He discovered the priest alone in the church: 'Mon
pere, I wish to confess/ he said gravely. So the Cure
slipped on his cotta and stole, and together they
entered the dark confessional.
*Mon pere, something dreadful has happened to
my faith. . . .*
'Go on, my child,5 said the Cure, calmly.
'I cannot say my prayers. . . .'
'And why cannot you pray?5
'Because I no longer believe in God.5
There ensued a short pause, then the Cure
murmured: 'And yet I think God still believes in you,
and perhaps that is even more important.' He could
be, at times, quite a wise confessor.
'But supposing that we only imagine a God . . .*
faltered Christophe at the end of his painful confession.
'Supposing that He has no existence at all, that we
think He is there just because we need Him?'
'And who put that great need in our hearts, my
child? Surely that need is God,s said the Cure. Then
he told the boy to remain and hear Mass in order
that he might draw near to his Maker.
So Christophe received the little white Host with
that, curious feeling of apprehension which was all
that remained of the terrible fear that had gripped him
during his First Communion. Very reverently he
received the Host from the Cure's delicate, scholarly
fingers.
But the sense of doubt and bereavement persisted,
so that Christophe grew more and more melancholy,
eating little, and walking with drooping head; while
at moments he would find himself almost tearful
because the mountains looked unusually blue, or the
olive trees unusually silver, or the stars unusually
bright and friendly; for if there was no God to thank
for such things, there could be neither meaning nor
hope in their beauty. Thus April passed gloomily
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