Stepan Trofimovitch seemed to revive, a subtle smile strayed on his lips.

“ Mon père, je vous remercie et vous êtes bien bon, mais⁠ ⁠… ”

“No mais about it, no mais at all!” exclaimed Varvara Petrovna, bounding up from her chair. “Father,” she said, addressing the priest, “he is a man who⁠ ⁠… he is a man who⁠ ⁠… You will have to confess him again in another hour! That’s the sort of man he is.”

Stepan Trofimovitch smiled faintly.

“My friends,” he said, “God is necessary to me, if only because He is the only being whom one can love eternally.”