Théodule Sabot’s Confession
Whenever Sabot came into the public-house of Martinville, a roar of laughter went up in anticipation. The fellow was as good as a play. He had no love for parsons, not he! He ate them alive.
Sabot (Théodule), master joiner, represented the radical party at Martinville. He was a tall thin man with a sly grey eye, hair brushed on to his temples, and a small thin-lipped mouth. When he said, “Our holy father the washout” in a certain way he had, the whole company yelled with laughter. He was careful to work on Sunday while Mass was going on. Every year he killed his pig on the Monday in Holy Week, so as to have black puddings till Easter, and when the rector passed he always said merrily:
“There’s the fellow who’s just been swallowing his God out of a pint-pot.”
The priest, a stout man, also very tall, feared him for his chaff, which won him many supporters. The reverend Maritime had a diplomatic mind, and dearly loved a crafty scheme. For six years the struggle went on between these two, secret, bitter, and incessant. Sabot was on the town council, and it was thought that he would be made mayor, which would certainly constitute the definite defeat of the Church.
The elections were about to take place, and the religious party in Martinville trembled for its security. One morning the rector went off to Rouen, telling his servant that he was going to the archbishop’s palace.
Two days later he returned, looking joyful and triumphant. Next day everyone knew that the chancel of the church was to be restored. His Lordship had given six hundred francs towards it out of his own pocket. All the old deal stalls were to be removed and replaced by new ones of oak. It was an important piece of carpentry, and by the evening everyone was talking of it.
Théodule Sabot did not laugh.
When he walked through the village next day, neighbours, friends and enemies alike, all asked him jestingly:
“Is it you who’s to do the church choir?”
He found nothing to answer, but his heart was black with rage.
“It’s a fine job,” they added unkindly. “It’s worth a good two or three hundred.”
Two days later it was known that the work of repair was to be entrusted to Célestin Chambrelan, the joiner at Percheville. Then the rumour was denied, and then it was announced that all the church pews were to be replaced as well. It would cost quite two thousand francs, and they had appealed to the government for the money. There was great excitement.
Théodule Sabot could not sleep. Never, within the memory of man, had a local joiner executed such a task. Then the story ran that the rector was heartbroken at giving this work to a joiner who was a stranger to the village, but that Sabot’s opinions were a barrier that prevented the contract from being entrusted to him.
Sabot knew it. At nightfall he betook himself to the rectory. The servant told him that the rector was at church. He went there.
Two lay sisters, sour old spinsters, were decorating the altar for the month of St. Mary, under the direction of the priest. He stood in the middle of the choir, protruding his enormous stomach, and was superintending the labours of the women who, perched on chairs, were arranging flowers round the shrine.
Sabot felt uneasy there, as though he had entered the house of his deadliest foe, but his greed for gain spurred him on. He came up cap in hand, taking no notice of the lay sisters, who remained motionless upon their chairs, stupefied with amazement.
“Good morning, parson,” he stammered.
“Good morning, joiner,” replied the parson without turning his head, engrossed in the work at the altar.
Sabot, who had rather lost his bearings, found nothing more to say. After a pause, however, he added:
“You are making preparations?”
“Yes,” replied Maritime, “we are drawing near to the month of St. Mary.”
“Quite, quite,” said Sabot, and was silent.
He was by now anxious to leave without speaking at all, but a glance at the choir restrained him. He saw that there were sixteen stalls to be repaired, six on the right and eight on the left, the vestry door occupying two places. Sixteen oak stalls were to be had for three hundred francs at the outside, and with a little good management a clever workman could make a clear two hundred francs on the job. He managed to stammer:
“I’ve come for the work.”
The rector looked surprised.
“What work?” he asked.
“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, now quite desperate.
At that the priest turned and stared at him, saying:
“Do you mean the repairs to the choir of my church?”
At the tone adopted by the priest, Théodule Sabot felt a shiver run up his spine, and once more he suffered a violent longing to slink away. But he
