all that passes at the bottom of a man's heart.

Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the
difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone. Ah, you
cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can
open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no
loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your
intellect. Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot. We are men of all
families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and
no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have
no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our
weariness and our isolation. But why do I speak to you of all that, am I
mad? Let us talk about yourself. Come, dear child, I have made my little
disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ...
speak.

--Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice. I
used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go
out. I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my
father, I thought your looks avoided mine. What have I done to you? I don't
believe I have done anything wrong. This evening I had a dispute with my
father. I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met
you.

Marcel trembled. He had taken the young girl's hand, but he quickly dropped
it, fearing she might observe his agitation.

--Ah! Suzanne continued, there are hours when I miss the school, my
companions, the long cold corridors, our silent school-room, even the
under-mistresses. I am ashamed of it, and angry with myself, but I
must-confess it. Is this then that liberty I so desired? I was a prisoner
then, but I was peaceful, I was happy: I see it now. Weariness consumes me
here. I see no aim for my life. I had one consolation; my religious duties.
That is taken away from me. For my father has formally forbidden me this
evening to go to church. If I go there again, I disobey my father and I
grieve him. If I obey his orders, I take away the only happiness of my
life.

She had spoken with volubility, and the priest listened to her in silence.
Hanging on her look, he drank in her words. He heard them without
comprehending exactly their meaning. It was sweet music which charmed him,
but he only thought of one thing. She had said: "Your looks avoided mine."

When she had fi