ted
_salon_, in the sleepy glimmer of two lace-veiled lamps. At present,
however, a sound of voices came from a room beyond, a larger apartment
whose doorway, with folding doors thrown wide open, described a
parallelogram of brighter light.

The young woman at once showed herself very affable, with perfect
simplicity of manner: "Ah! I am happy to see you, Monsieur l'Abbe. I was
afraid that your indisposition might be serious. You are quite recovered
now, are you not?"

Pierre listened to her, fascinated by her slow and rather thick voice, in
which restrained passion seemed to mingle with much prudent good sense.
And at last he saw her, with her hair so heavy and so dark, her skin so
white, the whiteness of ivory. She had a round face, with somewhat full
lips, a small refined nose, features as delicate as a child's. But it was
especially her eyes that lived, immense eyes, whose infinite depths none
could fathom. Was she slumbering? Was she dreaming? Did her motionless
face conceal the ardent tension of a great saint and a great _amorosa_?
So white, so young, and so calm, her every movement was harmonious, her
appearance at once very staid, very noble, and very rhythmical. In her
ears she wore two large pearls of matchless purity, pearls which had come
from a famous necklace of her mother's, known throughout Rome.

Pierre apologised and thanked her. "You see me in confusion, madame,"
said he; "I should have liked to express to you this morning my gratitude
for your great kindness."

He had hesitated to call her madame, remembering the plea brought forward
in the suit for the dissolution of her marriage. But plainly enough
everybody must call her madame. Moreover, her face had retained its calm
and kindly expression.

"Consider yourself at home here, Monsieur l'Abbe," she responded, wishing
to put him at his ease. "It is sufficient that our relative, Monsieur de
la Choue, should be fond of you, and take interest in your work. I have,
you know, much affection for him." Then her voice faltered slightly, for
she realised that she ought to speak of the book, the one reason of
Pierre's journey and her proffered hospitality. "Yes," she added, "the
Viscount sent me your book. I read it and found it very beautiful. It
disturbed me. But I am only an ignoramus, and certainly failed to
understand everything in it. We must talk it over together; you will
explain your ideas to me, won't you, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

In her large clear