Women -- France -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction; Working class women -- France -- Fiction
Soon the confessional became a sort of sacred, idolized rendezvous for
Germinie's thoughts. Every day it was her first idea, the theme of her
first prayer. Throughout the day, she was kneeling there as in a dream;
and while she was about her work it was constantly before her eyes, with
its oaken frame with fillets of gold, its pediment in the shape of a
winged angel's head, its green curtain with the motionless folds, and
the mysterious darkness on both sides. It seemed to her that now her
whole life centred there, and that every hour tended thither. She lived
through the week looking forward to that longed-for, prayed-for,
promised day. On Thursday, she began to be impatient; she felt, in the
redoubling of her blissful agony, the material drawing near, as it were,
of the blessed Saturday evening; and when Saturday came and
mademoiselle's dinner had been hastily served and her work done, she
would make her escape and run to Notre-Dame de Lorette, hurrying to the
penitential stool as to a lover's rendezvous. Her fingers dipped in holy
water and a genuflexion duly made, she would glide over the flags,
between the rows of chairs, as softly as a cat steals across a carpeted
floor. With bent head, almost crawling, she would go noiselessly forward
in the shadow of the side aisles, until she reached the mysterious,
veiled confessional, where she would pause and await her turn, absorbed
in the emotion of suspense.
The young priest who confessed her, encouraged her frequent confessions.
He was not sparing of time or attention or charity. He allowed her to
talk at great length and tell him, with many words, of all her petty
troubles. He was indulgent to the diffuseness of a suffering soul, and
permitted her to pour out freely her most trivial afflictions. He
listened while she set forth her anxieties, her longings, her troubles;
he did not repel or treat with scorn any portion of the confidences of a
servant who spoke to him of all the most delicate, secret concerns of
her existence, as one would speak to a mother and a physician.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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