He knew now the inner man of this priest, who, in the midst of modern
surroundings, led a purely mediæval life. Formerly, when he rang at his
bell, he had paid no heed to the housekeeper, an old woman, who curtsied
to him without a word when she opened the door.

Now he was quite friendly with this singular and loving creature.

Their first conversation had arisen one day when he called to see the
Abbé, who was ill. Seated by the bedside, with spectacles on the alert
at the tip of her nose, she was kissing, one by one, the pious prints
that illustrated a book wrapped in black cloth. She begged him to be
seated, and then, closing the volume, and replacing her spectacles, she
had joined in the conversation; and he had left the room quite amazed by
this woman, who addressed the Abbé as "Father," and spoke quite simply
of her intercourse with Jesus and the Saints as if it were a natural
thing. She seemed to live in perfect friendship with them, and spoke of
them as of companions with whom she chatted without any embarrassment.

Then the countenance of this woman, whom the priest introduced to him as
Madame Céleste Bavoil, was, strange to say, the least of it. She was
thin and upright, but short. In profile, with her strong Roman nose and
set lips, she had the fleshless mask of a dead Cæsar; but, seen in
front, the sternness of the features was softened into a familiar
peasant's face, and melted into the kindliness of an old nun, quite out
of keeping with the solemn strength of her features.

It seemed as though with that clean-cut, imperious nose, small white
teeth, and black eyes sparkling with light, busy and inquisitive as
those of a mouse, under fine long lashes, the woman ought,
notwithstanding her age, to have been handsome; it seemed at least as