And, taking a hundred-franc note out of his pocket-book, he laid it on the mantel piece.

“Thanks, sir,” said the nun; “I will keep an account of what I spend.  We always do that,” she added; “it is more convenient for the family.  One is so troubled at seeing those one loves laid low by illness.  You have perhaps not thought of giving this poor lady the sweet aid of our holy religion!  In your place, sir, I should send without delay for a priest,—­”

“What, now, sister?  Do you not see the condition she is in?  She is the same as dead; you saw that she did not hear my voice.”

“That is of little consequence, sir,” replied the nun; “you will always have done your duty.  She did not answer you; but are you sure that she will not answer the priest?  Ah, you do not know all the power of the last sacraments!  I have seen the dying recover their intelligence and sufficient strength to confess, and to receive the sacred body of our Lord Jesus Christ.  I have often heard families say that they do not wish to alarm the invalid, that the sight of the minister of our Lord might inspire a terror that would hasten the final end.  It is a fatal error.  The priest does not terrify; he reassures the soul, at the beginning of its long journey.  He speaks in the name of the God of mercy, who comes to save, not to destroy.  I could cite to you many cases of dying people who have been cured simply by contact with the sacred balm.”

The nun spoke in a tone as mournful as her look.  Her heart was evidently not in the words which she uttered.  Without doubt, she had learned them when she first entered the convent.  Then they expressed something she really felt, she spoke her own thoughts; but, since then, she had repeated the words over and over again to the friends of every sick person that she attended, until they lost all meaning so far as she was concerned.  To utter them became simply a part of her duties as nurse, the same as the preparation of draughts, and the making of poultices.

Noel was not listening to her; his thoughts were far away.

“Your dear mother,” continued the nun, “this good lady that you love so much, no doubt trusted in her religion.  Do you wish to endanger her salvation?  If she could speak in the midst of her cruel sufferings—­”

The advocate was on the point of replying, when the servant announced that a gentleman, who would not give his name, wished to speak with him on business.

“I will come,” he said quickly.

“What do you decide, sir?” persisted the nun.

“I leave you free, sister, to do as you may judge best.”

The worthy woman began to recite her lesson of thanks, but to no purpose.  Noel had disappeared with a displeased look; and almost immediately she heard his voice in the next room, saying:  “At last you have come, M. Clergeot, I had almost given you up!”

The visitor, whom the advocate had been expecting, is a person well known in the Rue St. Lazare, round about the Rue de Provence, the neighbourhood of Notre Dame de Lorette, and all along the exterior Boulevards, from the Chaussee des Martyrs to the Rond-Point of the old Barriere de Clichy.