This desire seemed easily satisfied;
what village is without a father confessor!
So, one fine day, the artist rang at the first parsonage he could find.
The priest's sister opened the door--offered him a seat--and told him
that her brother was away. But, after these preliminaries, the lady
seemed uneasy. She inquired what the stranger wanted.
"To speak with the priest."
What could this stranger have to say to him? Such was the question which
floated in her eyes, amidst the confused phrases in which she strove to
gain an explanation. Mr. P. finally told her that he had come to
confess.
"My brother will not return till very late," said the poor girl, unable
to disguise her distress.
"I will wait!" replied the traveler.
"Oh, sir, I hope you will not!"
He thought he heard her mutter: "We read such things in the papers!"
The visitor at last perceived that she took him for a thief, and he
could not depart quickly enough.
One more anecdote:
Francois Delsarte called himself a bad citizen, because he disliked to
undertake the duties entailed by reason of the national guard--a dignity
long demanded by the advanced party of the day, but of which they soon
wearied.
I think that the artist's infractions were often overlooked, and his
reasons for exemption were never too closely scanned. And yet, the
soldier-citizen was one day arraigned before a council of discipline,
which, without regard for this representative of the highest personages
of fiction, condemned him to three days' imprisonment.
Pages:
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292