CONFIDENCES.
"To thee I wish to confide this secret,
Speak of it to no-one, we must be discreet
They love too much to laugh in this unbelieving age."
BABILLOT (La Mascarade humaine).
That evening, contrary to his usual custom, the Curé of Althausen had coffee served after dinner, and told his servant to lay two cups.
—You have asked somebody then? she enquired.
—Yes, replied Marcel, I ask you, Veronica.
The woman smiled.
She went and assured herself that the door below was shut and that the shutters were quite closed, put together a bundle of wood which she placed partly on the hearth, and without further invitation, sat down facing her master.
—We are at home, and inquisitive people will not trouble us.
Marcel was offended at thus being placed on a footing of equality with his servant. Nevertheless he did not allow it to be seen. "It is my fault," he thought, and he answered quietly:
—We have no reason to dread inquisitive persons, we are not going to do anything wrong.
—Ah, Jesus, no. But, you know, if they saw your servant sitting at your table, they would not wait to look for the why and wherefore, they would begin to chatter.
—It is true.
—And one likes to be at home when one has anything to say, is it not so,
Monsieur le Curé?
Marcel bent his head:
—You are a girl of sense, and that is why I can behave to you as one cannot usually with a … common housekeeper. I am sure that you understand me. Then, after a moment's hesitation:
—Twice already I have flown into a passion with you, Veronica; it is a serious fault, and I hope you will consent to forgive it.
—Do not speak of that, Monsieur le Curé, I deserved everything that you have said to me. It is for me to ask your pardon for not behaving properly towards you.
—I acknowledge all that you do in my interest: I know how to appreciate all your good qualities, so I pardon you freely.
—Monsieur le Curé is too good.
—No, I am not too good. For if I were so, I should have behaved differently towards you. But you know, there is always a little germ of ingratitude at the bottom of a man's heart. After all, I have considered, and I believe that with a little good will on one side and on the other, we can come to an understanding.
—Yes, I am easy to accommodate.
—Let us save appearances, that is essential.
—You are talking to me like Monsieur Fortin. That suits me. No one could ever reproach me for setting a bad example.
—I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we must wash our dirty linen at home.
—Poor Monsieur Fortin.
—That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little brandy? There! now sit close to me.
—Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees.
—At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, but by right of a friend.
—I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé.
—There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, but not a priest. Are you willing?
—I am quite willing.
—You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me.
—What do you want me to tell you?
—They committed faults then?…
—I have told you so, sir,—sometimes—like you.
—Ah, Veronica, the greatest saint is he who sins only seven times a day.
—Seven times!
—Seven times, quite as much. You find, no doubt, that I sin much more, but I am far from being a saint. As to my predecessors, were they no greater saints?
—Saints! Ah, Jesus! Do you wish me to tell you, sir? Well, between ourselves, I believe that there are none but in the calendar.
—Oh, Veronica, Veronica.
—Yes, sir, I believe it in my soul and conscience, and I can add another thing still. If, before they canonized all these saints, they had consulted their servant, perhaps they would not have found a single one of them.
—What! you, the pious Veronica, you say such things?
—One is pious and staid and everything you wish, but one sees what one sees. Monsieur Fortin was accustomed to say that no one is a great man to his valet de chambre; and I add, that no one is a saint to his cook. I tell you so.
—But that is blasphemy, Veronica.
—Blasphemy possibly, but it is the truth, Monsieur Marcel.
—Have you then surprised my predecessors in some act of culpable weakness?
—Oh, holy Virgin! I did not surprise them, it was they on the contrary who surprised me.
—You!… And how then?
—Monsieur le Curé, you don't understand me. You were speaking of their weakness, I meant to say that they had taken advantage of mine.
—Ah, here we are, thought Marcel. Is it possible? What! of your weakness? these ecclesiastics?
—Sir. You are an ecclesiastic too and yet … if Mademoiselle Suzanne
Durand….
—Don't go on, Veronica. I have asked you not to recall that remembrance to me. It is wrong of you to forget that.
—Sweet Jesus! I don't want to offend you. I wanted to make you understand that since you, you have erred, the others….
—And what have they done?
—Ah, it is very simple, Lord Jesus!
—Let us see.
—I hardly know if I ought to tell you that, I am quite ashamed of it.
—Come, let us see, speak … you have nothing to be afraid of before me … speak, Veronica, speak.
—Where must I begin?
—Where you like; at the beginning, I suppose.
—There are several of them.
—Several beginnings?
—Yes; I have had three masters, you know.
—Well, with the last one, with Monsieur Fortin, that worthy man whom I knew slightly.
—He was no better than the rest, Jesus! no.
—The Abbé Fortin?
—Lord God, yes, the Abbé Fortin!
—What has he done then?
—My God … you know well, that which one does when one … is a man … and has a warm temperament.
—To you, Veronica, to you?
—Alas, sweet Jesus. Ah, Monsieur le Curé, I am so good-natured, I don't know how to resist. And then, you know, it is so hard for a poor servant to resist her master, particularly when he is a priest, who holds all your confidence, and possesses all your secrets, and with whom you live in a certain kind of intimacy; and besides a priest is cautious, and one may be quite sure that nothing of what goes on inside the parsonage, will get out through the parsonage door.
—Assuredly; he will not go and noise his faults abroad.
—And so with us, the priests' servants, who could be more cautious than we are? We have as much in it as our masters, have we not? and a sin concealed is a sin half pardoned.
—Yes, Veronica, it was said long ago: "The scandal of the world is what causes the offence. And 'tis not sinning to sin in silence."
—Those are words of wisdom; who is it who said so?
—A very clever man, called Monsieur Tartuffe.
—I see that. Be must have been a priest, at least?
—He was not an ecclesiastic, but he was somewhat of a churchman.
—That is just as I thought. Certainly we must hide our faults. Who would believe in us without that? I say us, for I am also somewhat a church-woman.
—Undoubtedly.
—I have spent my life among ecclesiastics. My father was beadle at St.
Eprive's and my mother the Curé's housekeeper.
—That is your title.
—Is it not? Then I have the honour to be your maid-servant, and I am the head of the association of the Holy Virgin.
—No one could contest your claims, Veronica; add to that you are a worthy and cautious person, and let us return to Monsieur Fortin. Ah, I cannot contain my astonishment. Monsieur Fortin!… And how did he go to work to … seduce you? He must have used much deceit.
—All the angels of heavens are witnesses to it, sir, and you shall judge.