January 21, 1802

Life, blissfully enough, has been trudging by as slow as the nebulous snowflakes drifting from the clouds, piling on the windowsills at a laggard rate, as though even they do not wish to envelop us in the depressing chill. I find solace in their slow dances across blue sky, if I must admit it; yes, as much as I enjoy the sun beaming down and the heat therein, the snow seems to be a gift from the angels reminding us of their presence above. Alas, my optimism ends with the weather and its gentleness––indeed, if life were swell and if my visions decreased, I would not have picked this journal up anew.

If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us, so quotes John; and so quote I, here, in the pages of this unholy text. So I confess that I have sin and I pray, daily, for my own absolution. My mind demands such a preface because I cannot get a conversation out of my mind. It is as if the words and the man to whom the words belong to are stuck in my skull, rattling to remind me that they exist, they exist, and I must exorcise them before they take root in comorbidity with the flickering hallucinations Satan prescribed me. Before, I swore myself that I could not transcribe a private conversation with another. But I must write the words –– I am compelled, like the guidance God gave me when I was young, before schooling, before voice. I wonder if this same compulsion is God-given, His incessant echoing of the conversation I have had…

Regardless. Do understand my thoughts are so occupied by what I have heard that my mind struggles to formulate thoughts outside of it. I must make another preface, so forgive me (I have asked for forgiveness too frequently). The Lord demands we have space for a private confessional, but after oft sitting with naught a soul coming by for weeks, we scarcely waste the time in the box lest directly asked. Since the decision, not one soul has asked. Certainly not when the people in our church would far rather come by so openly, graze our shoulders with a whispered I must confess to you, Father, and lead us outside to speak. Such happened with the man today, though we only stepped to a quiet hallway.

This man is young with the air of both a dandy and a noble, but I would know nobles after the Revolution and this could not be one, not with the faint hollowness to his visage speaking of hardships no wealthy man has ere faced. His fair was long and enviously blonde, draped over his shoulder and glinting like the gold that adorned his knuckles, his earlobe. There was no mistaking him: I have spoken to him before. I remembered his name was Lothaire and greeted him thusly; the man offered a smile that did not crinkle his hollow eyes and gestured, with a practiced sweep of his arm, to the doorway on the side. 

It had been a month since his last confession; he says it connivingly, knowingly, like a tease dressed in silver dripping from his tongue. By the tone of his voice I could recognize a dangerous man –– I am careful to keep distance between us as we speak for my comfort and his.

I asked him what ails him so.

He replied with the same or similar story as last. With every word, I felt my breaths turn cold at the tonelessness with which he speaks it. The man Lothaire is a con artist, of this he says as much to me. He has the privileges of owning some property, having been just ripe for the bourgeoisie, but the of the worst breed; he spoke of the tax collectors who buy up property on his land for higher prices than any man ought, just from Lothaire’s own disdain for them; his hand smoothed stray hairs from his perfect plait has he concluded, feigning morosity at his new-found fortune.

It occurred to me then, as it occurs to me now, that this man has uttered false confession. Not that he is not guilty of which he speaks––of that I have no true doubt, hearing the exactitudes of digits rattled off so easily––but he is not here to ask for God’s forgiveness, he wishes to boast to me, of all people. We live on church grounds by the barest of means while he feels confident and well-acclaimed by taking from those he deems beneath him. God has not placed hate in my bones, nor has Satan’s hand yet altered me so; still, I felt utter, deflated chagrin at having spent my time during his last confession to veer him into righteousness. I remember standing and staring at him, wondering if the emotionlessness on his face is my own illusion: but his tone could not have been fabricated, and his face does not flicker. The cavalier way he adjusts his cufflinks tells me much.

I told him, when his story was done and my assessment over, something far more blunt than I usually offer up. I prefer to probe and ask questions, ease all that troubles someone; but the man Lothaire is not troubled. Not evidently. I tell him then what I ended with last time: that God accepts the sinners if they stay on the path that leads to Him; even if they stumble, they right themselves on that path and do not continue down the new path they found. Doing so, walking down any other path, knowingly, not looking for God’s, means one is on a path to Hell.

Lothaire, perhaps not expecting me to have seen through him (or, am I arrogant? Perhaps he assumed I was naive, lethargic, strict…) –– Lothaire sniffed and held his head up. He asked if I was then taking the side of the equally machinating men who I have never dealt with. The church has ne’er felt the hand of the tax man taking all I had, so what sympathies could I have for the man in front of me? Perhaps too unfeelingly for my judgement, and perhaps still put-off at his having returned such as he said, I quoted Matthew: love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven.

Lothaire had the goodness to bow his head and accept his Hail Marys, then, but not after another break in conversation. He had regarded me with the same coldness as before. He left with a cordial goodbye, seeing as we were back with the public, and swung the doors open anew, stepping into the snow. 

I wondered to myself then: if he abhorred the taxation system to the degree of theft, what purpose is it to criticize the church for being exempt? The moment I smelled the envy in the air he left behind him, the moment I sensed he wished not to boast but for my praise; it was also the moment the snow outside clustered ‘round his head, not as a halo, but in two equidistant columns, like horns atop his hair.

I must rest. My hand is not nearly accustomed to such long bouts of writing.