As soon as he saw the peasant entering, he asked, merely turning round his head:
"Well, Césaire, what do you want?"
"I'd like to have a talk with you, M. le Curé."
The man remained standing, intimidated, holding his cap in one hand and his whip in the other.
"Well, talk."
Césaire looked at the housekeeper, an old woman who dragged her feet while putting on the cover for her master's dinner at the corner of the table in front of the window.
He stammered:
"'Tis—'tis a sort of confession."
Thereupon, the Abbe Raffin carefully surveyed his peasant. He saw his confused countenance, his air of constraint, his wandering eyes, and he gave orders to the housekeeper in these words:
"Marie, go away for five minutes to your room, while I talk to Césaire."