The Bishop fell back in his chair, his good-natured, sallow, pinched face grown more sallow.
“I can refuse to give you absolution,” he said.
“But if a man dies to save the life of another man, he is absolved by his blood,” said François, triumphantly. “You see, I am a better theologian than your Grace.”
The Bishop leaned forward, and, opening his arms, drew to his breast the kneeling François.
“You will be absolved,” he said. “Make a good act of contrition, and pray for me.”
The half hour was soon over, but long before that François had finished his confession, and he and the Bishop were chatting together pleasantly, and even laughing.
When the door was opened, and the time came for the last farewell, they kissed each other on the cheek affectionately.
“Thanks for all your kindness,” said François, “and make my apologies to Mathilde for all the trouble I gave her. Now, your Grace knows that I am a true penitent.”
“I think,” replied the Bishop, smiling and blinking, “that I stand no more chance of seeing Mathilde than you. We shall both be called upon to make our apologies to the Most High, shortly. Meanwhile, pray that when my time comes I may be as cool and unconcerned as you. I cannot say that I would wish to live as you have lived, Monsieur François le Bourgeois, as you call yourself, but I would certainly wish to die like you.”
“Ah!” cried François, gayly. “Living is much more important than dying. Au revoir to your Grace. These Communards are such fools, they won’t find out for a week that they got the wrong pig by the ear.”