e time absorbed in bitter
reflections.

In a few minutes, a priest of tall stature, with gray hair and a stern
countenance, clad in a long black cassock, stalked slowly along one of
the aisles of the church. A short, old, misshapen man, badly dressed,
leaning upon an umbrella, accompanied him, and from time to time
whispered in his ear, when the priest would stop to listen with a
profound and respectful deference.

As they approached the confessional, the short old man, perceiving
Frances on her knees, looked at the priest with an air of interrogation.
"It is she," said the clergyman.

"Well, in two or three hours, they will expect the two girls at St.
Mary's Convent. I count upon it," said the old man.

"I hope so, for the sake of their souls," answered the priest; and,
bowing gravely, he entered the confessional. The short old man quitted
the church.

This old man was Rodin. It was on leaving Saint Merely's that he went to
the lunatic asylum, to assure himself that Dr. Baleinier had faithfully
executed his instructions with regard to Adrienne de Cardoville.

Frances was still kneeling in the interior of the confessional. One
of the slides opened, and a voice began to speak. It was that of
the priest, who, for the last twenty years had been the confessor of
Dagobert's wife, and exercised over her an irresistible and all-powerful
influence.

"You received my letter?" said the voice.

"Yes, father.

"Very well--I listen to you."

"Bless me, father--for I have sinned!" said Frances.

The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction. Dagobert's wife
answered "amen," as was proper, said her confider to "It is my fault,"
gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last
penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins,
committed since she had received absolution.

For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal
love, always fancied herself sinning: her conscience was incessantly
tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible
offence. This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life
of devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm
serenity of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in
continual anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.

"Father," said Frances, in a trembling voice, "I accuse myself of
omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday. My husband, from
whom I had been s