The cure was very affable and said:
“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have it just the two of us, tete-a-tete. Does that suit you?”
“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”
“Well, then, to-morrow after the days work, at six o’clock.”
“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. To-morrow, monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”
And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily with a clap that resounded through the church.
Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming dread of the divine mystery.
As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage. The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a good-natured laugh.
“Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat you.”
And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered: