which filtered through their dusty windows, but on the side
of the markets the sunset was lighting up the stained glass with lovely
tints, limpid greens and yellows in particular, which reminded Lisa of
the bottle of liqueurs in front of Monsieur Lebigre's mirror. She came
back by this side, which seemed to be warmed by the glow of light,
and took a passing interest in the reliquaries, altar ornaments, and
paintings steeped in prismatic reflections. The church was empty,
quivering with the silence that fell from its vaulted roofing. Here and
there a woman's dress showed like a dark splotch amidst the vague yellow
of the chairs; and a low buzzing came from the closed confessionals. As
Lisa again passed the chapel of Saint Agnes she saw the blue dress still
kneeling at Abbe Roustan's feet.

"Why, if I'd wanted to confess I could have said everything in ten
seconds," she thought, proud of her irreproachable integrity.

Then she went on to the end of the church. Behind the high altar, in the
gloom of a double row of pillars, is the chapel of the Blessed Virgin,
damp and dark and silent. The dim stained windows only show the flowing
crimson and violet robes of saints, which blaze like flames of mystic
love in the solemn, silent adoration of the darkness. It is a weird,
mysterious spot, like some crepuscular nook of paradise solely illumined
by the gleaming stars of two tapers. The four brass lamps hanging from
the roof remain unlighted, and are but faintly seen; on espying them you
think of the golden censers which the angels swing before the throne of
Mary. And kneeling on the chairs between the pillars there are always
women surrendering themselves languorously to the dim spot's voluptuous
charm.

Lisa stood and gazed tranquilly around her. She did not feel the least
emotion, but considered that it was a mistake not to light the lamps.
Their brightness would have given the place a more cheerful look. The
gloom even struck her as savouring of impropriety. Her face was warmed
by the flames of some candles burning in a candelabrum by her side, and
an old woman armed with a big knife was scraping off the wax which had
trickled down and congealed into pale tears. And amidst the quivering
silence, the mute ecstasy of adoration prevailing in the chapel, Lisa
would distinctly hear the rumbling of the vehicles turning out of the
Rue Montmartre, behind the scarlet and purple saints on the windows,
whilst in the distance the marke