Then he waited. Now fancying he perceived a hand, which made a sign to him from the depths of the confessional, now failing to discover in the alcove anything more than an empty seat, a long time passed. He remained motionless, his knees glued to the wooden step, his gaze intent on the wicket, whence he awaited the outpouring of pardon, peace, refreshment, health, innocence, reconciliation with God and himself, heavenly joy, submission to the divine love, the sovereign good. At intervals he murmured tender supplications— “Monsieur le curé, father, monsieur le curé! I thirst! give me to drink, give me that which is yours to give, the water of innocence, a white robe, and wings for my poor soul. Give me penitence and pardon!” Receiving no reply, he knocked still harder at the grating, and said aloud— “Confession, I beg of you!” At last he lost patience, and rising, showered heavy blows with his dog-wood stick on the walls of the confessional, shouting— “Ho, there, monsieur le curé! Ho, there, monsieur le vicaire!” And in proportion as he raised his voice he knocked more loudly. The blows fell furiously on the confessional, causing clouds of dust to arise from it, and only evoking in reply to his violence the vibration of its worm-eaten old planks. The verger, who was sweeping out the sacristy, ran forward with his sleeves turned up on hearing the noise. When he saw the man with the stick he stopped short for a moment, and then advanced towards him with the cautious reserve common to the officials who have grown white in the service of this lowliest of police. Arrived within earshot he demanded— “What is it you want?” “I want to confess.” “Folks don’t come to confess at an hour like this.” “I want to confess.” “Be off with you!” “I want to see the curé.” “For what purpose?” “To make my confession.” “The curé can’t be seen just now.” “The senior vicaire, then.” “Nor he either. Now off you go.” “The second vicaire, the third vicaire, the fourth vicaire, the youngest vicaire.” “Be off with you.” “Ah, then! would you let me die unshriven? It’s worse than it was in '93, it seems!... Any little vicaire. How will it hurt you if I make my confession to some little vicaire not any taller than my arm? Take word to some priest that he must come to hear my confession. I’ll undertake to disclose to him a batch of sins rarer, more extraordinary, more interesting, you may take my word for it, than all those his chattering women penitents can trot out before him. You can tell him that he is wanted for a really fine confession.” “Get away now!” $1“$2”$3.bn 145.png Although he did not rejoice in the majestic stature of the verger of a rich parish, this official staff-bearer was vigorous enough. He took our poor Gestas by the shoulders and hurled him outside the doors.