Pierre was thinking of this when all at once he recalled an evening he
had spent with her. The lamp had not yet been lighted, he was seated
beside her in the growing obscurity, and she suddenly told him that she
wished to go to Lourdes, feeling certain that she would return cured. He
had experienced an uncomfortable sensation on hearing her speak in this
fashion, and quite forgetting himself had exclaimed that it was folly to
believe in such childishness. He had hitherto made it a rule never to
converse with her on religious matters, having not only refused to be her
confessor, but even to advise her with regard to the petty uncertainties
of her pietism. In this respect he was influenced by feelings of mingled
shame and compassion; to lie to her of all people would have made him
suffer, and, moreover, he would have deemed himself a criminal had he
even by a breath sullied that fervent pure faith which lent her such
strength against pain. And so, regretting that he had not been able to
restrain his exclamation, he remained sorely embarrassed, when all at
once he felt the girl's cold hand take hold of his own. And then,
emboldened by the darkness, she ventured in a gentle, faltering voice, to
tell him that she already knew his secret, his misfortune, that
wretchedness, so fearful for a priest, of being unable to believe.
Despite himself he had revealed everything during their chats together,
and she, with the delicate intuition of a friend, had been able to read
his conscience.
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