The Grip of Desire | Page 3

on his lips; before all these
modest or burning looks fixed upon his gaze, a strange sensation rose
to his brain; the perspiration stood upon his forehead, he blushed and
grew pale by turns; a shiver ran through his frame, and trying to subdue
the ardour of his gaze, he turned towards the crowd of young girls, and
said to them in a trembling voice:
--Dominus vobiscum.
--Et cum spiritu tuo, answered the choir of maidens. Oh, how willingly
instead of the name of God would he have cast to them his heart.

II.
THE CONFESSIONAL.
"In the course of the holy missions to which I have consecrated a great

portion of my life, I have often come across upright souls, disposed to
make great progress in perfection, if they had found a skilful director."
THE REV. FATHER J.B. SCAROMELLI (The Spiritual Guide).
However, almost in spite of myself, I was interested in this young priest,
and although disposed to believe that he was a knave like the rest, I was
sensible of something in him so upright and so loyal that I was, from
the very first, prejudiced in his favour.
And besides, these flashes of fiery passion which at times betrayed him,
could they serve as an accusation against him? Could one take offence
at his not having completely stifled at thirty years the fierce passions of
youth and his violent desires? Was it not a proof on the contrary of his
victorious struggles and of his energy?
And even though he should succumb before the imperious needs of
potent nature, which would be the more culpable, he or the women who
surrounded him, enveloped him with their gaze, encompassed him with
their seductions; he or the husbands and fathers who seemed tacitly to
say to him: "You are young, ardent, fall of passion and vigour, there is
my daughter, there is my wife, I hand them to you, receive their
confessions, dive into their looks, read in their soul, listen month to
month to their most secret confidences, but beware of touching their
lips."
Fools! And when the priest succumbs and their shame is noised abroad,
they make a great uproar and complain to all the echoes, instead of
bowing their head and humbly saying: mea culpa.
What? silly fool, you cast the modesty of your young wife and the
virginity of your daughter as food for that envious celibate, you leave
them alone in the mysterious tête-à-tête of the confessional, with no
obstacle between his burning lust and the object of that lost, between
those mouths which speak so low![1]
What will stop them? Duty? Virtue? His duty to himself? Laughable
obstacles. Fragile plank on which you place your honour.

Her own virtue? Trust not to it overmuch, for he will know how to lead
her to the will of his appetite. He will form her in such a way that she
will pass by all the roads by which he will wish to guide her. It is a gate
which he will contrive sooner or later to force, however it may be
bolted, however it may be guarded by those sleepy gaolers which we
call Principles.
The Confessional! Marvellous invention of greedy curiosity, satanic
work of some hoary sinner! Hallowed goad of concupiscence, blessed
antechamber which leads to the alcove, mysterious retreat where the
priest sits between husband and wife, listens to their private talk and
stands by, panting at all their excesses. Refuge more secret than the
best padded boudoir. Formidable entrenchment sacred to all! What
jealous lover would dare to lift that curtain of serge behind which are
murmured so many secret confidences?
It is there that the artless virgin utters her first confessions; there, that
the plighted maid reveals the beatings of her heart; there, that the
blushing bride unveils the secrets of the nuptial couch.
He, the man of God, he listens ... he collects all their voluptuous
nothings and out of them creates worlds. Do you see him give ear? His
face has kept its sanctimonious expression, but the fire gleams forth
beneath his drooping eye-lid. He is leaning near, as near as possible to
those stammering lips.... The penitent is silent. What! already?
everything said already? Oh! that is not enough. She has passed too
quickly over certain faults the remembrance of which covers her
forehead with a blush. He is not satisfied. He wishes to know further.
He reproves gently, "Why hesitate? God is full of pity; but in order that
the pardon may be complete, the confession must be complete," and
anew he questions, he presses ... his temples throb, his blood boils, his
hands burn, the demon of the flesh completely embraces him.
Come, incautious girl, speak, explain, give details, and by the
confession of your pleasant