umble, the suffering ones of the world, and had just expired amidst the
impotent cry of her egotistical passion when it was too late either to
love or to create. Never more would children be born of her, the old
Roman house was henceforth empty, sterile, beyond possibility of
awakening. Pierre whose soul mourned such a splendid dream, was so
grieved at seeing her thus motionless and frigid, that he felt himself
fainting. He feared lest he might fall upon the step beside the bed, and
so struggled to his feet and drew aside.

Then, as he sought refuge in a window recess in order that he might try
to recover self-possession, he was astonished to perceive Victorine
seated there on a bench which the hangings half concealed. She had come
thither by Donna Serafina's orders, and sat watching her two dear
children as she called them, whilst keeping an eye upon all who came in
and went out. And, on seeing the young priest so pale and nearly
swooning, she at once made room for him to sit down beside her. "Ah!" he
murmured after drawing a long breath, "may they at least have the joy of
being together elsewhere, of living a new life in another world."

Victorine, however, shrugged her shoulders, and in an equally low voice
responded, "Oh! live again, Monsieur l'Abbe, why? When one's dead the
best is to remain so and to sleep. Those poor children had enough
torments on earth, one mustn't wish that they should begin again
elsewhere."

This naive yet deep remark on the part of an ignorant unbelieving woman
sent a shudder through Pierre's very bones. To think that his own teeth
had chattered with fear at night time at the sudden thought of
annihilation. He deemed her heroic at remaining so undisturbed by any
ideas of eternity and the infinite. And she, as she felt he was
quivering, went on: "What can you suppose there should be after death?
We've deserved a right to sleep, and nothing to my thinking can be more
desirable and consoling."

"But those two did not live," murmured Pierre, "so why not allow oneself
the joy of believing that they now live elsewhere, recompensed for all
their torments?"

Victorine, however, again shook her head; "No, no," she replied. "Ah! I
was quite right in saying that my poor Benedetta did wrong in torturing
herself with all those superstitious ideas of hers when she was really so
fond of her lover. Yes, happiness is rarely found, and how one regrets
having missed it when it's too late to turn back! Th