What pious souls call holiness exuded from every pore: cast-down eyes,
chaste deportment, gentle movements. She did not walk, she glided over the
ground as if she already felt the wings of seraphim hanging on her
shoulders; she did not speak, she murmured unctuous words with a soft, low,
mysterious voice like a prayer. When she said: "Would Monsieur le Curé he
pleased to come to breakfast? Perhaps Monsieur le Curé could eat a boiled
egg?" or "Ah! the sermon which Monsieur le Curé has been pleased to give
has gone to my heart!" it was in the same tone as she would say: "_Lamb of
God which takest away the sins of the world_...." and one was tempted to
answer: _Kyrie eleison_.

And she wiped her moist eyelid, and cast on her master her veiled, long,
silent look.

She said so well: "my duty," "I wish to do my duty," that one felt filled
with admiration for this holy maid.

Oh! divine modesty, perfume of woman, sweet enchantment which gently
penetrates the heart of man, ready always to unfold.

Besides, what hearts had unfolded for her! what ravages had been caused by
her austere deportment and her substantial charms. More than one buxom
village lad had made warm proposals with honourable intentions, and the
gallant corporal of gendarmes had tried on several occasions to enter upon
this delicate subject with her.

But she had willed to remain a maid and virtuous, and vowed herself body
and soul to the service of the Church, to the glory of God, and the fortune
of her pastor.