“A timore inimici eripe animam tuam,” responded the seated figure, in a low, mumbling voice. “Deliver yourself, my daughter.” The penitent hesitated a moment, as if calling up her nerve; bit her lower lip, and began: “I have to accuse myself, first and foremost, of infidelity.” “That is bad. Is it spiritual or secular infidelity to which you refer, my child?” “Infidelity to my lover, father.” A sudden cough seemed to catch the listener; he crowed a little as he answered: “To be sure. There will be some good reason for this apostacy, no doubt.” “It is to be found, father, in my own conscience, which shrinks from the load he would have put upon it.” “What load? Be specific, child. Has he tempted you to wrong?” “Not in that way--he knows better. But he desired to use me as his instrument in the ruin of a man he hated.” “It is admitted, my daughter, that it is lawful sometimes to do evil that good may come of it. Possibly this lover of yours may have seen in his enemy one of those human abnormalities whose destruction, though demanded by every moral law, can only be compassed by craft. In that case you would be doing a positively pious work in helping him. But, as to this infidelity: the word implies, according to my reading of it, a positive no less than a negative sentiment; an attraction as well as a repulsion.” “Yes, father.” “May it conceivably be hinted, then, that you have turned not so much _from_ one lover as _towards_ another, his rival in your fleeting affections?” The penitent did not answer. “Speak, daughter,” said the confessor, rather violently clearing his throat. “I cannot, with confidence,” answered Fanchette, thus adjured, with an air of distressed hesitancy. “Certainly I have felt pity for the man; and I have heard it said that pity excites in one a feeling of fondness for the pitied--but I do not know.” “You do not? This is not confession, but equivocation. Tell me the truth at once, if you would be absolved.” “How unsparing you are, father! What if I do love him--a little? It is the fault of the first one for imposing such a task on me. He knew my tender heart--he might have foreseen the inevitable result.” “I think he might indeed.” “Besides, though the first one is a musical-box, the second is a nightingale.” “Damnation!” said the confessor. “Father! What do you mean?” “I mean that you may go to the devil, Mademoiselle Fanchette Becquet.” “After you, if you please, M. Charles la Coque.” “What! you know me?” “I saw you first in the street; I saw you afterwards through this grating as you approached. Could I mistake you, you wicked wretch? May you be cursed to all eternity for your profanation of this sacred office!” La Coque sank back a little into the shadows, then bent forward again, and spoke softly: “Do you know, Fanchette, I think I am coming out to strangle you.” The young lady, now verging on hysteria, answered with a scornful gasp: