“But, father, when my husband has disturbed me for a moment, I soon repent of it.  He has hardly gone before I pray for him.”

“Good, very good.”

“I have sewn a blessed medal up in his overcoat.”  This was said more boldly, though still with some timidity.

“And have you noticed any result?”

“In certain things he is better, yes, father, but as regards abstinence he is still intractable,” she said with embarrassment.

“Do not be discouraged.  We are in the holy period of Lent.  Make use of pious subterfuges, prepare him some admissible viands, but pleasant to the taste.”

“Yes, father, I have thought of that.  The day before yesterday I gave him one of these salmon pasties that resemble ham.”

“Yes, yes, I know them.  Well?”

“Well, he ate the salmon, but he had a cutlet cooked afterward.”

“Deplorable!” I exclaimed, almost in spite of myself, so excessive did the perversity of this man seem to me.  “Patience, my child, offer up to Heaven the sufferings which your husband’s impiety causes you, and remember that your efforts will be set down to you.  You have nothing more to tell me?”

“No, father.”

“Collect yourself, then.  I will give you absolution.”

The dear soul sighed as she joined her two little hands.

Hardly had my penitent risen to withdraw when I abruptly closed my little shutter and took a long pinch of snuff—­snuff-takers know how much a pinch soothes the mind—­then having thanked God rapidly, I drew from the pocket of my cassock my good old watch, and found that it was earlier than I thought.  The darkness of the chapel had deceived me, and my stomach had shared my error.  I was hungry.  I banished these carnal preoccupations from my mind, and after shaking my hands, on which some grains of snuff had fallen, I slackened one of my braces that was pressing a little on one shoulder, and opened my wicket.

“Well, Madame, people should be more careful,” said the penitent on my left, addressing a lady of whom I could only see a bonnet-ribbon; “it is excusable.”

My penitent’s voice, which was very irritated, though restrained by respect for the locality, softened as if by magic at the creaking of my wicket.  She knelt down, piously folded her two ungloved hands, plump, perfumed, rosy, laden with rings—­but let that pass.  I seemed to recognize the hands of the Countess de B., a chosen soul, whom I had the honor to visit frequently, especially on Saturday, when there is always a place laid for me at her table.

She raised her little lace veil and I saw that I was not mistaken.  It was the Countess.  She smiled at me as at a person with whom she was acquainted, but with perfect propriety; she seemed to be saying, “Good-day, my dear Abbe, I do not ask how your rheumatism is, because at this moment you are invested with a sacred character, but I am interested in it all the same.”