The dear Abbe! the most likable thing about him is that he is not long over the business. He knows how to get rid of useless details; he perceives, with subtle instinct and a sureness of vision that spares you a thousand embarra.s.sments, the condition of a soul, so that, besides being a man of intelligence and of the world, he renders the repet.i.tion of those little weaknesses, of which he has whispered the one half to you, almost agreeable.

In coming to him with one's little burden of guilt, one feels somewhat embarra.s.sed, but while one is hesitating about telling him all, he, with a discreet and skilful hand, disenc.u.mbers one of it rapidly, examines the contents, smiles or consoles, and the confession is made without one having uttered a single word; so that after all is over the penitent exclaims, prostrating one's self before G.o.d, "But, Lord, I was pure, pure as the lily, and yet how uneasy I was!"

Even when he a.s.sumes the sacerdotal habit and ceases to be a man, and speaks in the name of G.o.d, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his look, reveal innate distinction and that spotless courtesy which can not harm even a minister of G.o.d, and which one must cultivate on this side of the Rue du Bac.

If G.o.d wills that there must be a Faubourg St.-Germain in the world--and it can not be denied that He does--is it not proper that He should give us a minister who speaks our language and understands our weaknesses?

Nothing is more obvious, and I really do not comprehend some of these ladies who talk to me about the Abbe Brice. Not that I wish to speak ill of the good Abbe, for this is neither the time nor the place for it; he is a holy man, but his sanct.i.ty is a little bourgeois and needs polish.

With him one has to dot one's i's; he is dull in perception, or does not perceive at all.

Acknowledge a peccadillo, and his brows knit, he must know the hour, the moment, the antecedents; he examines, he probes, he weighs, and finishes his thousand questions by being indiscreet and almost improper. Is there not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?

The Abbe Brice--and there is no reason why I should conceal it--smells of the stable, which must be prejudicial to him. He is slightly Republican, too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets new gloves, twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.

I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her "little affairs" to a farmer's son, and address him as "Father." Matters must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice always smells detestably of snuff.

He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not pleasant to have one's maid or one's cook for one's visa-vis at the confessional.

There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel in an omnibus. You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy to call your coachman "Brother," and to say to Sarah Jane, "Sister," but these worthy folk shall have first pa.s.sed through purgatory, and fire purifies everything. Again, what is there to a.s.sure us that Sarah Jane will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of entering there?

It is hence quite well understood why the Abbe Gelon's chapel is crowded. If a little whispering goes on, it is because they have been waiting three long hours, and because everybody knows one another.

All the ladies, you may be sure, are there.

"Make a little room for me, dear," whispers a newcomer, edging her way through trains, kneeling-stools, and chairs.

"Ah! is that you, dear? Come here. Clementine and Madame de B. are there in the corner at the cannon's mouth. You will have to wait two good hours."

"If Madame de B. is there, it does not surprise me. She is inexhaustible, and there is no other woman who is so long in telling a thing. Have all these people not had their turn yet? Ah! there is Ernestine." (She waves her hand to her quietly.) "That child is an angel. She acknowledged to me the other day that her conscience troubled her because, on reading the 'Pa.s.sion,' she could not make up her mind to kiss the mat."

"Ah! charming; but, tell me, do you kiss the mat yourself?"

"I! no, never in my life; it is so nasty, dear."

"You confess to the omission, at least?"

"Oh! I confess all those little trifles in a lump. I say, 'Father, I have erred out of human self-respect.' I give the total at once."

"That is just what I do, and that dear Abbe Gelon discharges the bill."

"Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my little bill."

Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary, moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks out the prayers appropriate to her condition.

She reads with fervency: "'My G.o.d, crushed beneath the burden of my sins I cast myself at thy feet'--how annoying that it should be so cold to the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,--'that I cast myself at thy feet'--tell me, dear, do you know if the chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her friends' sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her foot-warmer--'I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance, and of........'"

"Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a turkey-c.o.c.k."

Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place.

"Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you."

"But I was here before you, Madame."

"I beg a thousand pardons, Madame."

"You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this hallowed spot."

"Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night, and the two little ones of this morning."

CHAPTER V. MADAME AND HER FRIEND CHAT BY THE FIRESIDE

Madam--(moving her slender fingers)--It is ruched, ruched, ruched, loves of ruches, edged all around with blond.

Her Friend--That is good style, dear.

Madame--Yes, I think it will be the style, and over this snowlike foam fall the skirts of blue silk like the bodice; but a lovely blue, something like--a little less p.r.o.nounced than skyblue, you know, like--my husband calls it a subdued blue.

Her Friend--Splendid. He is very happy in his choice of terms.

Madame--Is he not? One understands at once--a subdued blue. It describes it exactly.

Her Friend--But apropos of this, you know that Ernestine has not forgiven him his pleasantry of the other evening.

Madame--How, of my husband? What pleasantry? The other evening when the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice were there?

Her Friend--And his son, who was there also.

Madame--What! the Abbe's son? (Both break into laughter.)

Her Friend--But--ha! ha! ha!--what are you saying, ha! ha! you little goose?

Madame--I said the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice, and you add, 'And his son.' It is your fault, dear. He must be a choir-boy, that cherub. (More laughter.)

Her Friend--(placing her hand over hey mouth)--Be quiet, be quiet; it is too bad; and in Lent, too!

Madame--Well, but of whose son are you speaking?

Her Friend--Of Ernestine's son, don't you know, Albert, a picture of innocence. He heard your husband's pleasantry, and his mother was vexed.

Madame--My dear, I really don't know to what you refer. Please tell me all about it.

Hey Friend--Well, on entering the drawing-room, and perceiving the candelabra lit up, and the two Abbe's standing at that moment in the middle of the room, your husband appeared as if looking for something, and when Ernestine asked him what it was, he said aloud: "I am looking for the holy-water; please, dear neighbor, excuse me for coming in the middle of the service."

Madame--Is it possible? (Laughing.) The fact is, he can not get out of it; he has met the two Abbes, twice running, at Ernestine's. Her drawing-room is a perfect sacristy.