he weighs, and finishes
his thousand questions by being indiscreet and almost improper. Is there
not, even in the holy mission of the priest, a way of being politely
severe, and of acting the gentleman to people well born?

The Abbe Brice--and there is no reason why I should conceal it--smells
of the stable, which must be prejudicial to him. He is slightly
Republican, too, wears clumsy boots, has awful nails, and when he gets
new gloves, twice a year, his fingers stand out stiff and separate.

I do not, I would have you remark, deny his admirable virtues; but say
what you like, you will never get a woman of fashion to confide her
"little affairs" to a farmer's son, and address him as "Father." Matters
must not be carried the length of absurdity; besides, this Abbe Brice
always smells detestably of snuff.

He confesses all sorts of people, and you will agree that it is not
pleasant to have one's maid or one's cook for one's visa-vis at the
confessional.

There is not a woman who understands Christian humility better than
yourself, dear Madame; but all the same you are not accustomed to travel
in an omnibus. You may be told that in heaven you will only be too happy
to call your coachman "Brother," and to say to Sarah Jane, "Sister," but
these worthy folk shall have first passed through purgatory, and fire
purifies everything. Again, what is there to assure us that Sarah Jane
will go to heaven, since you yourself, dear Madame, are not so sure of
entering there?

It is hence quite well understood why the Abbe Gelon's chapel is
crowded. If a little whispering goes on, it is because they have been
waiting three long hours, and because everybody knows one another.

All the ladies, you may be sure, are there.

"Make a little room for me, dear," whispers a newcomer, edging her way
through trains, kneeling-stools, and chairs.

"Ah! is that you, dear? Come here. Clementine and Madame de B. are there
in the corner at the cannon's mouth. You will have to wait two good
hours."

"If Madame de B. is there, it does not surprise me. She is
inexhaustible, and there is no other woman who is so long in telling
a thing. Have all these people not had their turn yet? Ah! there is
Ernestine." (She waves her hand to her quietly.) "That child is an
angel. She acknowledged to me the other day that her conscience troubled
her because, on reading the 'Passion,' she could not make up her mind to
kiss the mat."

"Ah! charming; but, tell