occupied, as always, with getting together the necessities of life.”
“And in consequence are spiritually degraded, you mean?”
“Monsieur, you did not come to argue politics with a priest. You know my function. I render to Caesar, otherwise I do not concern myself.”
“But you don’t think I’m Caesar, do you? You can’t claim to be above politics but pick and choose your Caesar.”
“Monsieur, you came so that I could hear your confession, before your marriage to a daughter of the church. Please don’t argue, because in this matter you can’t win or lose. The case is unfamiliar to you, I know.”
“May I know your name?”
“I am Father Keravenen. Once of Saint-Sulpice. Would you care for us to begin?”
“It must be half a lifetime since I did this. It taxes the memory, half a lifetime.”
“But you are a young man still.”
“Ah yes. But the years have been crowded with incident.”
“When you were a child you were taught to examine your conscience each night. Have you left off that practice?”
“A man must sleep.”
The priest smiled sadly. “Perhaps I can help you. You are a son of the church, you have had no dealings I suppose with one heresy or the other—you have been lax perhaps, but you recognize that the church is the one true church, that it is the route to salvation?”
“If there is salvation, I can’t see any other route to it.”
“You do believe in God, Monsieur?”
Danton thought. “Yes. But … I would add a list of qualifications to that.”
“Let the one word stand, would be my advice. It is not for us to add qualifications. Your own worship, your obligations as a Catholic—you have performed them, or neglected them?”
“Refused them.”
“But those in your care—you have provided for their spiritual welfare?”
“My children are baptized.”
“Good.” The priest seemed easily encouraged. He looked up. The keenness of his eyes took Danton by surprise.
“Shall we survey the field of your possible derelictions? Murder?”
“Not as such.”
“You can say this in full confidence?”
“This is a sacrament of the church, is it not? It is not a debate in the National Convention.”
“Point taken,” said the priest. “And the sins of the flesh?”
“Yes, most of those. The common ones, you know. Adultery.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t keep a diary, Father, like some lovesick girl.”
“You are sorry for it?”
“The sin? Yes.”
“Because you see how it offends God?”
“Because my wife is dead.”
“What you express is imperfect contrition—that which arises from our human apprehension of punishment and pain—rather than that perfect contrition which arises from the love of God. Nevertheless, it is all that the church requires.”
“I know the theory, Father.”
“And you have a firm purpose of amendment?”
“I intend to be faithful to my second wife.”
“I might now come to other matters—to envy, perhaps, to anger, pride …”
“Ah, the Deadly Sins. Put me down for the whole seven. No, leave out sloth. Put in rather that I have been too diligent. A bit more sloth, and I might not have been so sinful in other directions.”
“And then, calumny—”
“That’s the politician’s stock-in-trade, Father.”
“Again, Monsieur, when you were a child you were taught of the two sins against the Holy Ghost: presumption and despair.”
“My tendency these days is more towards despair.”
