Mme. d'Aiglemont had lost her mother in her early childhood; and as a
natural consequence in her bringing-up, she had felt the influence of
the relaxed notions which loosened the hold of religion upon France
during the Revolution. Piety is a womanly virtue which women alone can
really instil; and the Marquise, a child of the eighteenth century,
had adopted her father's creed of philosophism, and practised no
religious observances. A priest, to her way of thinking, was a civil
servant of very doubtful utility. In her present position, the
teaching of religion could only poison her wounds; she had, moreover,
but scanty faith in the lights of country cures, and made up her mind
to put this one gently but firmly in his place, and to rid herself of
him, after the manner of the rich, by bestowing a benefit.

At first sight of the cure the Marquise felt no inclination to change
her mind. She saw before her a stout, rotund little man, with a ruddy,
wrinkled, elderly face, which awkwardly and unsuccessfully tried to
smile. His bald, quadrant-shaped forehead, furrowed by intersecting
lines, was too heavy for the rest of his face, which seemed to be
dwarfed by it. A fringe of scanty white hair encircled the back of his
head, and almost reached his ears. Yet the priest looked as if by
nature he had a genial disposition; his thick lips, his slightly
curved nose, his chin, which vanished in a double fold of wrinkles,
--all marked him out as a man who took cheerful views of life.

At first the Marquise saw nothing but these salient characteristics,
but at the first word she was struck by the sweetness of the speaker's
voice. Looking at him more closely, she saw that the eyes under the
grizzled eyebrows had shed tears, and his face, turned in profile,
wore so sublime an impress of sorrow, that the Marquise recognized the