LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers around the tabernacle.

      Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart. He drew nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the “demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished, motionless on their chairs.

      He faltered:

      “Good morning, monsieur le cure.”

      The priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with the altar:

      “Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”

      Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next. But after a pause he remarked:

      “You are making preparations?”

      Abbe Maritime replied:

      “Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”

      “Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent. He would have liked to retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him back. He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two. Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the work if one were not clumsy.

      Then he stammered out:

      “I have come about the work.”

      The cure appeared surprised. He asked:

      “What work?”

      “The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.

      Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said:

      “Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”

      At the tone of the abbe, Theodule Sabot felt a chill run down his back and he once more had a longing to take to his heels. However, he replied humbly:

      “Why, yes, monsieur le cure.”

      Then the abbe folded his arms across his large stomach and, as if filled with amazement, said:

      “Is it you—you—you, Sabot—who have come to ask me for this… You—the only irreligious man in my parish! Why, it would be a scandal, a public scandal! The archbishop would give me a reprimand, perhaps transfer me.”

      He stopped a few seconds, for breath, and then resumed in a calmer tone: “I can understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance entrusted to a carpenter from a neighboring parish. But I cannot do otherwise, unless—but no—it is impossible—you would not consent, and unless you did, never.”

      Sabot now looked at the row of benches in line as far as the entrance door. Christopher, if they were going to change all those!

      And he asked:

      “What would you require of me? Tell me.”

      The priest, in a firm tone replied:

      “I must have an extraordinary token of your good intentions.”

      “I do not say—I do not say; perhaps we might come to an understanding,” faltered Sabot.

      “You will have to take communion publicly at high mass next Sunday,” declared the cure.

      The carpenter felt he was growing pale, and without replying, he asked:

      “And the benches, are they going to be renovated?”

      The abbe replied with confidence:

      “Yes, but later on.”

      Sabot resumed:

      “I do not say, I do not say. I am not calling it off, I am consenting to religion, for sure. But what rubs me the wrong way is, putting it in practice; but in this case I will not be refractory.”

      The attendants of the Virgin, having got off their chairs had concealed themselves behind the altar; and they listened pale with emotion.

      The cure, seeing he had gained the victory, became all at once very friendly, quite familiar.

      “That is good, that is good. That was wisely said, and not stupid, you understand. You will see, you will see.”

      Sabot smiled and asked with an awkward air:

      “Would it not be possible to put off this communion just a trifle?”

      But the priest replied, resuming his severe expression:

      “From the moment that the work is put into your hands, I want to be assured of your conversion.”

      Then he continued more gently:

      “You will come to confession tomorrow; for I must examine you at least twice.”

      “Twice?” repeated Sabot.

      “Yes.”

      The priest smiled.

      “You understand perfectly that you must have a general cleaning up, a thorough cleansing. So I will expect you tomorrow.”

      The carpenter, much agitated, asked:

      “Where do you do that?”

      “Why—in the confessional.”

      “In—that box, over there in the corner? The fact is—is—that it does not suit me, your box.”

      “How is that?”

      “Seeing that—seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am rather hard of hearing.”

      The cure was very affable and said:

      “Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have it just the two of us, tête-à-tête. Does that suit you?”

      “Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”

      “Well, then, tomorrow after the days work, at six o’clock.”

      “That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. Tomorrow, monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”

      And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily with a clap that resounded through the church.

      Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming dread of the divine mystery.

      As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage. The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a good-natured laugh.

      “Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat you.”

      And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered:

      “If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter at once.”

      The cure replied:

      “I am at your service. I have my surplice here. One minute and I will listen to you.”

      The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head, watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds. The priest beckoned to him and said:

      “Kneel down on this cushion.”

      Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel. He stuttered:

      “Is it necessary?”

      But the abbe had become dignified.

      “You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”

Скачать книгу