“And why should I not go to confession?” he demanded.
“But—”
“Do you suppose that I can be afraid to confess? Why do you suppose that? Tell me why?”
He looked at her with eyes that pierced to her heart, as if they would read her inmost thoughts.
Stupefied by this access of fury, which burst forth without any warning, since he had smilingly replied to her request for a religious marriage, she could find nothing to say, not understanding how the simple word “confess” could so exasperate him. And yet she could not deceive herself: is was indeed this word and no other that put him in this state.
He continued to look at her, and wishing to explain herself, she said: “I supposed only one thing, and that is that I might offend you by asking you to do what is contrary to your beliefs.”
The mad anger that carried him away so stupidly began to lose its first violence; another word added to what had already escaped him would be an avowal.
“Do not let us talk of it anymore,” he said. “Above all, do not let us think of it.”
“Permit me to say one word,” she replied. “Had I been situated like other people I would have asked nothing; my will is yours. But for you, for your future and your honor, you should not appear to marry in secret, as if ashamed, with a pariah.”
“Be easy. I feel as you do, more than you, the necessity of consecrated ceremonies for us.”