The Grip of Desire: The Story of a Parish-Priest

by Hector France

XL.

LITTLE CONFESSIONS.

"To relate one's misfortunes often alleviates them."

CORNEILLE (Polyeucte).

The Curé laid his forehead between his hands, and rested his elbows on his knees, a common attitude among confessors.

—I am listening to you, he said.

—I said to you, Monsieur le Curé, do not despair. You will excuse a poor servant's boldness, but it is the friendship I have for you which has urged me; nothing else, believe me; I am an honest girl, entirely devoted to my masters. You are the fourth, Monsieur le Curé, yes, the fourth master. Well! the three others have never had to complain about me a single moment for indiscretion, or for idleness, or for want of attention, or for anything, in fact, for anything. Never a harsh word. "You have done well, Veronica; that's quite right, Veronica; do as you think proper, Veronica; your advice is excellent, Veronica." Those are all the rough words which have been said to me, Monsieur Marcel. Therefore, I repeat, really it went to my heart to hear you speaking harshly sometimes to me, and to see that you did not appear satisfied with me. I had not been accustomed to that.

And the servant, picking up the corner of her apron, burst into tears.

—Why! Veronica, are you mad? Why do you cry so? Who has made you suppose that I was not satisfied with you? I may have spoken harshly to you, it is possible; but it was in a moment of excitement or of impatience, which I regret. You well know that I am not ill-natured.

—Oh, no, sir, that is just what grieves me. You are so kind to everybody.
You are only severe to me.

—You are wrong again, Veronica. I may have felt hurt at your indiscretion, but that is all. Put yourself in my place, and you will allow that it is humiliating for a priest….

—Do not speak of that again, Monsieur le Curé. You are very wrong to disturb yourself about it, and if you had had confidence in me before, I should have told you that all have acted like you, all have gone through that, all, all.

—What do you mean?

—I mean that young and old have fallen into the same fault…. If we can call it a fault, as Monsieur Fortin used to say. And the old still more than the young. After that, perhaps you will say to me that it is the place which is wicked.

—Be silent, Veronica. What you say is very wrong, for if I perfectly understand you, you are bringing an infamous accusation against my predecessors. Perhaps you think to palliate my fault thus in my own eyes. I thank you for the intention, but it is an improper course, and the reproach which you try to cast upon the worthy priests who have succeeded one another in this parish, takes away none of my remorse.

—Monsieur Fortin had not so many scruples. He was, however, a most respectable man, and one who never dared to look a young girl in her face, he was so bashful. "Well," he often used to say, "God has well done all that he has done, and He is too wise to be angry when we make use of His benefits!"

—That is rather an elastic morality.

—It was Monsieur Fortin who taught me that. After all, that is perhaps morality in word, you are … morality in deed.

—Veronica, you are strangely misusing the rights which I have allowed you to take.

—Do not put yourself in a rage, Monsieur le Curé, if I talk to you so. I wanted to persuade you thoroughly that you can rely upon me in everything, that I can keep a secret, though you sometimes call me a tattler, and that I am not, after all, such a worthless girl as you believe. We like, when the moment has come to get ourselves appreciated, to profit by it to our utmost.

—Veronica, said Marcel, I hardly know what you want to arrive at; but I wish to speak frankly to you, since you have behaved frankly towards me. I recognize all the wisdom of your proceeding, although you will agree it has something offensive and humiliating for me, but after all, it is preferable that you should come and tell me this to my face, than that you should go and chatter in the village and tattle without my knowledge.

—Oh, Monsieur le Curé, Veronica is not capable of that.

—Therefore, since you have discovered … discovered a secret which would ruin me, what do you calculate on making from this secret, and what do you demand?

—I, Monsieur le Curé, cried the servant, I demand nothing … oh! nothing.

—You are hesitating. Yes, you want something. Come, it is you now who hang your head and blush, while it is I who am the culprit…. Come, place yourself there, close to me.

—Oh! Monsieur le Curé, I shall never presume.

—Presume then to-day. Have you not told me that you were my friend?…
Yes. Well then, place yourself there. Tell me, Veronica, what is your age?

—Mine, Monsieur le Curé. What a question! I am not too old; come, not so old as you think. I am forty.

—Forty! why you are still of an age to get married.

—I quite think so.

—And you have never intended to do so?

—To get married? Oh, upon my word, if I had wanted to do so, I should not have waited until now.

—I believe you, Veronica. You could have done very well before now. But you may have changed your ideas. Our characters, our tastes change with time, and a thing displeases us to-day, which will please us to-morrow. There are often, it is true, certain considerations which stop us and make us reflect. Perhaps you have not a round enough sum. With a little money, at your age, you could still make an excellent match.

—And even without money, Monsieur le Curé. If I were willing, somebody has been pestering me for a long time for that.

—And you are not willing. The person doubtless does not suit you?

—Oh, I have my choice.

—Well and good. We cannot use too much reflection upon a matter of this importance. I am not rich, Veronica, but I should like to help you and to increase, if it be possible, your little savings, your dowry in fact.

—You are very good, sir, but I do not wish to get married.

—Why so?

—It depends on tastes, you know…. You are in a great hurry then to get rid of me, Monsieur le Curé.

—Not at all: do not believe it.

—Come, come, Monsieur le Curé. I see your intentions. You say to yourself: "she holds a secret which may prove troublesome to me; with a little money I will put a padlock on her tongue, I will get her married, and by this means she will trouble me no more." Is it a bad guess?

—You have not guessed it the least in world, Veronica.

—Oh, it is! But it is a bad calculation, and for two reasons. In the first place, if I marry, your secret is more in danger than if I remain single. You know that a woman ought not to hide anything from her husband.

—There are certain things….

—No, nothing at all: no secret, or mystery. The husband ought to see all, to know all, to be acquainted with all that concerns his wife. Ah! I know how to live, though I am an old maid.

—You are a pearl, Veronica.

—You want to make fun of me; but others have said that to me before you, and they were talking seriously. On the other hand, she continued, if you keep me, you need not fear my slandering you, since I am in your hands and the day you hear any rumour, you can turn me away.

—Your argument is just, and believe me that my words had but a single object, not that of separating myself from you, but of being useful to you. Since you are desirous of remaining with me, at which I am happy, let us therefore try to live on good terms, and do you for your part forget my weaknesses; I for mine will forget your inquisitiveness; and let us talk no more about them.

—Oh yes, we will talk again.

—I consent to it. Let us therefore make peace, and give me your hand.

—Here it is, Monsieur le Curé.

—Ah, Veronica. Errare humanum est.

—Yes, I know, Monsieur Fortin often repeated it. That means to say that the devil is sly, and the flesh is weak.

—It is something like that. So then I trust to your honesty.

—You can do so without fear.

—To your discretion.

—You can do so with all confidence.

—To your friendship for me. Have you really a little, Veronica?

—I have, sir, said the servant, affected. You ask me that: what must I then do to convince you?

—Be discreet, that is all.

—Oh! you might require more than that. But could I also, in my turn, ask something of you?

—Ask on.

—It will be perhaps very hard for you.

—Speak freely. What do you want? Are you not mistress here? Is not everything at your disposal?

—Oh, no.

—No! You surprise me. Have I hurt you without knowing it? I do not remember it, I assure you. Tell me then, that I may atone for my fault.

—I hardly know how to tell you.

—Is it then very serious?

—Not precisely, but….

—You are putting me on thorns. What is it then?

—Oh, nothing.

—What nothing? Do you wish to vex me, Veronica.

—I don't intend it; it is far from that.

—Speak then.

—Well no, I will say no more. You will guess it perhaps. But meanwhile….

—Meanwhile….

—It is quite understood between us that you will never see that little hussy again.

—What hussy?

—That little hussy, who was here just now.

—Oh, Veronica! Veronica!

—It is for your interests, Monsieur le Curé, in short … the proprieties.

—My dignity is as dear to me as it is to you, my daughter, be answered sharply.

—Good-night, Monsieur le Curé; take counsel with your pillow.