fession, although the Cure had been very kind,
quite as lenient and kind, indeed,^ as his parents,
Christophe sighed as he turned his steps towards
home, because in his heart he was terribly lonely;
and because when he tried hard to think about God
and the saints he kept thinking about Mireio.
§6
In his study the Cure sat pretending to read. He
was tired by his evening of hearing confessions —
they were always the same in the town of Saint Loup
which, praised be the saints, had not many great
sinners. Yes, but always the same little ugly sins —
sloth, greed, the neglect or the scamping of prayers,
the uncharitable thought, the injurious word, the
absence of Christian love for a neighbour. Although
sometimes, it was true, there were graver trans-
gressions, bred of overmuch liquor and overmuch
sunshine — those shatteringly sudden lapses from
grace, which at first had so greatly perturbed the
Cure.
'Alas/ he murmured, 6pauvre humanite. How
immeasurably distant we all are from heaven.*
Then he thought: 'Christophe Benedit and his dog
— I remember that he said something to me about
it. That was ... let me see ... quite a long
time ago. I fully intended to speak to Jouse, but
somehow what with my parish and the heat . . . And
how odd that business about the boy's hands, about
laying his hands on the creature's head — very odd.
And what curious eyes he has; they haunted me one
day, I could not forget them . . . Ah, mais non, I
too become imaginative, Christophe is just like
every other boy, he is constantly in and out of mis-
chief with Jan; all the same, I am glad I was a little
severe regarding those foolish fancies of his —one
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