I had to kneel there ten minutes
waiting, for on the other side was another penitent invisible to me.
At last that went away and a little wooden door inside the grating
opened, and I saw the priest leaning his ear towards me. I was
obliged to begin, and yet I did not know a word of the formula with
which they always commence their confessions. It was a funny
position. I felt precisely as I did when alone on the Thames at
midnight. I commenced with saying I was a foreigner and had been
brought up a Protestant. The priest asked if I was a Protestant
then. I somehow could not tell a lie and said "yes." He replied
that in that case I could not "_jouir du bonheur de la confesse_";
but I was determined to confess, and at last he said he would allow
me because it might be the first step towards returning to the true
church. I actually did confess--a real confession. When I had done
he told me his address, and said that every morning I was to go to
the rue du Parc--to his house--and he would reason with me and try to
convince me of the error and enormity of being a Protestant!!! I
promised faithfully to go. Of course, however, the adventure stops
there, and I hope I shall never see the priest again. I think you
had better not tell papa of this.
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