mprehend the ineffable delight of being able to open at will the
gates of Paradise to themselves, and to become, at odd moments, one with
the angels! But what purpose does it serve to speak of the faithless
and of their harmless, smiles? As the Abbe Gelon has in his inimitable
manner observed, "The heart is a fortress, incessantly assailed by the
spirit of darkness."

The idea of a constant struggle with this powerful being has something
about it that adds tenfold to our strength and flatters our vanity.
What, alone in your fortress, Madame; alone with the spirit of darkness.

But hush! the Abbe Gelon is finishing in a quivering and fatigued voice.
His right hand traces in the air the sign of peace. Then he wipes his
humid forehead, his eyes sparkle with divine light, he descends the
narrow stairs, and we hear on the pavement the regular taps of the rod
of the verger, who is reconducting him to the vestry.

"Was he not splendid, dear?"

"Excellent! when he said, 'That my eyes might close forever, if...'
you remember?"

"Superb! and further on: 'Yes, ladies, you are coquettes.' He told us
some hard truths; he speaks admirably."

"Admirably! He is divine!"

It is four o'clock, the church is plunged in shadow and silence. The
confused rumble of the vehicles without hardly penetrates this dwelling
of prayer, and the creak of one's boots, echoing in the distance, is the
only human noise which ruffles the deep calm.

However, in proportion as we advance, we perceive in the chapels groups
of the faithful, kneeling, motionless and silent. In viewing the despair
that their attitude appears to express, we are overwhelmed with sadness
and uneasiness. Is it an appeal for the damned?

The aspects of one of these chapels is peculiar. A hundred or a hundred
and fifty ladies, almost buried in silk and velvet, are crowded devoutly
about the confessional. A sweet scent of violets and vervain permeates
the vicinity, and one halts, in spite of one's self, in the presence of
this large display of elegance.

From each of the two cells adjoining the confessional shoot out the
folds of a rebellious skirt, for the penitent, held fast at the waist,
has been able to get only half of her form into the narrow space.
However, her head can be distinguished moving in the shadow, and we can
guess from the contrite movements of her white feather that her forehead
is bowed by reason of remonstrance and repentance.

Hardly has she concluded h