“The English girl was trembling. I felt her shiver against me. And I had a wild desire to take her in my arms.
“Down there, before and behind us, to the left and right, lighthouses were shining along the shore—lighthouses white, yellow and red, revolving like the enormous eyes of giants who were watching us, waiting eagerly for us to disappear. One of them in especial irritated me. It went out every thirty seconds and it lit up again immediately. It was indeed an eye, that one, with its lid incessantly lowered over its fiery glance.
“From time to time the Englishman struck a match to see the hour; then he put his watch back in his pocket. Suddenly he said to me, over the heads of his daughters, with tremendous gravity:
“‘I wish you a happy New Year, Mosieu.’
“It was midnight. I held out my hand, which he pressed. Then he said something in English, and suddenly he and his daughters began to sing ‘God Save the Queen,’ which rose through the black and silent air and vanished into space.
“At first I felt a desire to laugh; then I was seized by a powerful, strange emotion.
“It was something sinister and superb, this chant of the shipwrecked, the condemned, something like a prayer and also like something grander, something comparable to the ancient ‘Ave Caesar morituri te salutant.’
“When they had finished I asked my neighbor to sing a ballad alone, anything she liked, to make us forget our terrors. She consented, and immediately her clear young voice rang out into the night. She sang something which was doubtless sad, because the notes were long drawn out and hovered, like wounded birds, above the waves.
“The sea was rising now and beating upon our wreck. As for me, I thought only of that voice. And I thought also of the sirens. If a ship had passed near by us what would the sailors have said? My troubled spirit lost itself in the dream! A siren! Was she not really a siren, this daughter of the sea, who had kept me on this worm-eaten ship and who was soon about to go down with me deep into the waters?
“But suddenly we were all five rolling on the deck, because the Marie Joseph had sunk on her right side. The English girl had fallen upon me, and before I knew what I was doing, thinking that my last moment was come, I had caught her in my arms and kissed her cheek, her temple and her hair.
“The ship did not move again, and we, we also, remained motionless.
“The father said, ‘Kate!’ The one whom I was holding answered ‘Yes’ and made a movement to free herself. And at that moment I should have wished the ship to split in two and let me fall with her into the sea.
“The Englishman continued:
“‘A little rocking; it’s nothing. I have my three daughters safe.’
“Not having seen the oldest, he had thought she was lost overboard!
“I rose slowly, and suddenly I made out a light on the sea quite close to us. I shouted; they answered. It was a boat sent out in search of us by the hotelkeeper, who had guessed at our imprudence.
“We were saved. I was in despair. They picked us up off our raft and they brought us back to Saint-Martin.
“The Englishman began to rub his hand and murmur:
“‘A good supper! A good supper!’
“We did sup. I was not gay. I regretted the Marie Joseph.
“We had to separate the next day after much handshaking and many promises to write. They departed for Biarritz. I wanted to follow them.
“I was hard hit. I wanted to ask this little girl to marry me. If we had passed eight days together, I should have done so! How weak and incomprehensible a man sometimes is!
“Two years passed without my hearing a word from them. Then I received a letter from New York. She was married and wrote to tell me. And since then we write to each other every year, on New Year’s Day. She tells me about her life, talks of her children, her sisters, never of her husband! Why? Ah! why? And as for me, I only talk of the Marie Joseph. That was perhaps the only woman I have ever loved—no—that I ever should have loved. Ah, well! who can tell? Circumstances rule one. And then—and then—all passes. She must be old now; I should not know her. Ah! she of the bygone time, she of the wreck! What a creature! Divine! She writes me her hair is white. That caused me terrible pain. Ah! her yellow hair. No, my English girl exists no longer. How sad it all is!”
THEODULE SABOT‘S CONFESSION
When Sabot entered the inn at Martinville it was a signal for laughter. What a rogue he was, this Sabot! There was a man who did not like priests, for instance! Oh, no, oh, no! He did not spare them, the scamp.
Sabot (Theodule), a master carpenter, represented liberal thought in Martinville. He was a tall, thin, than, with gray, cunning eyes, and thin lips, and wore his hair plastered down on his temples. When he said: “Our holy father, the pope” in a certain manner, everyone laughed. He made a point of working on Sunday during the hour of mass. He killed his pig each year on Monday in Holy Week in order to have enough black pudding to last till Easter, and when the priest passed by, he always said by way of a joke: “There goes one who has just swallowed his God off a salver.”
The priest, a stout man and also very tall, dreaded him on account of his boastful talk which attracted followers. The Abbe Maritime was a politic man, and believed in being diplomatic. There had been a rivalry between them for ten years, a secret, intense, incessant rivalry. Sabot was municipal councillor, and they thought he would become mayor, which would inevitably mean the final overthrow of the church.
The elections were about to take place. The church party was shaking in its shoes in Martinville.
One morning the cure set out for Rouen, telling his servant that he was going to see the archbishop. He returned in two days with a joyous, triumphant air. And everyone knew the following day that the chancel of the church was going to be renovated. A sum of six hundred francs had been contributed by the archbishop out of his private fund. All the old pine pews were to be removed, and replaced by new pews made of oak. It would be a big carpentering job, and they talked about it that very evening in all the houses in the village.
Theodule Sabot was not laughing.
When he went through the village the following morning, the neighbors, friends and enemies, all asked him, jokingly:
“Are you going to do the work on the chancel of the church?”
He could find nothing to say, but he was furious, he was good and angry.
Ill-natured people added:
“It is a good piece of work; and will bring in not less than two or three per cent. profit.”
Two days later, they heard that the work of renovation had been entrusted to Celestin Chambrelan, the carpenter from Percheville. Then this was denied, and it was said that all the pews in the church were going to be changed. That would be well worth the two thousand francs that had been demanded of the church administration.
Theodule Sabot could not sleep for thinking about it. Never, in all the memory of man, had a country carpenter undertaken a similar piece of work. Then a rumor spread abroad that the cure felt very grieved that he had to give this work to a carpenter who was a stranger in the community, but that Sabot’s opinions were a barrier to his being entrusted with the job.
Sabot knew it well. He called at the parsonage just as it was growing dark. The servant told him that the cure was at church. He went to the church.
Two attendants on the altar of the Virgin, two soar old maids, were decorating the altar for the month of Mary, under the direction of the priest, who stood in the middle of the chancel with his portly paunch, directing the two women who, mounted on chairs, were placing flowers around the tabernacle.
Sabot felt ill at ease in there, as though he were in the house of his greatest enemy, but the greed of gain was gnawing at his heart. He drew nearer, holding his cap in his hand, and not paying any attention to the “demoiselles de la Vierge,” who remained standing startled, astonished, motionless on their chairs.
He faltered:
“Good morning, monsieur le cure.”
Th
e priest replied without looking at him, all occupied as he was with the altar:
“Good morning, Mr. Carpenter.”
Sabot, nonplussed, knew not what to say next. But after a pause he remarked:
“You are making preparations?”
Abbe Maritime replied:
“Yes, we are near the month of Mary.”
“Why, why,” remarked Sabot and then was silent. He would have liked to retire now without saying anything, but a glance at the chancel held him back. He saw sixteen seats that had to be remade, six to the right and eight to the left, the door of the sacristy occupying the place of two. Sixteen oak seats, that would be worth at most three hundred francs, and by figuring carefully one might certainly make two hundred francs on the work if one were not clumsy.
Then he stammered out:
“I have come about the work.”
The cure appeared surprised. He asked:
“What work?”
“The work to be done,” murmured Sabot, in dismay.
Then the priest turned round and looking him straight in the eyes, said:
“Do you mean the repairs in the chancel of my church?”
At the tone of the abbe, Theodule Sabot felt a chill run down his back and he once more had a longing to take to his heels. However, he replied humbly:
“Why, yes, monsieur le cure.”
Then the abbe folded his arms across his large stomach and, as if filled with amazement, said:
“Is it you—you—you, Sabot—who have come to ask me for this… You—the only irreligious man in my parish! Why, it would be a scandal, a public scandal! The archbishop would give me a reprimand, perhaps transfer me.”
He stopped a few seconds, for breath, and then resumed in a calmer tone: “I can understand that it pains you to see a work of such importance entrusted to a carpenter from a neighboring parish. But I cannot do otherwise, unless—but no—it is impossible—you would not consent, and unless you did, never.”
Sabot now looked at the row of benches in line as far as the entrance door. Christopher, if they were going to change all those!
And he asked:
“What would you require of me? Tell me.”
The priest, in a firm tone replied:
“I must have an extraordinary token of your good intentions.”
“I do not say—I do not say; perhaps we might come to an understanding,” faltered Sabot.
“You will have to take communion publicly at high mass next Sunday,” declared the cure.
The carpenter felt he was growing pale, and without replying, he asked:
“And the benches, are they going to be renovated?”
The abbe replied with confidence:
“Yes, but later on.”
Sabot resumed:
“I do not say, I do not say. I am not calling it off, I am consenting to religion, for sure. But what rubs me the wrong way is, putting it in practice; but in this case I will not be refractory.”
The attendants of the Virgin, having got off their chairs had concealed themselves behind the altar; and they listened pale with emotion.
The cure, seeing he had gained the victory, became all at once very friendly, quite familiar.
“That is good, that is good. That was wisely said, and not stupid, you understand. You will see, you will see.”
Sabot smiled and asked with an awkward air:
“Would it not be possible to put off this communion just a trifle?”
But the priest replied, resuming his severe expression:
“From the moment that the work is put into your hands, I want to be assured of your conversion.”
Then he continued more gently:
“You will come to confession tomorrow; for I must examine you at least twice.”
“Twice?” repeated Sabot.
“Yes.”
The priest smiled.
“You understand perfectly that you must have a general cleaning up, a thorough cleansing. So I will expect you tomorrow.”
The carpenter, much agitated, asked:
“Where do you do that?”
“Why—in the confessional.”
“In—that box, over there in the corner? The fact is—is—that it does not suit me, your box.”
“How is that?”
“Seeing that—seeing that I am not accustomed to that, and also I am rather hard of hearing.”
The cure was very affable and said:
“Well, then! you shall come to my house and into my parlor. We will have it just the two of us, tête-à-tête. Does that suit you?”
“Yes, that is all right, that will suit me, but your box, no.”
“Well, then, tomorrow after the days work, at six o’clock.”
“That is understood, that is all right, that is agreed on. Tomorrow, monsieur le cure. Whoever draws back is a skunk!”
And he held out his great rough hand which the priest grasped heartily with a clap that resounded through the church.
Theodule Sabot was not easy in his mind all the following day. He had a feeling analogous to the apprehension one experiences when a tooth has to be drawn. The thought recurred to him at every moment: “I must go to confession this evening.” And his troubled mind, the mind of an atheist only half convinced, was bewildered with a confused and overwhelming dread of the divine mystery.
As soon as he had finished his work, he betook himself to the parsonage. The cure was waiting for him in the garden, reading his breviary as he walked along a little path. He appeared radiant and greeted him with a good-natured laugh.
“Well, here we are! Come in, come in, Monsieur Sabot, no one will eat you.”
And Sabot preceded him into the house. He faltered:
“If you do not mind I should like to get through with this little matter at once.”
The cure replied:
“I am at your service. I have my surplice here. One minute and I will listen to you.”
The carpenter, so disturbed that he had not two ideas in his head, watched him as he put on the white vestment with its pleated folds. The priest beckoned to him and said:
“Kneel down on this cushion.”
Sabot remained standing, ashamed of having to kneel. He stuttered:
“Is it necessary?”
But the abbe had become dignified.
“You cannot approach the penitent bench except on your knees.”
And Sabot knelt down.
“Repeat the confiteor,” said the priest.
“What is that?” asked Sabot.
“The confiteor. If you do not remember it, repeat after me, one by one, the words I am going to say.” And the cure repeated the sacred prayer, in a slow tone, emphasizing the words which the carpenter repeated after him. Then he said:
“Now make your confession.”
But Sabot was silent, not knowing where to begin. The abbe then came to his aid.
“My child, I will ask you questions, since you don’t seem familiar with these things. We will take, one by one, the commandments of God. Listen to me and do not be disturbed. Speak very frankly and never fear that you may say too much.
“‘One God alone, thou shalt adore,
And love him perfectly.’
“Have you ever loved anything, or anybody, as well as you loved God? Have you loved him with all your soul, all your heart, all the strength of your love?”
Sabot was perspiring with the effort of thinking. He replied:
“No. Oh, no, m’sieu le cure. I love God as much as I can. That is —yes—I love him very much. To say that I do not love my children, no—I cannot say that. To say that if I had to choose between them and God, I could not be sure. To say that if I had to lose a hundred francs for the love of God, I could not say about that. But I love him well, for sure, I love him all the same.” The priest said gravely “You must love Him more than all besides.” And Sabot, meaning well, declared “I will do what I possibly can, m’sieu le cure.” The abbe resumed:
“
‘God’s name in vain thou shalt not take
Nor swear by any other thing.’
“Did you ever swear?”
“No—oh, that, no! I never swear, never. Sometimes, in a moment of anger, I may say sacre nom de Dieu! But then, I never swear.”
“That is swearing,” cried the priest, and added seriously:
“Do not do it again.
“‘Thy Sundays thou shalt keep
In serving God devoutly.’
“What do you do on Sunday?”
This time Sabot scratched his ear.
“Why, I serve God as best I can, m’sieu le cure. I serve him—at home. I work on Sunday.”
The cure interrupted him, saying magnanimously:
“I know, you will do better in future. I will pass over the following commandments, certain that you have not transgressed the two first. We will take from the sixth to the ninth. I will resume:
“‘Others’ goods thou shalt not take
Nor keep what is not thine.’
“Have you ever taken in any way what belonged to another?”
But Theodule Sabot became indignant.
“Of course not, of course not! I am an honest man, m’sieu le cure, I swear it, for sure. To say that I have not sometimes charged for a few more hours of work to customers who had means, I could not say that. To say that I never add a few centimes to bills, only a few, I would not say that. But to steal, no! Oh, not that, no!”
The priest resumed severely:
“To take one single centime constitutes a theft. Do not do it again.
‘False witness thou shalt not bear,
Nor lie in any way.’
“Have you ever told a lie?”
“No, as to that, no. I am not a liar. That is my quality. To say that I have never told a big story, I would not like to say that. To say that I have never made people believe things that were not true when it was to my own interest, I would not like to say that. But as for lying, I am not a liar.”
The priest simply said:
The Guy De Maupassant Megapack: 144 Novels and Short Stories Page 43
