The conversation never took a mystical turn.  M. Garnier narrated his recollections, spoke of M. Emery, and foreshadowed with melancholy, his approaching end.  The contrast between his quietude and the ardour of Penault and M. Gottofrey was very striking.  These aged priests were so honest, sensible and upright, observing their rules, and defending their dogmas, just as a faithful soldier holds the post which has been committed to his keeping.  The higher questions were altogether beyond them.  The love of order and devotion to duty were the guiding principles of their lives.  M. Garnier was a learned Orientalist, and better versed than any living Frenchman in the Biblical exegesis as taught by the Catholics a century ago.  The modesty which characterised St. Sulpice deterred him from publishing any of his works, and the outcome of his studies was an immense manuscript representing a complete course of Holy Writ, in accordance with the relatively moderate views which prevailed among the Catholics and Protestants at the close of the eighteenth century.  It was very analogous in spirit to that of Rosenmueller, Hug and Jahn.  When I joined St. Sulpice, M. Garnier was too old to teach, and our professors used, to read us extracts from his copy-books.  They were full of erudition, and testified to a very thorough knowledge of language.  Now and then we came upon some artless observation which made us smile, such, for instance, as the way in which he got over the difficulties relating to Sarah’s adventure in Egypt.  Sarah, as we know, was close upon seventy when Pharaoh conceived so great a passion for her, and M. Garnier got over this by observing that this was not the only instance of the kind, and that “Mademoiselle de Lenclos” was the cause of duels being fought, when over seventy.  M. Garnier had not made himself acquainted with the latest labours of the new German school, and he remained in happy ignorance of the inroads which the criticism of the nineteenth century had made upon the ancient system.  His best title to fame is that he moulded in M. Le Hir, a pupil who, inheriting his own vast knowledge, added to it familiarity with modern discoveries, and who, with a sincerity which proved the depth of his faith, did not in the least conceal the depth to which the knife had gone.

Overborne by the weight of years, and absorbed by the cares which the general direction of the Company entailed, M. Garnier left the entire superintendence of the Paris house to M. Carbon, the director.  M. Carbon was the embodiment of kindness, joviality and straightforwardness.  He was no theologian, and was so far from being a man of superior mind, that at first one would be tempted to look upon him as a very simple, not to say common, person.  But as one came to know him better, one was surprised to discover beneath this humble exterior, one of the rarest things in the world, viz., unalloyed cordiality, motherly condescension, and a charming openness of