and abbes.

The prior of the Carmelites whom I was about to see was the
personification of this restless impotence. Bound to his great arm-chair
by the gout, he offered a strange contrast to the venerable chevalier,
pale and unable to move like himself, but noble and patriarchal in his
affliction. The prior was short, stout, and very petulant. The upper
part of his body was all activity; he would turn his head rapidly from
side to side; he would brandish his arms while giving orders. He was
sparing of words, and his muffled voice seemed to lend a mysterious
meaning to the most trivial things. In short, one-half of his person
seemed to be incessantly striving to drag along the other, like the
bewitched man in the Arabian Nights, whose robe hid a body that was
marble up to the waist.

He received me with exaggerated attention, got angry because they did
not bring me a chair quickly enough, stretched out his fat, flabby hand
to draw this chair quite close to his own, and made a sign to a tall,
bearded satyr, whom he called the Brother Treasurer, to go out; then,
after overwhelming me with questions about my journey, and my return,
and my health, and my family, while his keen restless little eyes
were darting glances at me from under eyelids swollen and heavy from
intemperance, he came to the point.

"I know, my dear child," he said, "what brings you here; you wish to
pay your respects to your holy relative, to the Trappist, that model of
faith and holiness whom God has sent to us to serve as an example to the
world, and reveal to all the miraculous power of grace."

"Prior," I answered, "I am not a good enough Christian to judge of the