I knew what I was about; my mind had run over the intent with lightning-speed.

To take this step could not make me more wretched than I was; it might soothe me.
The priest within the confessional never turned his eyes to regard me; he only quietly inclined his ear to my lips.

He might be a good man, but this duty had become to him a sort of form: he went through it with the phlegm of custom.

I hesitated; of the formula of confession I was ignorant: instead of commencing, then, with the prelude usual, I said:--"Mon pere, je suis Protestante." He directly turned.

He was not a native priest: of that class, the cast of physiognomy is, almost invariably, grovelling: I saw by his profile and brow he was a Frenchman; though grey and advanced in years, he did not, I think, lack feeling or intelligence.