was about to place the brush in the hand of his grandson, when the sacristan, thinking the affair had lasted long enough, snatched the sprinkling-brush from the child, and made a sign to the bearers to carry away the coffin— which was immediately done.
'Wasn't that old beggar a slow coach?' said the beadle to his companion, as they went back to the sacristy. 'We shall hardly have time to get breakfast, and to dress ourselves for the bang-up funeral of this morning. That will be something like a dead man, that's worth the trouble. I shall shoulder my halberd in style!'
'And mount your colonel's epaulets, to throw dust in the eyes of the women that let out the chairs—eh, you old rascal!' said the other, with a sly look.
'What can I do, Capillare? When one has a fine figure, it must be seen,' answered the beadle, with a triumphant air. 'I cannot blind the women to prevent their losing their hearts!'
Thus conversing; the two men reached the sacristy. The sight of the funeral had only increased the gloom of Frances. When she entered the church, seven or eight persons, scattered about upon chairs, alone occupied the damp and icy building. One of the distributors of holy water, an old fellow with a rubicund, joyous, wine-bibbing face, seeing Frances approach the little font, said to her in a low voice: 'Abbe Dubois is not yet in his box. Be quick, and you will have the first wag of his beard.'
Though shocked at this pleasantry, Frances thanked the irreverent speaker, made devoutly the sign of the cross, advanced some steps into the church, and knelt down upon the stones to repeat the prayer, which she always offered up before approaching the tribunal of penance. Having said this prayer, she went towards a dark corner of the church, in which was an oaken confessional, with a black curtain drawn across the grated door. The places on each side were vacant; so Frances knelt down in that upon the right hand, and remained there for some time absorbed in bitter reflections.
In a few minutes, a priest of tall stature, with gray hair and a stern countenance, clad in a long black cassock, stalked slowly along one of the aisles of the church. A short, old, misshapen man, badly dressed, leaning upon an umbrella, accompanied him, and from time to time whispered in his ear, when the priest would stop to listen with a profound and respectful deference.
As they approached the confessional, the short old man, perceiving Frances on her knees, looked at the priest with an air of interrogation. 'It is she,' said the clergyman.
'Well, in two or three hours, they will expect the two girls at St. Mary's Convent. I count upon it,' said the old man.
'I hope so, for the sake of their souls,' answered the priest; and, bowing gravely, he entered the confessional. The short old man quitted the church.
This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely's that he went to the lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfully executed his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.
Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One of the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of the priest, who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of Dagobert's wife, and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful influence.
'You received my letter?' said the voice.
'Yes, father.
'Very well—I listen to you.'
'Bless me, father—for I have sinned!' said Frances.
The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert's wife answered 'amen,' as was proper, said her confider to 'It is my fault,' gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins, committed since she had received absolution.
For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal love, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantly tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible offence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life of devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm serenity of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in continual anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.
'Father,' said Frances, in a trembling voice, 'I accuse myself of omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, from whom I had been separated for many years, returned home. The joy and the agitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin.'
'What next?' said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poor woman's uneasiness.
'Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening. I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home as usual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour had passed over.'
'What next?' said the voice.
'Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week to my son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me for neglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner—whereas I had left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much.'
'Go on!' said the voice.
'Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation this morning, when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead of submitting with respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lord hath sent me—alas! I rebelled against it in my grief—and of this I accuse myself.'
'A bad week,' said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, 'a bad week—for you have always put the creature before the Creator. But proceed!'
'Alas, father!' resumed Frances, much dejected, 'I know that I am a great sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graver kind.'
'Speak!'
'My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughters of Marshal Simon. Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers, and I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they know none of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen years old. They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized, father—not even baptized!'
'They must be heathens!' cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.
'That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband are in the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty of the sins which they might commit—should we not, father?'
'Certainly,—since you take the place of those who ought to watch over their souls. The shepherd must answer for his flock,' said the voice.
'And if they should happen to be in mortal sin, father, I and my husband would be in mortal sin?'
'Yes,' said the voice; 'you take the place of their parents; and fathers and mothers are guilty of all the sins which their children commit when those sins arise from the want of a Christian education.'
'Alas, father! what am I to do? I address myself to you as I would to heaven itself. Every day, every hour, that these poor young girls remain heathens, may contribute to bring about their eternal damnation, may it not, father?' said Frances, in a tone of the deepest emotion.
'Yes,' answered the voice; 'and the weight of this terrible responsibility rests upon you and your husband; you have the charge of souls!'
'Lord, have mercy upon me!' said Frances weeping.
'You must not grieve yourself thus,' answered the voice, in a softer tone; 'happily for these unfortunates, they have met you upon the way. They, will have in you and your husband good and pious examples—for I suppose that your husband, though formerly an ungodly person, now practices his religious duties!'
'We must pray for him, father,' said Frances, sorrowfully; 'grace has not yet touched his heart. He is like my poor child, who has also not been called to holiness. Ah, father!' said Frances, drying her tears, 'these thoughts are my heaviest cross.'
'So neither your husband nor your son practises,' resumed the voice, in a tone of reflection; 'this is serious— very serious. The religious education of these two unfortunate girls has yet to begin. In your house, they will have ever before them the most deplorable examples. Take care! I have warned you. You have the charge of souls—your responsibility is immense!'
'Father, it is that which makes me wretched—I am at a loss what to do. Help me, and give me your counsels: for twenty years your voice has been to me as the voice of the Lord.'
'Well! you must agree with your husband to send these unfortunate girls to some religious house where they may be instructed.'
