The cavalier, passing the church portals, went straight up to this presbytery and knocked on its door. He was a little pinchbeck in seeming, like the candlesticks--eloquent somehow of polish without and cheap metal within. He was rather short than tall, neatly built, with very black eyebrows, and in his face a pert insolence suggestive of a popular _café-chanteur’s_. Perfumed, self-assured, and brilliantly veneered, M. la Coque was able to pass with the vulgar for a very complete gentleman. Women, who alone in nature exceed their lords in the gorgeousness of their plumage, found his fine colouring vastly attractive: Fanchette, we know, found it irresistible. After a short interval the door was opened by Gaspare, the sacristan, who was also general servitor to the meagre household. He was a snuffy old fellow, hoarse-spoken, and with a leery acquisitive eye. He greeted the visitor, with an air as of being on a footing of sly pleasantry with him. “Ha, signore! What plenary indulgence now for what mischief? Is the market closed to your worship in Parma, that you must come all the way here to get relief?” La Coque pushed the old man within and closed the door after them. “Coquin!” he whispered: “be quiet! The indulgence I ask is at your disposal and worth to you just a silver ducat. Come along now. Is his reverence safe bestowed?” “What wickedness is forward? I don’t budge until I know.” “Hark to that chink, Gaspare! A double silver ducat to line your old breeches withal! Where is his reverence, I say?” “Where the last trump wouldn’t disturb him. In the garden, reading.” “Excellent. When the bell rings for confession I will go and be his substitute.” The sacristan fairly gasped in his breath. “What, you will! Do you understand that at the first word the devil will pull you down by the legs through the floor?” “O, the devil loves a jest, Gaspare, as much as you do!” “O! A jest is it?” “Of course--what else. Quick--there goes the bell! Find me a hood and cassock.” “Who is it?” “Well, there is no harm in confessing. Mademoiselle Becquet.” “Ah-ha!” The old rascal’s face puckered like a monkey’s. “An assignation?” He shook his head and waved his hands in rebukeful protest; then turned, and shuffled before, sighing, sighing: “It is sacrilege; I wash my hands of it; you will pay in advance, signore?” Fanchette, kneeling in the church alone, gabbled little prayers, and reviewed her programme between whiles. Then she rose, rang the bell, summoned the sacristan, stated her requirements, and withdrew to the confessional-box, where she disposed herself on her knees behind one of the curtains. Shortly she heard the altar rail click, a slow step approach, and her view through the grating towards the chancel was suddenly obscured by the interposition of a bowed, scarce distinguishable head. She settled herself for the ordeal. “Please, father, give me absolution for what I am about to confess.”