prayer, of their enchanting smile, the playful tenderness of their youth,
and their enamored conversation, so painful to the Prince of Darkness.

Gentle tears quite involuntarily made humid the eyes of the beautiful
Marion de Lorme. Nature had taken possession of her heart, despite her
head; poetry filled it with grave and religious thoughts, from which the
intoxication of pleasure had ever diverted her. The idea of virtuous
love appeared to her for the first time in all its beauty; and she seemed
as if struck with a magic wand, and changed into a pale and beautiful
statue.

Corneille, his young friend, and the officer, were full of a silent
admiration which they dared not express, for raised voices drowned that
of the surprised poet.

"I can't stand this!" cried Desbarreaux. "It is of an insipidity to
make one sick."

"And what absence of grace, gallantry, and the belle flamme!" said
Scudery, coldly.

"Ah, how different from our immortal D'Urfe!" said Baro, the
continuator.

"Where is the 'Ariane,' where the 'Astrea?'" cried, with a groan, Godeau,
the annotator.

The whole assembly well-nigh made these obliging remarks, though uttered
so as only to be heard by the poet as a murmur of uncertain import. He
understood, however, that he produced no enthusiasm, and collected