What recollections these words have just awakened!  I left off what I was about, I leaned my elbows on the windowsill, and, with my head between my two hands, I went back in thought to the little town where the first days of my childhood were passed.

The ‘Fete Dieu’ was then one of the great events of my life!  It was necessary to be diligent and obedient a long time beforehand, to deserve to share in it.  I still recollect with what raptures of expectation I got up on the morning of the day.  There was a holy joy in the air.  The neighbors, up earlier than usual, hung cloths with flowers or figures, worked in tapestry, along the streets.  I went from one to another, by turns admiring religious scenes of the Middle Ages, mythological compositions of the Renaissance, old battles in the style of Louis XIV, and the Arcadias of Madame de Pompadour.  All this world of phantoms seemed to be coming forth from the dust of past ages, to assist—­silent and motionless—­at the holy ceremony.  I looked, alternately in fear and wonder, at those terrible warriors with their swords always raised, those beautiful huntresses shooting the arrow which never left the bow, and those shepherds in satin breeches always playing the flute at the feet of the perpetually smiling shepherdess.  Sometimes, when the wind blew behind these hanging pictures, it seemed to me that the figures themselves moved, and I watched to see them detach themselves from the wall, and take their places in the procession!  But these impressions were vague and transitory.  The feeling that predominated over every other was that of an overflowing yet quiet joy.  In the midst of all the floating draperies, the scattered flowers, the voices of the maidens, and the gladness which, like a perfume, exhaled from everything, you felt transported in spite of yourself.  The joyful sounds of the festival were repeated in your heart, in a thousand melodious echoes.  You were more indulgent, more holy, more loving!  For God was not only manifesting himself without, but also within us.

And then the altars for the occasion! the flowery arbors! the triumphal arches made of green boughs!  What competition among the different parishes for the erection of the resting-places where the procession was to halt!  It was who should contribute the rarest and the most beautiful of his possessions!

It was there I made my first sacrifice!

The wreaths of flowers were arranged, the candles lighted, and the Tabernacle dressed with roses; but one was wanting fit to crown the whole!  All the neighboring gardens had been ransacked.  I alone possessed a flower worthy of such a place.  It was on the rose-tree given me by my mother on my birthday.  I had watched it for several months, and there was no other bud to blow on the tree.  There it was, half open, in its mossy nest, the object of such long expectations, and of all a child’s pride!  I hesitated for some moments.  No one had asked