Arizona republican., 1901-01-20
AN ACCIDENT
(By Francois Coppee. )


 c. P. of Phoenix.
 St. Medard. the old church in Rue Morffetard. which has since made .he Paris deaco1s and the Coumlscionaries so celebrated, is a very poor parish. Tine Fauberg Marceau, as they call it there. has not much religion, and thn wardens have trouble 70 make ends meet. Sunday. at the hours of service. Nhere are very few people, and thos. nearly all women. A score of the citi- zens of that quarter and few ser wants in bunch. As cor the men. one sees three or four aged oaes, dressed like peasants, who knoel on the bare floor, near pillar, anG dropping their heads between their fingers. moving their lips and raising their eyes toward the arches, remind one of stained glass figures. But turing the week TO cme comes. Thursdays. in the winter. the side aislCs resound an instant with the chatter of wooden shoes when the little ones come and go through their catechism. Sometimes. again, a poor woman with handkerchiyf around her head, dragging after her enc or two children, and carrying an infant in her arms. comes tC, light a little taper on the altar of the Virgin--or. p rhaps, the scream of a newborn babe bting caristened-or more frequently the bur ial Of some poor wretch, d pine coffin, draped with a black cloth, on a plat form. which the priest blesscs in haste, before very small group of women. The men were free-thinkers and await ed the end of the ceremony before the bar. where they threw iicn for drinks.
 Thus it is old Abbe Faber, one of the parish priests, Is not very certain of finding prnitents TWO times out of three before his confessional. and has only for the most part to hear uninteresting avowals of few good Ncmrn. But he is a man of duty, and Tuesdays. Thurs days and Saturdays. at exactly seven o'clock. he betakes himself regularly o the chapel of St. Joan. ..aviDg nothing better to do than to say a short prayer and go back home if nN one Is there
 One Sunday evening of last winter, wh.h his umbr,lla open, struggling against a gale of wlnd Abbe, Faber walked painfully along Rue Monffe- tard to the church Certain of incon- veniencng himself uselessly he regret ted the good frr he had left in his lit tie dwelling in che Rue Thomond, and the Bollandiste folio which was opcn on his table, with his spectacles upon Il.
 He was annoyed as much as any thing at going out because this Satur- day was payday, and ordinarily at that time in Rue Monffetard swarmed the crowd-a crowd that was lilly dis posed coward his cloth. Although one may be good man it is not pleasant 10 be forced to lower ones eyes before impudent looks and close ones cars to insulting words heard in passing. There was a certain saloon that the -Abbe d.slikcd particularly--a place all ablaze with light and throwing out an alcoholic odor through the open door, from whence one could see barrels la belled Absln,he. Beer, Madiera. Yer muth, etc. There stood the bar in front, always surrounded by a band of loafers in long blous-s and high hats. who salutcd the hurrying priest with cries of Grow! Crow" very offensive ly. However. this evening. the bal weather causing the street to be desert-
 
 without mishap. He dipped his finger in the holy water to bless himself, made Ghe sign of the cross and a hasty bow to the middle altar, and took his way toward the confessional. At least he had not come for nothing: a peni- tent awaited him.
 A male penitent! A thing rare and exceptional at St. Mejard, but .n look ing closer, by the rcd light of the lamp hanging from rhc arch of the chapel at the short, white blouse and the grear chg shoes and the knesling man, Abbe Fabrr made up his mind it was some workman having kept his faith like country man and the good habits of re- ligious practices.
 So the priest ercered his confessional very calmly, and after having taken a copiors pinch of snuff, without any emotion opened the little green serge curtain which closed the tiny window.
 Monsieur le Cure" stammered a harsh voice, forcing itself to speak 1 low. "l am mt the Cure, my friend: | call me father and say your confiteor. | The man, whose face Abbc Fabcr cculd i not see, being hidden in the shadow, | mumbled slowly the prayer. which he | seemed to recall with difficulty. Then | he spoke indistinctly: Monsieur le cure--no-my father, ex- cuse me If do not speak properly, but | have not confesse for twenty five | years-not since I left the country; you | know how it is-a man in Paris: and | thcn was rc worse than the next one | and said to myself God is mrrcful to | a good child:' but today that which | have on my conscience is too heavy to | carr alone, and 1t is necessary that | you shoulT listen, M. .e Cure. have | killed a man!
 The Abbe jumped from h.s seat. A | It was not a confession of | during services, of evil | speaking agains;! a neighbor and other | gossip of old women that he listened to | with one ear and absolved with conh- | dence. A murdedcr, That fac which | was so near to his own had planned | and carried out ths thought of a crime; | those hands joined on his confessional | were perhaps still wet whh blood. Tn l his perplexity, in which there was d | ll,tlc fear, Abbe Faber found only me- words:
 Confess. my son; the mercy of God | is infinite"