Here is the tale of that phenomenon:  Mother Marie-des-Anges wanted an interview with the Comte de Gondreville; but how to get it she did not know, because to ask for it was not, as she thought, proper.  Having, it appears, unpleasant things to say to him, she did not wish to bring the old man to the convent expressly to hear them; such a proceeding seemed to her uncharitable.  Besides, things comminatory delivered point-blank will often provoke their recipient instead of alarming him; whereas the same things slipped in sweetly never fail of their effect.  Still, time was passing; the election, as you know, takes place to-morrow, Sunday, and the preparatory meeting of all the candidates and the electors, to-night.  The poor dear saintly woman did not know what course to take, when a little matter occurred, most flattering to her vanity, which solved her doubts.  A pretty sinner, she was told, who had come to Arcis to “do” Monsieur Keller the financier, then at Gondreville, out of some money, had heard of the virtues and the inexhaustible kindness of Mother Marie-des-Anges—­in short, she regarded her, after Danton, as the most interesting object of the place, and deeply regretted that she dared not ask to be admitted to her presence.

An hour later the following note was left at the Hotel de la Poste:—­

Mademoiselle,—­I am told that you desire to see me, but that you do not know how to accomplish it.  Nothing is easier.  Ring the door-bell of my quiet house, ask to see me, and do not be alarmed at my black robe and aged face.  I am not one of those who force their advice upon pretty young women who do not ask for it, and who may become in time greater saints than I. That is the whole mystery of obtaining an interview with Mother Marie-des-Anges, who salutes you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. [Picture of small cross.]

An invitation so graciously given was not to be resisted; and Mademoiselle Antonia, after putting on the soberest costume she could get together, went to the convent.

I wish I could give you the details of that interview, which must have been curious; but no one was present, and nothing was known except what the lost sheep, who returned in tears, told of it.  When the journalist tried to joke her on this conversion, Mademoiselle Antonia turned upon him.

“Hold your tongue,” she said; “you never in your life wrote a sentence like what she said to me.”

“What did she say to you?”

“‘Go, my child,’ said that old woman, ’the ways of God are beautiful, and little known; there is often more of a saint in a Magdalen than in a nun.’”

The journalist laughed, but scenting danger he said,—­

“When are you going again to Gondreville to see that Keller?  If he doesn’t pay the money soon, I’ll hit him a blow in some article, in spite of all Maxime may say.”

“I don’t play dirty tricks myself,” replied Antonia, with dignity.