devout as yourself. Were it
not for her father, who will not listen to the thought of conversion
before marriage, she would already be a Catholic, and--Protestants as
they are for the moment--she would never go anywhere but to church . . .
When she is altogether a Catholic, and under the protection of a
Sainte-Claudine and a Sainte-Francoise, as you are under the protection
of Saint-Claude and Saint-Francois, you will have to lay down your arms,
old leaguer, and acknowledge the sincerity of the religious sentiments of
that child who has never harmed you."

"What! She has done nothing to me?" . . . interrupted Montfanon. "But it
is quite natural that a sceptic should not comprehend what she has done
to me, what she does to me daily, not to me personally, but to my
opinions. When one has, like you, learned intellectual athletics in the
circus of the Sainte-Beuves and Renans, one must think it fine that
Catholicism, that grand thing, should serve as a plaything for the
daughter of a pirate who aims at an aristocratic marriage. It may, too,
amuse you that my holy friend, Cardinal Guerillot, should be the dupe of
that intriguer. But I, Monsieur, who have received the sacrament by the
side of a Sonis, I can not admit that one should make use of what was the
faith of that hero to thrust one's self into the world. I do not admit
that one should play the role of dupe and accomplice to an old man whom I
venerate and whom I shall enlighten, I give you my word."

"And as for this ancient relic," he continued, again showing the volume,
"you may think it childish that I do not wish it mixed up in the shameful
comedy. But no, it shall not be. They shall not exhibit with words of
emotion, with tearful eyes, this breviary on which once prayed that grand
soldier; yes, Monsieur, that great believer. She has done nothing to me,"
he repeated, growing more and more excited, his red face becoming purple
with rage, "but they are the quintessence of what I detest the most,
people like her and her father. They are the incarnation of the modern
world, in which there is nothing more despicable than these cosmopolitan
adventurers, who play at grand seigneur with the millions filibustered in
some stroke on the Bourse. First, they have no country. What is this
Baron Justus Hafner--German, Austrian, Italian? Do you know? They have no
religion. The name, the father's face, that of the daughter, proclaim
them Jews, and they are Protestants--for the mome