She is there still at her little window, like a youthfull picture by
Greuze. She lifts her eyes and recognizes the priest, and bows with that
smile which has already so affected him. What grace in that simple gesture!
What promises in those gentle eyes! In the midst of the hostile scornful
looks of that foolish crowd she has met a friendly face; she has read
sympathy and perhaps a secret admiration on the intelligent countenance of
the priest.

The Curé replied to her salute, and for a long while his gaze pursued the
carriage.

Meanwhile the good ladies whispered among themselves, and said to one
another with a scandalized air: "Did you see? He bowed to the mountebank!"




VIII.


THE FEVER.

"Who has not had those troubled
nights, when the storm rages within,
when the soul, miserably oppressed
with shameful desires, floats in the
mud of a swamp?"

MICHELET (_L'Amour_).