I am like a comet, she is like
the sun steady, steady, round and round, with plenty of sleep and the
comfortable darkness. Sometimes madame goes hard; so does the sun in
summer-shines, shines, shines like a furnace. Madame's body goes like
that--at the dairy, in the garden, with the loom, among the fowls,
growing her strawberries, keeping the women at the beating of the flax;
and then again it is all still and idle like the sun on a cloudy day; and
it rests. So it is with the human soul--I am a philosopher--I think the
soul goes hard the same as the body, churning, churning away in the heat
of the sun; and then it gets quiet and goes to sleep in the cloudy day,
when the body is sick of its bouncing, and it has a rest--the soul has a
rest, which is good for it, m'sieu'. I have worked it all out so.
Besides, the soul of madame is her own. I have not made any claim upon
it, and I will not expect you to do more, m'sieu' le cure."
"It is my duty to speak," protested the good priest. "Her soul is God's,
and I am God's vicar--"
Jean Jacques waved a hand. "T'sh, you are not the Pope. You are not even
an abbe. You were only a deacon a few years ago. You did not know how to
hold a baby for the christening when you came to St. Saviour's first. For
the mass, you have some right to speak; it is your duty perhaps; but the
confession, that is another thing; that is the will of every soul to do
or not to do.
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