—I know it, Veronica; your behaviour is full of decency and dignity: it is well for the outside world, and as Monsieur Fortin used to say to you, we must wash our dirty linen at home.
—Poor Monsieur Fortin.
—That is what we will do henceforth. Come, Veronica. I have made all my disclosures to you, or very nearly. I have confessed to you my errors, and you know some of my faults as well as I do. Will you not make your little confession to me in your turn? You have finished your coffee? Take a little brandy? There! now sit close to me.
—Monsieur le Curé, one only confesses on one's knees.
—At the confessional before the priest, yes; but it is not thus that I mean, it is not by right of this that I wish to know your little secrets, but by right of a friend.
—I am quite confused, Monsieur le Curé.
—There is no Curé here, there is a friend, a brother, anything you wish, but not a priest. Are you willing?
—I am quite willing.
—You were talking to me lately about my predecessors, and, according to you, their conduct was not irreproachable. What is there then to say regarding them? Oh, don't blush. Answer me.
—What do you want me to tell you?