As a deception only increases the ardor with which a man of really great nature explores the infinite of sentiment in a woman’s heart, so Castanier awoke to find that one idea lay like a weight upon his soul, an idea which was perhaps the key to loftier spheres.  The very fact that he had bartered away his eternal happiness led him to dwell in thought upon the future of those who pray and believe.  On the morrow of his debauch, when he entered into the sober possession of his power, this idea made him feel himself a prisoner; he knew the burden of the woe that poets, and prophets, and great oracles of faith have set forth for us in such mighty words; he felt the point of the Flaming Sword plunged into his side, and hurried in search of Melmoth.  What had become of his predecessor?

The Englishman was living in a mansion in the Rue Ferou, near Saint-Sulpice—­a gloomy, dark, damp, and cold abode.  The Rue Ferou itself is one of the most dismal streets in Paris; it has a north aspect like all the streets that lie at right angles to the left bank of the Seine, and the houses are in keeping with the site.  As Castanier stood on the threshold he found that the door itself, like the vaulted roof, was hung with black; rows of lighted tapers shone brilliantly as though some king were lying in state; and a priest stood on either side of a catafalque that had been raised there.

“There is no need to ask why you have come, sir,” the old hall porter said to Castanier; “you are so like our poor dear master that is gone.  But if you are his brother, you have come too late to bid him good-by.  The good gentleman died the night before last.”

“How did he die?” Castanier asked of one of the priests.

“Set your mind at rest,” said an old priest; he partly raised as he spoke the black pall that covered the catafalque.

Castanier, looking at him, saw one of those faces that faith has made sublime; the soul seemed to shine forth from every line of it, bringing light and warmth for other men, kindled by the unfailing charity within.  This was Sir John Melmoth’s confessor.

“Your brother made an end that men may envy, and that must rejoice the angels.  Do you know what joy there is in heaven over a sinner that repents?  His tears of penitence, excited by grace, flowed without ceasing; death alone checked them.  The Holy Spirit dwelt in him.  His burning words, full of lively faith, were worthy of the Prophet-King.  If, in the course of my life, I have never heard a more dreadful confession than from the lips of this Irish gentleman, I have likewise never heard such fervent and passionate prayers.  However great the measures of his sins may have been, his repentance has filled the abyss to overflowing.  The hand of God was visibly stretched out above him, for he was completely changed, there was such heavenly beauty in his face.  The hard eyes were softened by tears; the resonant voice that struck terror into those who heard it took the tender