He mastered himself, undecided and trembling, his ear on the watch, his heart beating with great strokes, and he heard the sound of distant steps. "My God," he said, waiting for the steps that drew near, "what manner of monk is coming?"
The steps were silent, and the door opened. Durtal in his alarm dared not look at the confessor, in whom he recognized the tall Trappist, with the imperious profile, whom he believed to be the abbot of the monastery.
His breath was taken away, and he drew back without saying a word.
Surprised at this silence, the prior said,—
"You have asked to make your confession, sir?"
And at a sign from Durtal, he pointed out the prie-Dieu placed against the wall, and himself knelt down, turning his back.
Durtal braced himself, fell down at the prie-Dieu, and then completely lost his head. He had vaguely prepared how to enter on the matter, noted the points of his statement, classified his sins in some degree, and now remembered nothing.
The monk rose, sat down on a straw chair, leant towards the penitent, his hand behind his ear to hear the better.
He waited.
Durtal wished rather to die than speak; he succeeded, however, in mastering himself, and bridling his shame; he opened his lips, but no word came; he remained overwhelmed, his head in his hands, repressing the tears he felt ready to fall.