through the lofty arches.  Little by little the faint, sweet sounds, though still as it were covered, changed to an exquisite melody, religious, melancholy, and affectionate, which rose to heaven like a song of ineffable gratitude and love.  And the notes were at first so faint, so covered, that the kneeling multitude had scarcely felt surprise, and had yielded insensibly to the irresistible influence of that enchanting harmony.

Then many an eye, until now dry and ferocious, became wet with tears—­many hard hearts beat gently, as they remembered the words pronounced by Gabriel with so tender an accent:  “Love ye one another!” It was at this moment that Father d’Aigrigny came to himself—­and opened his eyes.  He thought himself under the influence of a dream.  He had lost his senses in sight of a furious populace, who, with insult and blasphemy on their lips, pursued him with cries of death even to the sanctuary of the temple.  He opened his eyes—­and, by the pale light of the sacred lamps, to the solemn music of the organ, he saw that crowd, just now so menacing and implacable, kneeling in mute and reverential emotion, and humbly bowing their heads before the majesty of the shrine.

Some minutes after, Gabriel, carried almost in triumph on the shoulders of the crowd, entered the coach, in which Father d’Aigrigny, who by degrees had completely recovered his senses, was already reclining.  By the order of the Jesuit, the coach stopped before the door of a house in the Rue de Vaugirard; he had the strength and courage to enter this dwelling alone; Gabriel was not admitted, but we shall conduct the reader thither.

CHAPTER XXVI.

The patient.

At the end of the Rue de Vaugirard, there was then a very high wall, with only one small doorway in all its length.  On opening this door, you entered a yard surrounded by a railing, with screens like Venetian blinds, to prevent your seeing between the rails.  Crossing this courtyard, you come to a fine large garden, symmetrically planted, at the end of which stood a building two stories high, looking perfectly comfortable, without luxury, but with all that cozy simplicity which betokens discreet opulence.  A few days had elapsed since Father d’Aigrigny had been so courageously rescued by Gabriel from the popular fury.  Three ecclesiastics, wearing black gowns, white bands, and square caps, were walking in the garden with a slow and measured step.  The youngest seemed to be about thirty years of age; his countenance was pale, hollow, and impressed with a certain ascetic austerity.  His two companions, aged between fifty or sixty, had, on the contrary, faces at once hypocritical and cunning; their round, rosy cheeks shone brightly in the sunshine, whilst their triple chins, buried in fat, descended in soft folds over the fine cambric of their bands.  According to the rules of their order (they belonged to the Society of Jesus), which forbade their walking only two together, these three members of the brotherhood never quitted each other a moment.