M. Vigneron again looked towards Madame Dieulafay and examined her face,
still of a perfect oval and with admirable eyes; but it was
expressionless, with ashen hue, similar to a mask of death, amidst the
lace. "It's really very sad," he murmured.

"And if you had seen her last summer!" resumed the priest. "They have
their country seat at Saligny, my parish, and I often dined with them. I
cannot help feeling sad when I look at her elder sister, Madame Jousseur,
that lady in black who stands there, for she bears a strong resemblance
to her; and the poor sufferer was even prettier, one of the beauties of
Paris. And now compare them together--observe that brilliancy, that
sovereign grace, beside that poor, pitiful creature--it oppresses one's
heart--ah! what a frightful lesson!"

He became silent for an instant. Saintly man that he was naturally,
altogether devoid of passions, with no keen intelligence to disturb him
in his faith, he displayed a naive admiration for beauty, wealth, and
power, which he had never envied. Nevertheless, he ventured to express a
doubt, a scruple, which troubled his usual serenity. "For my part, I
should have liked her to come here with more simplicity, without all that
surrounding of luxury, because the Blessed Virgin prefers the humble--
But I understand very well that there are certain social exigencies. And,
then, her husband and sister love her so! Remember that he has forsaken
his business and she her pleasures in order to come here with her; and so
overcome are they at the idea of losing her that their eyes are never
dry, they always have that bewildered look which you can notice. So they
must be excused for trying to procure her the comfort of looking
beautiful until the last hour."

M. Vigneron nodded his head approvingly. Ah! it was certainly not the