It happened that our _curé_ of Saint-Étienne was a jolly good fellow, somewhat given to wine-bibbing, and much given to Rabelaisian stories. He was also hail-fellow-well-met with Pierre, and Pierre, like most of the young men of France, prided himself upon his entire freedom from the "superstitious." Père Duhaut lived by teaching and preaching. In France the church sacrament of marriage cannot be performed unless both the contracting parties furnish certificates of having made confession within three weeks. To secure his certificate it would be necessary for Pierre to confess to the _curé_ of Saint-Étienne, Père Duhaut. "_I_ confess to Duhaut!" he laughed in our house. "I'll be--what's-his-named first. Old Duhaut might as well confess to me. I shall simply give him six francs and get my certificate without any more ado, just as the other fellows get theirs." That very afternoon Père Duhaut took tea with us, and Émile was mean enough to betray Pierre's intentions. "We'll see," said our _curé_. The next day Pierre passed our windows. He bowed gayly, and called up that he was going for his six francs' worth of ante-nuptial absolution. An hour later he passed again, but he did not look up. In the evening Père Duhaut came, bursting with laughter. "Ask Pierre how he got his certificate," he guffawed. Then he told us the story. Pierre, it seems, had offered the six francs, which offer the confessor had rejected with scorn. "In to the confessional," he cried, "and make your confession like a penitent!" "I'll make it fifteen," grinned Pierre. "Not for a thousand. In! _in_!" "Come, now, Duhaut, this is all humbug. You know I'm not penitent, and I'll be---- if I'll confess to you." Without more words, the burly priest seized the recalcitrant and grabbed him by the neck, trying to force him into the confession-box. Pierre resisted, and, as the _curé_ told us bursting with laughter, the two wrestled and waltzed half around the church. Finally Pierre was brought to his knees. "_Eh bien, allez_! What am I to confess?" he grumbled. "Every sin you have committed since your last confession." How malicious was Père Duhaut in this! for he knew Pierre had not kept the observances of the Church since he left home at seventeen, and had not been an anchorite either. "I'll make it an even hundred," begged the now exasperated yet humbled Pierre. "Come, now, do be reasonable; that's a jolly old boy." "Confess! confess!" roared the confessor, dealing the kneeling impenitent a sounding cuff on the ear. "Ask Pierre how he got his certificate," roared Père Duhaut. "_Demandez-lui! Demandez-lui!_" But we never did.