'She seems in a terrible state,' thought Madame Paloque. 'It is really quite indecent to make such an exhibition of one's self in church. Ah! here comes Madame de Condamin!'
Madame de Condamin was indeed just entering the church. She stopped for a moment before the holy-water basin, removed her glove, and crossed herself with a pretty gesture. Her silk dress made a murmuring sound as she passed along the narrow space between the chairs. As she knelt down, she filled the lofty vault with a rustling of skirts. She had her usual affable expression, and smiled through the gloom. Soon she and Marthe were the only two penitents left. The priest grew more and more impatient, and tapped yet more loudly upon the woodwork of the confessional.
'It is your turn, madame; I am the last,' Madame de Condamin whispered politely, bending towards Marthe, whom she had not recognised.
Marthe raised her face, pinched and pale from her extreme emotion, and did not appear to understand. It was as though she were awakening from some ecstatic trance, and her eyelids trembled.
'Come, ladies, come!' exclaimed Abbé Faujas, who had now half-opened the door of the confessional.
Madame de Condamin smilingly rose to obey the priest's summons; but Marthe, recognising her, hastened into the chapel, to fall again upon her knees, however, a few paces away from the confessional-box.
Madame Paloque felt much amused. She hoped that the two ladies would seize each other by the hair. Marthe could hear all that was said, for Madame de Condamin had a clear flute-like voice. She dallied over the recital of her sins, and quite animated the confessional with her pretty gossiping ways. Once she even vented a little muffled laugh, at the sound of which Marthe raised her pain-racked face. Soon afterwards Madame de Condamin finished her confession, and rose as if to retire, but she quickly stepped back and commenced talking afresh, this time merely bending her head without kneeling down.
'That she-devil is making sport of Madame Mouret and the Abbé,' thought the judge's wife to herself. 'It's all put on, is this.'
At last Madame de Condamin really withdrew. Marthe watched her as if waiting till she disappeared. Then she went forward, leant against the confessional-box, and fell heavily on her knees. Madame Paloque had slipped a little nearer and was craning out her head, but she could only see the penitent's dark dress spread out around her. For nearly half an hour there was not the slightest movement. Now and then she thought she could detect some smothered sobs in the throbbing silence, which was also broken at times by a creak from the confessional-box. She began to feel a little weary of her watching, for all she would be able to do now would be to stare at Marthe as she left the chapel.
Abbé Faujas was the first to leave, closing the door of the confessional-box with an appearance of annoyance. Madame Mouret lingered there for a long time, bent and motionless. When she at last went away, her face covered with her veil, she seemed quite broken down, and even forgot to cross herself.