She did not
want so much as a look; a place in his thoughts would have been
enough. The priest was, of course, her confessor, for there was no
other in the parish. The mode of Catholic confession, so admirable
in some respects, but so dangerous, had a great effect upon her
imagination. It was inexpressibly pleasing to her to find herself
every Saturday alone with him for half an hour, as if she were face
to face with God, to see him discharging the functions of God, to feel
his breath, to undergo the welcome humiliation of his reprimands, to
confide to him her inmost thoughts, scruples, and fears. You must not
imagine, however, that she told him everything, for a pious woman
has rarely the courage to make use of the confessional for a love
confidence. She may perhaps give herself up to the enjoyment of
sentiments which are not devoid of peril, but there is always a
certain degree of mysticism about them which is not to be conciliated
with anything so horrible as sacrilege. At all events, in this
particular case, the girl was so shy that the words would have died
upon her lips, and her passion was a silent, inward, and devouring
fire. And with all this, she was compelled to see him every day and
many times a day; young and handsome, always following a dignified
calling, officiating with the people on their knees before him, the
judge and keeper of her own conscience. It was too much for her, and
her head began to go. Her vigorous organization, deflected from its
proper course, gave way, and her old father attributed to weakness
of mind what was the result of the ravages wrought by the fantastic
workings of a love-stricken heart.
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