Then she began to whisper. She raised herself in her bed, and was terrible to look upon. "I was a good girl," she said, "more than that, I was an innocent one. I used to go to confession. I was told to do so."
Sanselme listened with beads of sweat on his brow. He determined to drink the cup to the dregs. "Yes," he said, "go on. It was at Selzheim."
"Selzheim! yes. Oh! how sweet it was there. There was a mountain, and a lovely brook where I bathed my feet when I was a little thing."
"And a Square and a fountain," whispered Sanselme.
"Yes, how gay it was there, when we all played together. And then he came, all in black. We thought him so kind and good. He was the curé, you know."
Sanselme started back.
"And when he said to me, 'Jane, why do you not come to confession?' I told him the truth, and said it was because I had nothing to confess."
"Go on! go on!" said Sanselme.
Further doubt was impossible, he was himself the infamous priest. He fell on his knees, and sobbed and wept.