—­Thank you, dear young lady.  I should so much wish to have your confidence.  And in whom could you better repose it?  What others could receive more discreetly than ourselves the trust of secret sufferings?  Ah, that is one of the benefits of our holy religion; it is on that account that she is the consolation of those who are sad, the relief of those who suffer, the refuge of the humble and the weak, the joy of all the afflicted.  Her strong arms are open to all human kind; but how small is the number of the chosen who wish to profit by this maternal tenderness.  Be one of that number, dear child, come to us, to us who stretch out our arms to you, to me, who now say to you:  “Open your heart to me, confide to me your troubles.  However sick your soul may be, mine will understand it.”

The priest’s voice was troubled, and it went to the bottom of Suzanne’s heart.  She cast on him a look full of compassion:  You are unhappy, she asked.

—­Do not say that, do not say that!  Unhappy! yes, I may have been so, but now I am so no longer.  Are you not there?  Has not your presence caused all the dark clouds to fly away?  No, I am no longer unhappy; it would be a blasphemy to say so, when God has permitted you, by some way or other of his mysterious and infinite wisdom, to come and bring happiness to my hearth!

—­Happiness!  I bring happiness to you!  But who am I? a little girl just out of school, who knows nothing of life.

—­And that is what makes you more charming.  You are a rose which the breath of morning, pure as it is, has not yet touched.  Life! dear child, do not seek to know it too soon.  It is a vale of tears, and those who know it best are those who have suffered most deception and weeping.

—­But a priest is safe from deception and sorrows....

—­Ah, Mademoiselle, you with that clear and honest look, you do not know all that passes at the bottom of a man’s heart.

Alas, we priests, we are but men, more miserable than others, that is the difference ... yes, more miserable because we are more alone.  Ah, you cannot understand how painful it is never to have anybody to whom you can open your heart; no one to partake your joys and mitigate your griefs; no loved soul to respond to your soul; no intellect to understand your intellect.  Alone, eternally alone, that is our lot.  We are men of all families; friends of all, and we have no friends; counsellors to all, and no one gives us salutary advice; directors of all consciences, and we have no one to direct ours, but the evil thoughts which spring from our weariness and our isolation.  But why do I speak to you of all that, am I mad?  Let us talk about yourself.  Come, dear child, I have made my little disclosures to you, make yours to me, open your heart to me ... speak ... speak.

—­Well, yes, I wanted to see you, to speak with you, to ask your advice.  I used to meet you before from time to time in your walks, now you never go out.  I have gone to Mass, notwithstanding the displeasure it causes my father, I thought your looks avoided mine.  What have I done to you?  I don’t believe I have done anything wrong.  This evening I had a dispute with my father.  I went out not knowing where I went; the rain overtook us and I met you.