“How do you know?”
“I knew him.”
“You knew the man who has just gone?”
“Yes; and as you are not better, and this man was not a priest, you must confess.”
“Very well,” replied the patient, in a stronger voice, “but I will chose to whom I will confess.”
“You will have no time to send for another priest, and I am here.”
“How! no time, when I tell you I am getting well?”
Gorenflot shook his head. “I tell you, my son, you are condemned by the doctors and by Providence; you may think it cruel to tell you so, but it is what we must all come to sooner or later. Confess, my son, confess.”
“But I assure you, father, that I feel much stronger.”
“A mistake, my son, the lamp flares up at the last, just before it goes out. Come, confess all your plots, your intrigues, and machinations!”