“Yes, your reverence.”
The rector crossed his arms on his broad paunch, and said as though thunderstruck with surprise:
“And you … you … you, Sabot … come here and ask me that! … You … the only infidel in my parish. … Why, it would be a scandal, a public scandal. His Lordship would reprimand me; I might even lose the living.”
He paused for a few seconds to regain his breath, then proceeded more calmly:
“I quite understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance entrusted to a joiner from a neighbouring parish. But I cannot do otherwise, unless … but no … that’s impossible. You’d never agree to it, and without that … never.”
Sabot was now looking at the ranks of pews running right to the west door. Mercy! was all that to be restored?
“What must you have?” he asked. “It can’t do any harm telling.”
“I must have an overwhelming proof of your good intentions,” replied the priest firmly.
“I don’t say,” murmured Sabot, “I don’t say but what an understanding mightn’t be come to.”
“You must communicate publicly at High Mass next Sunday,” announced the rector.
The joiner felt himself growing pale and, without answering, asked:
“And the pews, are they all to be done too?”
“Yes,” replied the rector with emphasis, “but later on.”
“Well, I don’t say,” replied Sabot. “I don’t say. I’m no atheist, I’m not; I’ve no quarrel with religion. What upsets me is practising it, but in a case like this I dare say you’d not find me obstinate.”
The lay helpers had descended from their chairs and were hidden behind the altar; they were listening, livid with emotion.
The rector, perceiving that he was victorious, became familiar and jolly:
“Splendid! Splendid! Now that’s very sensible of you, very sensible. Wait and see.”
Sabot smiled uncomfortably, and asked:
“Can’t this here communion be put off for a bit, just a little bit?”
But the priest resumed his severe expression.
“From the moment that the contract is given to you, I must be certain of your conversion,” he said, then continued more mildly:
“You’d better come and confess tomorrow, for I shall have to examine you at least twice.”
“Twice? …” repeated Sabot.
“Yes,” said the priest with a smile. “You see, you need a thorough cleaning, a complete wash. I expect you tomorrow.”
“And where’ll you do it?” asked the joiner in dismay.
“Why … in the confessional.”
“What? … In that box over there in the corner? Now look here … I don’t like your box a bit.”
“Why not?”
“Why … why, I’m not used to it. And I’m a bit hard of hearing too.”
The rector showed himself accommodating.
“Very well. Come to my house, to my study. We’ll get it done there, just a little chat. Does that suit you?”
“Oh, that’ll suit me all right, but as for that box of yours, no!”
“Well, tomorrow then, after the day’s work, at six o’clock.”
“Right-o, right you are. That’s settled. See you tomorrow, rector, and damn the man who goes back on a bargain.”
He held out his huge rough hand, on which the priest let his own fall with a loud smack. The echo ran along the vaulted roof and died in the distance behind the organ pipes.
Throughout the following day Théodule Sabot felt uncomfortable. He suffered an apprehension very like the fear one suffers before having a tooth out. At every moment the thought flashed across his mind: “I’ve got to confess this evening.” And his harried soul, the soul of a not very strongly convinced atheist, was sorely troubled before the vague powerful terror of the divine mystery.
As soon as his work was over he went off to the rectory. The rector was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked up and down a small path. He seemed delighted to see him and welcomed him with a hearty laugh.
“Ah—here we are, then! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot; no one will eat you.”
Sabot entered the house first.
“If it’s all the same to you,” he faltered, “I’d like to see my little affair through at once like.”
“At your service,” replied the rector. “My surplice is here. One minute, and I’m ready to listen to you.”
The joiner, so distressed that his mind was a blank, watched him put on the white garment with its pleated folds. The priest signed to him:
“Kneel down on that hassock.”
But Sabot remained standing, ashamed at having to kneel.
“Does it do any good?” he stammered.
But the priest had become majestic.
“Only upon the knees,” he said, “may the tribunal of repentance be approached.”
Sabot knelt.
“Recite the Confiteor,” said the priest.
“Eh? …” asked Sabot.
“The Confiteor. If you no longer know it, repeat one by one the words I am about to utter.”
And the rector pronounced the sacred prayer in a slow voice, scanning each word for the joiner, who repeated it after him.
“Now confess,” he said.
But Sabot said nothing, not knowing where to begin.
Then the reverend Maritime came to his aid.
“Since you seem to be rather out of practice, my child, I will question you. We will take the commandments of God one by one. Listen to me and do not distress yourself. Speak very frankly and never be afraid of confessing too much.
“ ‘Thou shalt worship one God alone and adore Him with all thy heart.’ Have you loved anyone or anything as much as God? Have you loved Him with all your soul, with all your heart, with all the strength of your love?”
Sabot perspired with the effort of thought.
“No,” he replied. “Oh, no, your reverence. I love the good God as much as I can. Oh, Lord! Yes, I love Him all right. As for saying I don’t love my children, no. I can’t say that. As for saying if I had to choose between them and the good God, as for that I won’t say. As for saying if I had to lose a hundred francs for love of the good God, as for that I won’t say. But I love Him all right, that’s quite certain. I love Him just the same.”
“You must love Him more than anything,” said the priest gravely.
And Sabot, full of goodwill, declared:
“I’ll
