ution. 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 cure," stammered a rough voice, which was making an effort
to speak low.

"I am not a cure, my friend. Say your _confiteor_, and call me father."

The man, whose face the abbe 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 cure--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 cure: I
have killed a man!"

The abbe 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 Abbe 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 wh