k
as the Abbe finished his last panel.

'It will be really too beautiful,' said a rough voice from amidst the
greyish gloom of twilight which was filling the church.

La Teuse, who had knelt down to get a better view of the Abbe's brush as
it glided along his rule, started with alarm.

'Ah! it's Brother Archangias,' she said, turning round. 'You came in by
the sacristy then? You gave me quite a turn. Your voice seemed to sound
from under the floor.'

Abbe Mouret had resumed his work, after greeting the Brother with a
slight nod. The Brother remained standing there in silence, with his fat
hands clasped in front of his cassock. Then, shrugging his shoulders,
as he observed with what scrupulous care the priest sought to make his
beading perfectly straight, he repeated:

'It will be really too beautiful.'

La Teuse, who knelt near by in ecstasy, started again.

'Dear me!' she said, 'I had quite forgotten you were there. You really
ought to cough before you speak. You have a voice that comes on one so
suddenly that one might think it was a voice from the grave.'

She rose up and drew back a little the better to admire the Abbe's work.

'Why too beautiful?' she asked. 'Nothing can be too beautiful when it is
done for the Almighty. If his reverence had only had some gold, he would
have done it with gold, I'm sure.'

When the priest had finished, she hastened to change the altar-cloth,
taking the greatest care not to smudge the beading. Then she arranged
the cross, the candlesticks, and the vases symmetrically. Abbe Mouret
had gone to lean against the wooden screen which separated the choir
from the nave, by the side of Brother Archangias. Not a word passed
between them. Their eyes were fixed upon the silver crucifix, which, in
the increasing gloom, still cast some glimmer of light on the feet and
the left side and the right temple of the big Christ. When La Teuse had
finished, she came down towards them, triumphantly.

'Doesn't it look lovely?' she asked. 'Just you see what a crowd there
will be at mass to-morrow! Those heathens will only come to God's house
when they think He is well-to-do. Now, Monsieur le Cure, we must do as
much for the Blessed Virgin's altar.'

'Waste of money!' growled Brother Archangias.

But La Teuse flew into a tantrum; and, as Abbe Mouret remained silent,
she led them both before the altar of the Virgin, pushing them and
dragging them by their cassocks.

'Just look at it,' said she;