of never remembering the Marquis Tudesco's name.




VI

Before long Jean's whole mind was given over to the catechizings
and sermons and hymns preparatory to the First Communion.
Intoxication with the music of chants and organ, drowned in the
scent of incense and flowers, hung about with scapularies, rosaries,
consecrated medals, and holy images, he, like his companions, assumed
a certain air of self-importance and wore a smug, sanctified look.
He was cold and unbending towards his aunt, who spoke with far
too much unconcern about the "great day." Though she had long
been in the habit of taking her nephew to Mass every Sunday,
she was not "pious." Most likely she confounded in one common
detestation the luxury of the rich and the pomps of the Church
service. She had more than once been overheard informing one
of the cronies she used to meet on the boulevards that she was
a religious woman, _but_ she could not abide priests, that she
said her prayers at home, and these were every bit as good as
the fine ladies' who flaunted their crinolines in church. His
father was more in sympathy with the lad's new-found zeal; he
was interested and even a little impressed. He undertook to bind
a missal with his own hands against the ceremony.

When the days arrived for retreats and general confessions, Jean
swelled with pride and vague aspirations. He looked for something
out of the ordinary to happen. Coming out at evening from