It had been raining all day long in Venice when the penitent stepped inside the confessional and sneezed.
“Bless you, child.”
The penitent was silent.
“Child, do you have a confession?”
“Padre,” said the penitent, “I do not have much time. I left the brodo on the boil. No one is at home to skim off the fat.”
“I am sure the brodo will keep,” said the priest, who, if it must be known, did not care for broth. “Is there anything about which you wish to unburden your soul?”
“Padre, I have a confession to make. I have allowed a young man to give me warmth in winter.”
At that moment the priest coughed.
“Padre, is there something the matter? Have you got a cold?”
“Child, it is true I am a little raffredato with this bad weather.”
“Padre, you must be cold sitting in this drafty box all day.”
The priest coughed again.
“Padre, your throat sounds rough. I have with me a scarf.”
“Child, perhaps you would care to bring it round to my side of the box.”
The young woman got a shock when she saw Casanova, who had been forced to take refuge whilst fleeing from an angry husband down a flooded alley, sitting in the priest’s chair with a glass of the vestry wine.
“Padre,” she said. “I cannot stay long…. I left the brothon the fire.”
“My child, it is very cosy here,” he said. “The broth can wait, but not the sauce.”
*
“He’s a very naughty boy.”
“Of course, that’s how he got his reputation.”
“You mean the count?”
“No, Casanova.”
“Anyway, imagine sitting in a confessional. You must get to hear all sorts of things.”
“What do you do when you go to confession?”
“I always wait until I’ve saved up enough really bad sins.”
“Why’s that?”
“So, he can only ask me about one of them and I get to choose which one to feed him.”
“That hardly seems fair.”
“There is nothing fair about confession.”