"My friends, my good friends, my cousin," he said, "what will become
of my little boy?"
"I will take charge of him," said Marche-a-Terre.
"My good comrades," cried the victim, turning livid. "I am not fit to
die. Don't make me go without confession. You have the right to take
my life, but you've no right to make me lose a blessed eternity."
"That is true," said Marche-a-Terre, addressing Pille-Miche.
The two Chouans waited a moment in much uncertainty, unable to decide
this case of conscience. Galope-Chopine listened to the rustling of
the wind as though he still had hope. Suddenly Pille-Miche took him by
the arm into a corner of the hut.
"Confess your sins to me," he said, "and I will tell them to a priest
of the true Church, and if there is any penance to do I will do it for
you."
Galope-Chopine obtained some respite by the way in which he confessed
his sins; but in spite of their number and the circumstances of each
crime, he came finally to the end of them.
"Cousin," he said, imploringly, "since I am speaking to you as I would
to my confessor, I do assure you, by the holy name of God, that I have
nothing to reproach myself with except for having, now and then,
buttered my bread on both sides; and I call on Saint-Labre, who is
there over the chimney-piece, to witness that I have never said one
word about the Gars.
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