“Very well,” said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught hold of the cord of Quaerts’ eyeglass.
“The Child would forgive too easily,” said Quaerts.
“And I, have I anything to forgive you?” she asked.
“I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light.”
“Then begin your confession.”
“But the Child ...” he hesitated.
Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa:
“He will not hear....”
And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, even though the echo was softened by his reverence.
“And is all this a sin calling for absolution?” she asked, when he had finished.