er little story when a dozen of her neighbors
rush forward to replace her. This eagerness is quite explicable, for
this chapel is the one in which the Abbe Gelon hears confessions, and I
need not tell you that when the Abbe Gelon confesses it is the same as
if he were preaching--there is a crowd.

The good Abbe confesses all these ladies, and, with angelic devotion,
remains shut up for hours in this dark, narrow, suffocating box, through
the grating of which two penitents are continually whispering their
sins.

The dear Abbe! the most likable thing about him is that he is not
long over the business. He knows how to get rid of useless details; he
perceives, with subtle instinct and a sureness of vision that spares
you a thousand embarrassments, the condition of a soul, so that, besides
being a man of intelligence and of the world, he renders the repetition
of those little weaknesses, of which he has whispered the one half to
you, almost agreeable.

In coming to him with one's little burden of guilt, one feels somewhat
embarrassed, but while one is hesitating about telling him all, he, with
a discreet and skilful hand, disencumbers one of it rapidly, examines
the contents, smiles or consoles, and the confession is made without
one having uttered a single word; so that after all is over the penitent
exclaims, prostrating one's self before God, "But, Lord, I was pure,
pure as the lily, and yet how uneasy I was!"

Even when he assumes the sacerdotal habit and ceases to be a man, and
speaks in the name of God, the tones of his voice, the refinement of his
look, reveal innate distinction and that spotless courtesy which can not
harm even a minister of God, and which one must cultivate on this side
of the Rue du Bac.

If God wills that there must be a Faubourg St.-Germain in the world--and
it can not be denied that He does--is it not proper that He should give
us a minister who speaks our language and understands our weaknesses?
Nothing is more obvious, and I really do not comprehend some of these
ladies who talk to me about the Abbe Brice. Not that I wish to speak ill
of the good Abbe, for this is neither the time nor the place for it; he
is a holy man, but his sanctity is a little bourgeois and needs polish.

With him one has to dot one's i's; he is dull in perception, or does not
perceive at all.

Acknowledge a peccadillo, and his brows knit, he must know the hour, the
moment, the antecedents; he examines, he probes,