line convent. For a long time this chapel was used
to store hay. The house belonged to a livery-stable keeper, who sold it
to that woman," and she pointed out a stout brunette of whom Durtal
before had caught a fleeting glimpse.

"Is she married?"

"No. She is a former nun who was debauched long ago by Docre."

"Ah. And those gentlemen who seem to be hiding in the darkest places?"

"They are Satanists. There is one of them who was a professor in the
School of Medicine. In his home he has an oratorium where he prays to a
statue of Venus Astarte mounted on an altar."

"No!"

"I mean it. He is getting old, and his demoniac orisons increase tenfold
his forces, which he is using up with creatures of that sort," and with
a gesture she indicated the choir boys.

"You guarantee the truth of this story?"

"You will find it narrated at great length in a religious journal. _Les
annales de la saintete_. And though his identity was made pretty patent
in the article, the man did not dare prosecute the editors.--What's the
matter with you?" she asked, looking at him closely.

"I'm strangling. The odour from those incense burners is unbearable."

"You will get used to it in a few seconds."

"But what do they burn that smells like that?"

"Asphalt from the street, leaves of henbane, datura, dried nightshade,
and myrrh. These are perfumes delightful to Satan, our master." She
spoke in that changed, guttural voice which had been hers at times when
in bed with him. He looked her squarely in the face. She was pale, the
lips pressed tight, the pluvious eyes blinking rapidly.

"Here he comes!" she murmured suddenly, while women in front of them
scurried about or knelt in front of the chairs.

Preceded by the two choir boys the canon entered, wearing a scarlet
bonnet from which two buffalo horns of red cloth protruded. Durtal
examined him as he marched toward the altar. He was tall, but not well
built, his bulging chest being out of proportion to the rest of his
body. His peeled forehead made one continuous line with his straight
nose. The lips and cheeks bristled with that kind of hard, clumpy beard
which old priests have who have always shaved themselves. The features
were round and insinuating, the eyes, like apple pips, close together,
phosphorescent. As a whole his face was evil and sly, but energetic, and
the hard, fixed eyes were not the furtive, shifty orbs that Durtal had
imagined.

The canon solemnly knelt before th