out leaving the railway
carriage, for it stands just above the tunnel and is exposed, much
foreshortened, to the spectator below. There is evidently a charming
walk round the plateau of the town commanding those pretty views of
which Balzac gives an account. But the train whirled me away, and these
are my only impressions. The truth is that I had no need, just at that
moment, of putting myself into communication with Balzac, for opposite
to me in the compartment were a couple of figures almost as vivid as the
actors in the "Comedie Humaine." One of these was a very genial and
dirty old priest, and the other was a reserved and concentrated young
monk--the latter (by which I mean a monk of any kind) being a rare sight
to-day in France. This young man indeed was mitigatedly monastic. He had
a big brown frock and cowl, but he had also a shirt and a pair of shoes;
he had, instead of a hempen scourge round his waist, a stout leather
thong, and he carried with him a very profane little valise. He also
read, from beginning to end, the _Figaro_ which the old priest, who had
done the same, presented to him; and he looked altogether as if, had he
not been a monk, he would have made a distinguished officer of
engineers.

When he was not reading the _Figaro_ he was conning his breviary or
answering, with rapid precision and with a deferential but discouraging
dryness, the frequent questions of his companion, who was of quite
another type. This worthy had a bored, good-natured, unbuttoned,
expansive look; was talkative, restless, almost disreputably human. He
was surrounded by a great deal of small luggage, and had scattered over
the carriage his books, his papers, and fragments of his lunch, and the
contents of an extraordinary bag which he kept beside him--a kind of
secular reliquary--and which appeared to contain the odds and ends of a
lifetime, as he took from it successively a pair of slippers, an old
padlock (which evidently did not belong to it), an opera-glass, a
collection of almanacs, and a large sea-shell, which he very carefully
examined. I think that if he had not been afraid of the young monk, who
was so much more serious than he, he would have held the shell to his
ear like a child. Indeed, he was a very childish and delightful old
priest, and his companion evidently thought him quite frivolous. But I
liked him the better of the two. He was not a country cure, but an
ecclesiastic of some rank, who had seen a good deal