In coming to him with one’s little burden of guilt, one feels somewhat embarrassed, but while one is hesitating about telling him all, he, with a discreet and skilful hand, disencumbers one of it rapidly, examines the contents, smiles or consoles, and the confession is made without one having uttered a single word; so that after all is over the penitent exclaims, prostrating one’s self before God, “But, Lord, I was pure, pure as the lily, and yet how uneasy I was!”

Even when he assumes the sacerdotal habit and ceases to be a man, and speaks in the name of God, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his look, reveal innate distinction and that spotless courtesy which can not harm even a minister of God, and which one must cultivate on this side of the Rue du Bac.

If God wills that there must be a Faubourg St.-Germain in the world—­and it can not be denied that He does—­is it not proper that He should give us a minister who speaks our language and understands our weaknesses?  Nothing is more obvious, and I really do not comprehend some of these ladies who talk to me about the Abbe Brice.  Not that I wish to speak ill of the good Abbe, for this is neither the time nor the place for it; he is a holy man, but his sanctity is a little bourgeois and needs polish.

With him one has to dot one’s i’s; he is dull in perception, or does not perceive at all.

Acknowledge a peccadillo, and his brows knit, he must know the hour, the moment, the antecedents; he examines, he probes, he weighs, and finishes his thousand questions by being indiscreet and almost improper.  Is there not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?

The Abbe Brice—­and there is no reason why I should conceal it—­smells of the stable, which must be prejudicial to him.  He is slightly Republican, too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets new gloves, twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.

I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her “little affairs” to a farmer’s son, and address him as “Father.”  Matters must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice always smells detestably of snuff.

He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not pleasant to have one’s maid or one’s cook for one’s visa-vis at the confessional.

There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel in an omnibus.  You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy to call your coachman “Brother,” and to say to Sarah Jane, “Sister,” but these worthy folk shall have first passed through purgatory, and fire purifies everything.  Again, what is there to assure us that Sarah Jane will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of entering there?