Jourdain, Martin.
Jourd. Alas! Father, there is one Sin sticks by me more than any I have confessed to you. It is so enormous a one my Shame hath prevented me discovering it—I have often concealed my Crimes from my Confessor.
Mart. That is a damnable Sin indeed. It seemeth to argue a Distrust of the Church, the greatest of all Crimes; a Sin I fear the Church cannot forgive.
Jourd. Oh! say not so, Father!
Mart. I should have said will not, or not without difficulty: for the Church can do all things.
Jourd. That is some Comfort again.
Mart. I hope, however, tho' you have not confessed them, you have not forgotten them; for they must be confessed before they can be forgiven.
Jourd. I hope I shall recollect them, they are a black Roll—I remember I once was the Occasion of ruining a Woman's Reputation by shewing a Letter from her.
Mart. If you had shewn it to the Priest it had been no Fault.
Jourd. Alas! Sir, I wrote the Letter to my self, and thus traduced the Innocent. I afterwards commanded a Company of Granadiers, at the taking of a Town, where I knocked a poor old Gentleman in the Head for the sake of his Money, and ravished his Daughter.