the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ. True, we only know the minor
part of the universe, and it is quite possible, as M. d'Asterac
says--who is a bit of a fool--that this earth is no more than a spot
of mud in the infinity of worlds. Maybe the astronomer Copernicus
was not altogether dreaming when he taught that, mathematically, the
earth is not the centre of creation. I have also read that an
Italian of the name of Galileo, who died miserably, shared
Copernicus' opinion, and in our days we see little M. de Fontenelle
entertaining the same ideas. But all this is but a vain imagination,
fit only to unhinge weak minds. What does it matter if the physical
world is larger or smaller, of one shape or another? It is quite
sufficient that it can be duly considered only by intelligence and
reason for God to be manifest therein.

"If a wise man's meditations could be of some use to you, sir, I
will inform you how such proof of God's existence, better than the
proof of St. Anselm, and quite independent of that resulting from
Revelation, appeared to me suddenly in unclouded limpidity. It was
at Seez, five and twenty years ago when I was the bishop's
librarian. The gallery windows opened on a courtyard where, every
morning, I saw a kitchen wench clean the saucepans. She was young,
tall, sturdy. A slight down, shadowlike, over her lips lent
irritating and proud gracefulness to her countenance. Her entangled
hair, meagre bosom, and long, naked arms were worthy of an Adonis or
a Diana. She was of a boyish beauty. I loved her for it, loved her
strong, red hands. All in all that girl evoked in me a longing as
rude and brutal as herself. You know how imperious such longings
are. I made her understand by sign and word. Without the slightest
hesitation she quickly let me know that my longings were not
stronger than hers, and appointed the very next night for a meeting,