ion and good faith.

They attend church frequently, not only because it is _good form_, not only
through want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination.

The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir,
the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, the
pictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glass
windows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance of
Christ, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the small
chapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants and
intoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of the
beadle and the sacristan.

It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves to
the old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship.

They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They have
knelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But there
is always one place which they have an affection for, and where they are
invariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again.
They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixed
on vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a book
of prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves to
reality.

A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to them
like old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the same
place. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending to
read their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysterious
look, which inspires fear.

What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the lively
behaviour of this red-faced Abbe?

How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who can
find no better employment for the day than to mutter _Paternosters_, devoid
of meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vague
sanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_.

Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and mission
in life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light and
joy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled by
a false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wasting
mysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence,
into de