CHAPTER xxvii

went by: it was autumn, it was winter, it
was Christmas. Jouse confessed that he drank
too much wine, that his heart was consumed by
bitterness, that he frequently felt a hot uprush of
anger. Striking his breast he mumbled these things,
his bulk disposed awkwardly in the confessional which
was shallow and cramped, so that Jouse's big feet
stuck out ludicrously from its green serge curtain.
The Cure rebuked, advised and forgave, sighing
because of his penitent's sins but also because his
own back was aching — he was now sixty-six and his
body grew stiff when he sat for too long in the same
position.
'Make a good act of contrition/ he sighed. And
Jouse made an act of contrition.
After this he lumbered away to his home, resisting
an overwhelming desire to turn in for a minute or
two at la Tarasque, trying not to think of past Christ-
mas Eves that had been so prosperous, happy and
peaceful, but above all trying not to hate Kahn: *Ai,5
he muttered as he took his way past Kahn's shop, cit is
hard indeed to be a good Christian/
At the midday meal he abstained from liquor and in
consequence grew so deeply depressed that the house
seemed stifled beneath his depression* A large,
desolate, penitent sinner indeed, whose confession had
brought him no comfort or peace, but only a sense of
322