"In to the confessional," he cried, "and make your confession like a penitent!"
"I'll make it fifteen," grinned Pierre.
"Not for a thousand. In! in!"
"Come, now, Duhaut, this is all humbug. You know I'm not penitent, and I'll be—— if I'll confess to you."
Without more words, the burly priest seized the recalcitrant and grabbed him by the neck, trying to force him into the confession-box. Pierre resisted, and, as the curé told us bursting with laughter, the two wrestled and waltzed half around the church. Finally Pierre was brought to his knees.
"Eh bien, allez! What am I to confess?" he grumbled.
"Every sin you have committed since your last confession."
How malicious was Père Duhaut in this! for he knew Pierre had not kept the observances of the Church since he left home at seventeen, and had not been an anchorite either.
"I'll make it an even hundred," begged the now exasperated yet humbled Pierre. "Come, now, do be reasonable; that's a jolly old boy."
"Confess! confess!" roared the confessor, dealing the kneeling impenitent a sounding cuff on the ear.