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From the doorway came the sound of a throat clearing. The two men turned in the direction of the sound and beheld at the threshold of the cell, as if summoned, a priest.
"Monsieur le Comte?" The newcomer's features could not be seen, for he stood in the shadow of the door, but his voice indicated a man of considerable years.
"Yes."
"I have come to hear your confession" The old man took a few steps into the cell and nodded to the Comte and the Baron. Leboeuf he ignored.
"My confession, you say?"
The Comte examined the old priest closely, much as he would have examined one of the exotic beetles of his widely renowned entomological collection. The old man's slight, stooped frame was almost swallowed up by the white robes of his office, which hung in heavy folds almost to the floor, and his head protruded from them on a scrawny neck in a manner that brought to mind a tortoise, except that it was crowned with a few lank gray hairs that hung in strands over his brow. These hairs he now pushed back from his forehead with his left hand, as with his right he quickly made the sign of the cross.
"If I am to grant you absolution, you must confess your sins, monsieur le Comte, for, if I am not misled"- here he produced a crumpled piece of paper from a fold of his robes and, squinting, ran his finger over it, coming to a stop near the bottom of the page - "if I am not misled, you go tomorrow to the guillotine. You must prepare to meet your creator, monsieur. You must attend to your immortal soul."
The Comte sighed deeply. "I am a man of reason, not of superstition, sir. I have no expectation of immortality and consequently no fear of it."
"Monsieur, I offer you the comfort of the church...."
The Comte rose from his cot and looked the priest directly in the eyes. "Let me tell you something of your church, monsieur? All the efforts of your church are but an attempt to excuse your God's appalling behavior. Think a little, if your vows permit it. Look around you. War, injustice, murder. Innocent men condemned to the guillotine. What does your God say to that?"
"Um..." the old man's lips opened and closed silently.
"Free will! That's what he says. Men's fault."
"Yes," said the priest, finding his voice, "free will. That's it."
"And yet he is all-powerful. If you or I were all-powerful, monsieur le curé, would we not be expected to behave in a decent manner and put a stop to all these horrors?"
The old man frowned. "We cannot try to understand God, monsieur. We must have faith. You, especially, at this time must have faith."
From the corner, the Baron spoke. "We are men of science, sir. The Comte has no need of your faith. It's nothing but the flight of the palate to...what is it you always say about faith, Comte. Frightfully clever."
"Faith is but the flight of the irrational from the unpalatable to the implausible. It is the province of the timid, where I do not choose to reside. No, monsieur, my fate must be faced in a rational manner. We must not look for the signature of God in this affair, and if we did, I fear he would come across none too well. Tomorrow, a machine efficiently designed by men for the purpose of severing the nerves and arteries of other men will perform its task due to the agency of still other men. It is a private affair. God will not be present."
"Ah, monsieur, you are giving me a headache!"
"Then consult Leboeuf as to a cure. He speaks with great eloquence on the subject."
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