“Can there be such a thing as atheists?” cried Theodose, with all the signs of extreme wonderment.  “Could a true Catholic marry a Protestant?  There is no safety possible for a married pair unless they have perfect conformity in the matter of religious opinions.  I, who come from the Comtat, of a family which counts a pope among its ancestors—­for our arms are:  gules, a key argent, with supporters, a monk holding a church, and a pilgrim with a staff, or, and the motto, ’I open, I shut’—­I am, of course, intensely dogmatic on such points.  But in these days, thanks to our modern system of education, it does not seem to me strange that religion should be called into question.  I myself would never marry a Protestant, had she millions, even if I loved her distractedly.  Faith is a thing that cannot be tampered with.  ‘Una fides, unus Dominus,’ that is my device in life.”

“You hear that!” cried Celeste, triumphantly, looking at Felix Phellion.

“I am not openly devout,” continued la Peyrade.  “I go to mass at six every morning, that I may not be observed; I fast on Fridays; I am, in short, a son of the Church, and I would not undertake any serious enterprise without prayer, after the ancient fashion of our ancestors; but no one is able to notice my religion.  A singular thing happened to our family during the Revolution of 1789, which attached us more closely than ever to our holy mother the Church.  A poor young lady of the elder branch of the Peyrades, who owned the little estate of la Peyrade,—­for we ourselves are Peyrades of Canquoelle, but the two branches inherit from one another,—­well, this young lady married, six years before the Revolution, a barrister who, after the fashion of the times, was Voltairean, that is to say, an unbeliever, or, if you choose, a deist.  He took up all the revolutionary ideas, and practised the charming rites that you know of in the worship of the goddess Reason.  He came into our part of the country imbued with the ideas of the Convention, and fanatical about them.  His wife was very handsome; he compelled her to play the part of Liberty; and the poor unfortunate creature went mad.  She died insane!  Well, as things are going now it looks as if we might have another 1793.”

This history, invented on the spot, made such an impression on Celeste’s fresh and youthful imagination that she rose, bowed to the young men and hastened to her chamber.

“Ah! monsieur, why did you tell her that?” cried Felix, struck to the heart by the cold look the young girl, affecting profound indifference, cast upon him.  She fancied herself transformed into a goddess of Reason.

“Why not?  What were you talking about?” asked Theodose.

“About my indifference to religion.”

“The great sore of this century,” replied Theodose, gravely.

“I am ready,” said Madame Colleville, appearing in a toilet of much taste.  “But what is the matter with my poor daughter?  She is crying!”