Receiving no reply, he knocked still harder at the grating, and said aloud—
“Confession, I beg of you!”
At last he lost patience, and rising, showered heavy blows with his dog-wood stick on the walls of the confessional, shouting—
“Ho, there, monsieur le curé! Ho, there, monsieur le vicaire!”
And in proportion as he raised his voice he knocked more loudly. The blows fell furiously on the confessional, causing clouds of dust to arise from it, and only evoking in reply to his violence the vibration of its worm-eaten old planks.
The verger, who was sweeping out the sacristy, ran forward with his sleeves turned up on hearing the noise. When he saw the man with the stick he stopped short for a moment, and then advanced towards him with the cautious reserve common to the officials who have grown white in the service of this lowliest of police. Arrived within earshot he demanded—
“What is it you want?”
“I want to confess.”
“Folks don’t come to confess at an hour like this.”
“I want to confess.”