was crushed by a sorrow which we might call undeserved if we
could forget, here at the verge of this grave, that our afflictions are
sent by God. The numerous friends of this saintly woman, knowing the
innocence and nobility of her soul, foresaw that she would issue safely
from her trials in spite of the accusations which blasted her life. It
may be that Providence has called her to the bosom of God to withdraw
her from those trials. Happy they who can rest here below in the peace
of their own hearts as Sophie now is resting in her robe of innocence
among the blest."

"When he had ended his pompous discourse," said Monsieur de Bourbonne,
after relating the incidents of the internment to Madame de Listomere
when whist was over, the doors shut, and they were alone with the baron,
"this Louis XI. in a cassock--imagine him if you can!--gave a last
flourish to the sprinkler and aspersed the coffin with holy water."
Monsieur de Bourbonne picked up the tongs and imitated the priest's
gesture so satirically that the baron and his aunt could not help
laughing. "Not until then," continued the old gentleman, "did he
contradict himself. Up to that time his behavior had been perfect; but
it was no doubt impossible for him to put the old maid, whom he despised
so heartily and hated almost as much as he hated Chapeloud, out of sight
forever without allowing his joy to appear in that last gesture."

The next day Mademoiselle Salomon came to breakfast with Madame de
Listomere, chiefly to say, with deep emotion: "Our poor Abbe Birotteau
has just received a frightful blow, which shows the most determined
hatred. He is appointed curate of Saint-Symphorien."

Saint-Symphorien is a suburb of Tours lying beyond the bridge. That
bridge, one of the finest monuments of French architecture, is nineteen
hundred feet long, and the two open squares which surround each end are
precisely alike.

"Don't you see the misery of it?" she said, after a pause, amazed at the
coldness with which Madame de Listomere received the news. "It is just
as if the abbe were a hundred miles from Tours, from his friends, from
everything! It is a frightful exile, and all the more cruel because he
is kept within sight of the town where he can hardly ever come. Since
his troubles he walks very feebly, yet he will have to walk three miles
to see his old friends. He has taken to his bed, just now, with fever.
The parsonage at Saint-Symphorien is very cold and damp, and the