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FTER listening to the dying woman's confession, Father Theodore left Hippolyte's house in great agitation and walked down the road, smiling absent-mindedly to himself. He was nearly run over by a motor-car and only just escaped out of the petrol fumes, but forgetting the dignity of his calling and age, he set off home at a gallop.

His wife was laying the table for supper. On days when there were no vespers Father Theodore liked to have supper early, but this time he took off his hat and coat and, much to the surprise of his wife, ran straight into the bedroom, locked the door, and began to pray in a loud, monotonous voice. 'There's something in the wind,' his wife thought to herself rather anxiously. 'I wonder what's the matter?'

Father Theodore was never at peace. He had never known what peace was, not even in the days when he had been a student at the theological college. After that he had studied law for three years at the university, but taking fright at the idea of being called up for military service in 1915, he again returned to the Church. First he was made a deacon, then ordained a priest, and finally appointed to this provincial town. Wherever he had been, and in whatever calling, he had always been greedy for gain, and had had dreams of making money.

One of his dreams was to own a candle factory. Tormented by visions of great vats of wax, he pictured to himself the time when he would be able to buy a little factory of his own.

His ideas came by fits and starts, and as soon as they came he began to scheme and make plans. Once