“The Church was the only source of pleasure left for her.  She was of a pious disposition, though not endowed with sufficient intelligence to understand anything of the mysteries of our religion.  The priest, very zealous in the performance of his duties, felt no little respect for the flax-crusher, and spent whatever leisure time he had at his house.  He acted as tutor to the nephew, treating the daughter with the reserve which the clergy of Brittany make a point of showing in their intercourse with the opposite sex.  He wished her good day and inquired after her health, but he never talked to her except on commonplace subjects.  The unfortunate girl fell violently in love with him.  He was the only person of her own station, so to speak, whom she ever saw, and moreover, he was a young man of very taking appearance; combining with an attitude of great outward modesty an air of subdued melancholy and resignation.  One could see that he had a heart and strong feeling, but that a more lofty principle held them in subjection, or rather that they were transformed into something higher.  You know how fascinating some of our Breton clergy are, and this is a fact very keenly appreciated by women.  The unshaken attachment to a vow, which is in itself a sort of homage to their power, emboldens, attracts, and flatters them.  The priest becomes for them a trusty brother who has for their sake renounced his sex and carnal delights.  Hence is begotten a feeling which is a mixture of confidence, pity, regret, and gratitude.  Allow priests to marry and you destroy one of the most necessary elements of Catholic society.  Women will protest against such a change, for there is something which they esteem even more than being loved, and that is for love to be made a serious business.  Nothing flatters a woman more than to let her see that she is feared, and the Church by placing chastity in the first place among the duties of its ministers, touches the most sensitive chord of female vanity.

“The poor girl thus gradually became immersed in a deep love for the priest.  The virtuous and mystic race to which she belonged knew nothing of the frenzy which overcomes all obstacles and which accounts nothing accomplished so long as anything remains to be accomplished.  Her aspirations were very modest, and if he would only have admitted the fact of her existence she would have been content.  She did not want so much as a look; a place in his thoughts would have been enough.  The priest was, of course, her confessor, for there was no other in the parish.  The mode of Catholic confession, so admirable in some respects, but so dangerous, had a great effect upon her imagination.  It was inexpressibly pleasing to her to find herself every Saturday alone with him for half an hour, as if she were face to face with God, to see him discharging the functions of God, to feel his breath, to undergo the welcome humiliation of his reprimands, to confide to him her inmost thoughts, scruples, and fears.  You must