed the end, monsieur le curé. Philip
was handsome, lively, good-tempered--everything that I was not; and
without attempting it, innocently enough, he fascinated Catherine. Ah,
Catherine had a frank and honest heart, and as soon as she recognized
what had happened she at once told me everything. Ah, I can never forget
that moment! It was Catherine's birthday, and in honor of it I had
bought a little cross of gold which I had arranged in a box with cotton.
We were alone in the back shop, and she had just brought me my soup. I
took my box from my pocket, and, opening it, I showed her the jewel.
Then she burst into tears.
[Illustration]
"'Forgive me, Jack,' she said, 'and keep that for her whom you will
marry. As for me, I can never become your wife. I love another--I love
Philip.'