MAUVE

Pauline spent a very agreeable half-hour at the confessional. As she picked off the heavy fruits of sin, the unburdened tree straightened its branches and resumed its vernal attitude.

“It feels a little like Amélie washing my head,” she mused. “As the fresh waves inundate me, I feel that I’m becoming lighter, relieved of a heavy veil, of the crepe of care.”

As she mused thus she felt ashamed, for she should have belonged entirely to contrition and have participated, by thrills of repentance, in the indulgent words of the priest.

“But that’s all right,” she went on, in her thoughts. “And then, this sensation of wellbeing that floods me—isn’t it the proof itself of the effect of the sacrament upon the sinner?”

She had recounted sweetly, without bragging, but without reticence, the story of her life for the past two years.

“I have sinned against chastity.”

“Yes. All by yourself?”

“No.”

“With your husband?”

“Oh! No.”

“Very well. Continue.”

“I have sinned in thought, in word and in deed.”

“A regular lover? An only one? Several?”

“An only one.”

“Very well. You desire ardently to see your accomplice, to kiss him, to surrender yourself to him?”

“Yes.”

“Often?”

“Always.”

“Very well. When you were together, did you exchange any dishonest talk?”

“Oh! No.”

“Dishonest talk,—that is, tender words?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Then, caresses. Normal?”

“ ...”

“Did he kiss you all over?”

“Yes.”

“For a long time.”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“I, too.”

“And it was thus that you would reach voluptuousness?”

“Sometimes.”

“I see. That’s quite serious. Was it of your own free will or by constraint?”

“Oh!”

“Of your own free will, then?”

“Yes.”

“This is horrible. You deserve the fires of hell.”

“Holy father, I repent, ever so much.”

“Very well. Continue. No other habitual attempts to avoid procreation?”

“ ...”

“You satisfied your passion without thinking of anything else, like beasts, according to the words of the apostle Saint Paul?”

“ ...”

“You mingled your flesh at a venture, with no other purpose than bestial pleasure?”

“Oh!”

“With never a reflection upon your own conduct, nary a regret, a thought of the teachings of Holy Church?”

“Alas!”

“Without shame?”

“I feel shame now.”

“Very well. Continue. Did you undress, naked? Completely naked?”

“Yes.”

“Without blushing?”

“Alas!”

“You were like a demon.”

“Oh!”

“It’s only demons who don’t blush at their nakedness.”

“I blush at it now.”

“Did you yield to the sway of a too ardent temperament?”

“ ...”

“To passion, then?”

“Yes, I loved.”

“You should have had recourse to sacraments, to pious devotions.”

“I am doing so now.”

“How did he enamor you?”

“I no longer know. By glances, by smiles, by words....”

“Did you struggle?”

“I loved him.”

“Is it over?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll never see him again?”

“Never.”

“Very well. Continue.”

And they had reviewed the other sins—gluttony, indolence, lying,—and Pauline recalled the delicate lunches after the furious repasts of love,—siestas in the arms of her friend, complicated tales that she invented to throw her husband’s curiosity off the scent. That dream! For it was now no more than a dream! That dream! She wept.

“Since your repentance is genuine, I am going to grant you absolution, which it would have been preferable to defer, perhaps, but tears wipe away many things. From the bottom of your heart ask pardon of God, whom you have offended so gravely.”

Her emotion had redoubled, while the Latin words fell one by one upon her blond tresses, through a delightful mauve hat matched to her dress, which was of the same hue, but paler.

The ceremony over, she greeted, with no embarrassment whatsoever, the priest, whom she knew. They spoke for a moment about the last charity sale, the results of which had proved marvelous, and the poor man could not help considering—without envy, of course, but with a certain astonished complaisance—this elegant young woman, good-looking and ingenious, who doubtless knew better than the most crafty casuist all the secrets of licentiousness.

“Woman! Woman! This one has two little children as pretty as angels, whom she herself takes to mass and to catechism. Her husband preaches holy war and her lover has left her for Mme. de Ruel, who loudly proclaims, ‘I, I am a fanatic of the Lord!’ Woman! Woman!”

Pauline, stepping back into her carriage, thought of the delightful orchids that a hand which she imagined she could easily guess had sent to her that very morning.

“Here I am, pure, spotless. What joy! There’s one of them with its little rose tail twisted like a corkscrew, and it’s a dear! It’s he, assuredly, it’s he. Already six o’clock! I hope I don’t miss him! Good Lord! How beautiful is religion! I’m so happy!”