Henceforth Knoups went to confession only once a year—at Easter.
“Once is a man’s duty,” said he; “but to be turned away four times in the year is only mere waste of time and trouble.”
Again the wicket was shut in his face. Hommels, in the tavern parlour that evening, laughed over it, and said:
“Well, M. le Curé keeps you all in order like a flock of sheep.”
Knoups smiled, and replied, shortly:
“The stayer wins. We shall see who’ll hold out longest.”
These strained relations between Knoups and the Curé lasted some four or five years, and then another incident occurred.
Hubertienke, Knoups’ eldest girl, was now nine, and went to school at Haffert. The master said that she was one of the cleverest and best-behaved children that had ever come under his care. And now that she went twice a week to M. le Chapelain’s “Christian doctrine” class, it was quite likely that next St Rochus’ Day she would walk with the other children as a “little bride” in the procession, and carry a little flag, a shepherd’s crook, perhaps even a cornucopia, or a great crimson heart with gold flames. The child had talked and dreamed of this possibility for a whole year or so, and Geutruu had had a little white dress and white satin shoes made for her in town, and bought a wreath of May-blossom from the milliner.
But Geutruu and her little daughter had reckoned without their host—that is to say, without the Curé. Two days before St Rochus, his reverence had sent for Vrouw Knoups, and asked her whether Mathis was going to have the dance-music again. Whereupon, embarrassed and confused, she had answered, “I think so, M. le Curé.”
“Then Hubertine can’t walk in the procession,” was the Curé’s verdict. “If the father doesn’t keep his Easter, the child can’t be a ‘little bride.’”