So this man was surrounded by a certain aura of mystery.

  As for me, I only ever thought of him, I must admit, when his poor wife came to me to confess his errors and ask for my advice.

  On these occasions, as you will understand, I advised her to use all her influence over her husband to bring him back to the straight and narrow. But the poor woman’s influence was really weak. So she had to fall back on resorting to prayer, that eternal channel of grace opened up between us and the Lord.

  The Easter festivities of 1783 were approaching. It was the night between Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. I had, on the Thursday, heard a great number of confessions, and at around eight o’clock in the evening had found myself feeling so tired that I had dropped off to sleep in the confessional.

  The sacristan had seen me asleep; but, aware as he was of my habits, and knowing that I had a key to the church door with me, he had not even thought of waking me; my behaviour on this particular evening was the same as it had been a hundred times before.

  So I was asleep when in the middle of my sleep I heard, as it were, the echo of two simultaneous noises. One was the vibration of the bronze striker chiming midnight; the other was the pad of a footstep on the flagstone.

  I opened my eyes, and was just about to step out of the confessional when, in the beam of moonlight shed through one of the stained-glass windows, I thought I saw a man moving along.

  As this man was walking with care, looking around at every step he took, I realized it was neither one of my assistants nor the beadle, nor the cantor, nor any of the ordinary denizens of the church, but some intruder who was up to no good.

  The nocturnal visitor made his way towards the choir. Once there, he stopped, and after a moment I heard the clink of iron on flint. I saw a spark flash up; a piece of touchwood caught fire and a flare moved towards a candle set on the altar, on whose tip it placed its wandering light.

  By the light of this candle, I was then able to see a man of middling height, wearing two pistols and a dagger at his belt, with an expression that was mocking rather than fierce; darting an enquiring glance all round the circumference illuminated by the candle, he seemed to be completely reassured by his examination.

  Thereupon, he drew from his pocket not a bundle of keys, but a bundle of those instruments designed to replace them, known as skeleton keys or rossignols, no doubt after that famous Rossignol* who boasted he had the key to all codes. With the help of one of these instruments, he opened the tabernacle, taking out first of all the holy ciborium, a magnificent vessel in old silver, chiselled in the reign of Henri II, then a massive monstrance, which had been given to the town by Queen Marie-Antoinette, and finally two silver gilt cruets.

  As this was all that the tabernacle contained, he carefully closed it, and knelt down to open the base of the altar, which acted as a reliquary.

  The base of the altar contained a figure of Our Lady in wax, wearing a crown of gold and diamonds, and covered with a robe embroidered all over with precious stones.

  Within five minutes, the reliquary, whose walls of glass the thief could easily have broken, had been opened, like the tabernacle, with the help of a skeleton key, and he was just getting ready to add the robe and the crown to the monstrance, the altar cruets and the holy ciborium, when, not wishing to allow such a theft to be committed, I came out of the confessional and went up to the altar.

  The noise I made opening the door made the thief turn round. He leant forward in my direction and tried to pierce the darkness of the distant corners of the church with his gaze, but the confessional was outside the range of his light, so that he only really saw me when I came within the circle illuminated by the tremulous flame of his candle.

  On seeing it was a man, the thief leant against the altar, drew a pistol from his belt and aimed it at me.

  But he was soon able to see, from my long black robe, that I was just a mere inoffensive priest, whose only safeguard was his faith, and whose only weapon was his word.

  Despite the threat of the pistol aimed at me, I advanced to the altar steps. I felt that, if he did take a shot at me, either the pistol would misfire or the ball would miss its target; I had placed my hand on my medal and felt myself completely protected by the holy love of Our Lady.

  This tranquillity on the part of a poor priest seemed to touch the bandit.

  “What do you want?” he asked me, making every effort to ensure his voice sounded firm.

  “Are you L’Artifaille?” I asked him.

  “Good Lord!” he replied. “And who else would ever dare to break into a church all alone, as I do?”

  “Poor hardened sinner, puffing yourself up with pride at your crime!” said I. “Do you not realize that if you continue to play this game, you will lose not only your body, but also your soul?”

  “Pah!” he said. “As for my body, I’ve already saved it so many times that I have every hope of saving it again, and as for my soul—”

  “Well? As for your soul?”

  “That’s my wife’s business; she’s holy enough for two, and she will save my soul at the same time as her own.”

  “You’re right, your wife is a holy woman, my friend, and she would be sure to die of sorrow if she learnt that you’d perpetrated the crime you were just carrying out.”

  “Aha! So you think that my poor wife will die of sorrow?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “So I’m going to be a widower then!” continued the brigand bursting into laughter and reaching out for the sacred vessels.

  But I went up the three steps of the altar and seized his hand.

  “No,” I said, “because you’re not going to commit this sacrilege.”

  “And who’s going to stop me?”

  “I am.”

  “By force?”

  “No, by persuasion. God did not send his ministers to earth so that they would use force, which is a human thing, but persuasion, which is a heavenly virtue. My friend, I am acting not for the church, which will be able to procure replacement vessels, but for you, who will not be able to redeem your sin; my friend, you will not commit this sacrilege.”

  “Huh! So you think this is the first time I’ve done so, my good fellow?”

  “No, I know it’s the tenth, the twentieth, perhaps the thirtieth – but what of that? Up until now your eyes have been closed; this evening they will be opened – that’s all. Have you never head of a man called Paul who looked after the cloaks of those who were stoning St Stephen? Well, that man’s eyes were covered by scales, but as he said himself, one day the scales fell from his eyes; he could see, and became St Paul. Yes, St Paul!… The great, the illustrious St Paul!”

  “So tell me, vicar, wasn’t St Paul executed?”

  “Yes.”

  “So whatever was the use of him seeing?”

  “Its use was that it convinced him that sometimes salvation is found in agony. Nowadays, St Paul’s name is venerated throughout the earth, and enjoys eternal beatitude in heaven.”

  “How old was St Paul when he started to see?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Too late for me: I’m forty.”

  “There is always time to repent. On the cross, Jesus said to the wicked thief: ‘One word of prayer, and I will save you.’”

  “Pah! So I see you want your silver?” said the bandit, gazing at me.

  “No, I want your soul – I want to save it.”

  “My soul! You’re having me on – as if you cared!”

  “Do you want me to prove that it really is your soul I want?” I said to him.

  “Yes, prove it to me – it’ll give me the greatest pleasure.”

  “What value do you put on the theft you’re going to commit tonight?”

  “Oh, well now…” said the brigand, looking over the altar cruets, the chalice, the monstrance and the Virgin’s robe with satisfaction, “a thousand écus.”

  “A thousand écus?”

  “I know full well it’s worth double the amount, but I’ll have to lose a good two thirds on the deal – those devilish Jews are such thieves!”

  “Come to my home.”

  “Your home?”

  “Yes, my home, the presbytery. I have a sum of a thousand francs, I’ll make you a part payment.”

  “And the other two thousand?”

  “The other two thousand? Well, I promise you, priest’s honour, that I’ll go back to my home village – my mother has some property. I’ll sell off three or four acres of land to provide the other two thousand francs, and I’ll give you the money.”

  “Oh yes – just so you can fix up a meeting place and then make me fall into some trap!”

  “You don’t really believe what you’re saying,” I told him, holding out my hand to him.

  “All right, I don’t believe it,” he said sombrely. “But is your mother wealthy, then?”

  “My mother is poor.”

  “So she’ll be ruined?”

  “When I tell her it is at the price of her ruin that I have saved a soul, she will bless me. In any case, if she has nothing left, she’ll come and live with me, and I’ll still have enough for two.”

  “I accept,” he said. “Let’s go to your home.”

  “Very well, but one moment.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Put back the things you took out of the tabernacle, and lock it – it will bring you happiness.”

  The bandit knitted his brows, like a man into whom faith is flooding in spite of himself; he set the sacred vessels back in the tabernacle and locked it with the greatest care.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “First make the sign of the cross,” I told him.

  He tried to utter a mocking laugh, but the laughter died in his throat.

  Then he made the sign of the cross.

  “Now follow me,” I told him.

  We went out through the little door; in less than five minutes, we were at my home.

  Throughout the journey, despite its being a short one, the bandit seemed really anxious, looking all round him and clearly afraid that I was going to lead him into an ambush.

  Once we reached my place, he stood at the door.

  “Well, what about those thousand francs?” he asked.

  “Wait,” I replied.

  I lit a candle from my dying fire; I opened a cupboard and drew out a bag.

  “Here it all is,” I said.

  And I gave him the bag.

  “And what about the other two thousand? When will I get them?”

  “I need to ask you for six weeks.”

  “Very well, I’ll give you six weeks.”

  “Who shall I give the money to?”

  The bandit thought it over for a minute.

  “To my wife,” he said.

  “Very well!”

  “But she won’t know where they come from or how I got them, will she?”

  “She won’t know, and nor will anyone else. And you in turn will never again attempt anything against Notre-Dame d’Étampes or any other church under the patronage of the Virgin Mary – agreed?”

  “Never!”

  “On your word of honour?”

  “L’Artifaille gives his word!”

  “Go, my brother, and sin no more.”

  I bowed and waved my hand to indicate that he was free to go.

  He seemed to hesitate for a moment; then, cautiously opening the door, he vanished.

  I fell to my knees and prayed for this man.

  I had not finished my prayer before I heard a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” I said without turning round.

  Someone did come in but, seeing me at prayer, stopped and waited behind me.

  When I had finished my prayer, I turned round and I saw L’Artifaille standing motionless and erect in front of the door, holding his bag under his arm.

  “Here,” he said. “I’ve brought your thousand francs back.”

  “My thousand francs?”

  “Yes, and we’re quits for the other two thousand.”

  “And meanwhile the promise you made me still stands?”

  “Yes, for Heaven’s sake!”

  “So you repent?”

  “I don’t know if I repent, yes or no… I just don’t want your money, that’s all.”

  And he placed the bag on the edge of the sideboard.

  Then, once he’d put down the bag, he paused as if he had some request to make; but this request, I sensed, was one he found difficult to utter. He was looking at me quizzically.

  “What would you like?” I asked him. “Speak up, my friend. What you have just done is good; do not hesitate to do something better.”

  “Do you have a great devotion to Our Lady?” he asked me.

  “Very great.”

  “And you think that, through her intercession, a man, however guilty he may be, can be saved at the hour of death? Very well, in return for your three thousand francs – as I’ve said, we’re quits over that – give me some relic, some rosary, something holy that I can kiss at the hour of my death.”

  I undid the medal and the golden chain that my mother had hung from my neck on the day I was born – and that had never left me since then – and I gave them to the brigand.

  The brigand placed his lips on the medal and fled.

  A year went by without me hearing anything about L’Artifaille; doubtless he had left Étampes to practise his trade elsewhere.

  At this juncture, I received a letter from my colleague, the curate of Fleury. My dear mother was gravely ill and wanted me to be with her. I was granted leave and I set off.

  Six weeks or two months of care, attention and prayers restored health to my mother. We separated – I was filled with joy and she was in good health – and I came back to Étampes.

  I arrived one Friday evening; the whole town was in uproar. The notorious thief, L’Artifaille, had been captured near Orléans, and put on trial before the presidial court of justice in that town which, after passing sentence, had sent him to Étampes to be hanged, since it was the canton of Étampes which had been the main scene of his misdemeanours.

  The execution had taken place that very morning.

  This is what I learnt in the street, but on entering the presbytery I learnt something entirely different: a woman from the lower town had come the previous morning (just when L’Artifaille had arrived in Étampes to be put to death), and had been asking ten times over whether I was back yet.

  This persistence was not at all surprising. I had written to tell them I would be home soon, and I was expected from one minute to the next.

  The only person I knew in the lower town was the poor woman who was about to be widowed. I resolved to go to her house before I had even shaken the dust off my feet.

  There was no great distance between the presbytery and the lower town. Admittedly, it was striking ten in the evening, but I reflected that, since her desire to see me was so strong, the poor woman would not be put out by my visit.

  So I went down into the suburb and had someone point out her house for me. As everyone knew her to be a saint, nobody imputed her husband’s crime to her, and no one tried to make her feel ashamed for the shame he had incurred.

  I reached the door. The shutter was open, and, through the window pane, I could see the poor woman at the foot of the bed, kneeling in prayer.

  I knocked on the door.

  She stood up and rushed to open the door for me.

  “Ah, Father!” she exclaimed. “I guessed it was you! When I heard the knock, I realized it was you. Alas, alas, you’ve come too late! My husband died without confession.”

  “So did he die with evil thoughts in his head?”

  “No, quite the opposite – I’m sure he was a Christian in the depths of his heart, but he had declared that he didn’t want any other priest than you, he would confess only to you, and, if he didn’t confess to you, he would confess to nobody other than Our Lady.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes, and as he did so, he kept kissing a medal of the Virgin hanging from his neck on a golden chain, insisting above all else that nobody take that medal off him, and saying that, so long as he managed to be buried with this medal on, the evil spirit would have no power over his body.”

  “Is that all he said?”

  “No. When he left me to walk to the scaffold, he also told me that you’d be arriving this evening, that you’d come to see me as soon as you arrived – that’s why I was waiting for you.”

  “He told you that?” I asked in astonishment.

  “Yes, and then he also gave me one last request.”

  “For me?”

  “For you. He said that, whatever time you arrived, I should ask you… My God! I don’t dare to ask you such a thing, it would be such a nuisance for you!…”

  “Speak up, my good woman, speak up!”

  “Well, he said I should ask you to go to the Justice* and there, under his body, to say five Paters and five Aves for the benefit of his soul. He told me you wouldn’t refuse me that, Father.”

  “He was quite right, I’ll go and do it.”

  “Oh, how kind you are!”

  She seized my hands and wanted to kiss them.

  I freed myself.

  “Come now, my good woman,” I said, “be strong!”

  “God is making me strong, Father. I have no complaints.”

  “He didn’t make any other request?”

  “No.”

  “Good! If all that is needed for his soul to find rest is for this wish to be granted, then his soul will find rest.”

  I went out.

  It was about half-past ten. It was one of the last days in April, and there was still a chill wind. However, the sky was beautiful, especially for a painter, since the moon was rolling through a sea of dark waves that gave the horizon a certain grandeur.