THE STORY
OF
ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS
By
PAUL BOURGET
Adapted by
G.F. MONKSHOOD
LONDON
GREENING & CO., LTD.
1909
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
THE STORY OF
ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS
I
When a child, I went to confession. How often have I wished that I werestill the lad who came at five o'clock into the chapel of our school,the cold empty chapel, with its white-washed walls, its benches on whichour places were numbered, its harmonium, its Holy Family, its blueceiling dotted with stars. We were taken to this chapel in tens. When itcame to my turn to kneel in one of the two spaces on either side of thecentral seat of the priest, my heart would beat violently, and a feelingof oppression would come upon me, produced by the gloom and silence, andthe murmur of the confessor's voice as he questioned the boy on theopposite side, to whom I was to succeed. These sensations, and the shameinspired by sins which I was to confess, made me start with dread whenthe sound of the sliding panel announced that the moment had come, and Icould distinguish the priest's profile, and note the keenness of hisglance. What a moment of pain to endure, and then what a sense of relief!What a feeling of liberty, alleviation, pardon—nay, effacementof wrong-doing; what conviction that a spotless page was now offered tome, and it was mine to fill it with good deeds. I am too far removed nowfrom the faith of my early years to imagine that there was a phenomenonin all this. Whence then came the sense of deliverance that renewed theyouth of my soul? It came from the fact that I had told my sins, that Ihad thrown over the burden of conscience that oppresses us all.Confession was the lancet-stroke that empties the abscess. Alas! I havenow no confessional at which to kneel, no prayer to murmur, no God inwhom to hope! Nevertheless, I must get rid of these intolerablerecollections. The tragedy of my life presses too heavily upon mymemory, and I have no friend to speak to, no echo to take up my plaint.There are things which cannot be uttered, since they ought not to find ahearer; and so I have resolved, in order to cheat my pain, to make myconfession here, to myself alone, on this white paper, as I might makeit to a priest. I will write down all the details of my terrible historyas each comes to my remembrance, and when this confession is finished, Ishall see whether I am to be rid of the anguish also. Ah! if it couldeven be diminished! If it wer