mountains, covering all the tortuous course of the water with a kind
of light and transparent cotton.

The priest stopped once again, his soul filled with a growing and
irresistible tenderness.

And a doubt, a vague feeling of disquiet came over him; he was asking one
of those questions that he sometimes put to himself.

"Why did God make this? Since the night is destined for sleep,
unconsciousness, repose, forgetfulness of everything, why make it more
charming than day, softer than dawn or evening? And does why this
seductive planet, more poetic than the sun, that seems destined, so
discreet is it, to illuminate things too delicate and mysterious for the
light of day, make the darkness so transparent?

"Why does not the greatest of feathered songsters sleep like the others?
Why does it pour forth its voice in the mysterious night?

"Why this half-veil cast over the world? Why these tremblings of the
heart, this emotion of the spirit, this enervation of the body? Why this
display of enchantments that human beings do not see, since they are
lying in their beds? For whom is destined this sublime spectacle, this
abundance of poetry cast from heaven to earth?"

And the abbe could not understand.

But see, out there, on the edge of the meadow, under the arch of trees
bathed in a shining mist, two figures are walking side by side.

The man was the taller, and held his arm about his sweetheart's neck and
kissed her brow every little while. They imparted life, all at once, to
the placid landscape in which they were framed as by a heavenly hand. The
two seemed but a single being, the being for whom was destined this calm
and silent night, and they came toward the priest as a living answer, the
response his Master sent to his questionings.

He stood still, his heart beating, all upset; and it seemed to him that
he saw before him some biblical scene, like the loves of Ruth and Boaz,
the accomplishment of the will of the Lord, in some of those glorious
stories of which the sacred books tell. The verses of the Song of Songs
began to ring in his ears, the appeal of passion, all the poetry of this
poem replete with tenderness.

And he said unto himself: "Perhaps God has made such nights as these to
idealize the love of men."

He shrank back from this couple that still advanced with arms
intertwined. Yet it was his niece. But he asked himself now if he would
not be disobeying God. And does not God permit love, since He sur