The sacristan fairly gasped in his breath.
“What, you will! Do you understand that at the first word the devil will pull you down by the legs through the floor?”
“O, the devil loves a jest, Gaspare, as much as you do!”
“O! A jest is it?”
“Of course—what else. Quick—there goes the bell! Find me a hood and cassock.”
“Who is it?”
“Well, there is no harm in confessing. Mademoiselle Becquet.”
“Ah-ha!” The old rascal’s face puckered like a monkey’s. “An assignation?” He shook his head and waved his hands in rebukeful protest; then turned, and shuffled before, sighing, sighing:
“It is sacrilege; I wash my hands of it; you will pay in advance, signore?”
Fanchette, kneeling in the church alone, gabbled little prayers, and reviewed her programme between whiles. Then she rose, rang the bell, summoned the sacristan, stated her requirements, and withdrew to the confessional-box, where she disposed herself on her knees behind one of the curtains. Shortly she heard the altar rail click, a slow step approach, and her view through the grating towards the chancel was suddenly obscured by the interposition of a bowed, scarce distinguishable head. She settled herself for the ordeal.