“I’m not!” I cried, in a childish fury of chagrin over his insensibility. “It’s true, every word. My mother was a Sister of les Madelonnettes, and I was stolen from her, and I want to be sent back.”
I did not in truth, save in so far as that way only lay my chance of restoration to my darling father. But the point was inessential.
The priest’s eyes, dilated monstrosities, devoured me through their lenses.
“Les Madelonnettes—the Magdalens!” he muttered, amazed and frowning. His hand, caressing his chin, grated on the stubble of it. “Come,” he said brutally, “I’m an old bird to be caught by chaff. Confess to me, if you’re a Catholic, you wretched little sinner.”
I wanted nothing better. This sacrament of penance must convince and win him. In a moment my young elastic soul had leapt the dark interlude which divided me from my past, and my little feet were tripping once more in fancy down the royal prince’s table. I fell on my knees.
“Say your Confiteor,” he commanded harshly.
I repeated it without a mistake.
“Humph!” said he. “What are you waiting for?”
I told him my whole story. He listened to it, after the first, abstractedly, with one eye caressing his abominable book. At the end he gave me absolution, canvassing me distastefully as he pondered the penance. Presently he spoke.
“I order you,” he said, “twenty Ave Marias, and to return to your master.”