By degrees the sweet tones of the preacher enrapture one more and more, and the sense of his words are lost; and, listening to the divine murmur of that saint-like voice, your eyes, like those of a child falling asleep in the bosom of the Creator, close.

You do not go to sleep, but your head inclines forward, the ethereal light surrounds you, and your soul, delighting in the uncertain, plunges into celestial space, and loses itself in infinity.

What a sweet and holily intoxicating sensation, a delicious ecstasy!  Nevertheless, there are those who smile at this religious raise-en-scene, these pomps and splendors, this celestial music, which soothes the nerves and thrills the brain!  Pity on these scoffers who do not comprehend the ineffable delight of being able to open at will the gates of Paradise to themselves, and to become, at odd moments, one with the angels!  But what purpose does it serve to speak of the faithless and of their harmless, smiles?  As the Abbe Gelon has in his inimitable manner observed, “The heart is a fortress, incessantly assailed by the spirit of darkness.”

The idea of a constant struggle with this powerful being has something about it that adds tenfold to our strength and flatters our vanity.  What, alone in your fortress, Madame; alone with the spirit of darkness.

But hush! the Abbe Gelon is finishing in a quivering and fatigued voice.  His right hand traces in the air the sign of peace.  Then he wipes his humid forehead, his eyes sparkle with divine light, he descends the narrow stairs, and we hear on the pavement the regular taps of the rod of the verger, who is reconducting him to the vestry.

“Was he not splendid, dear?”

“Excellent! when he said, ‘That my eyes might close forever, if......’
you remember?”

“Superb! and further on:  ‘Yes, ladies, you are coquettes.’  He told us some hard truths; he speaks admirably.”

“Admirably!  He is divine!”

It is four o’clock, the church is plunged in shadow and silence.  The confused rumble of the vehicles without hardly penetrates this dwelling of prayer, and the creak of one’s boots, echoing in the distance, is the only human noise which ruffles the deep calm.

However, in proportion as we advance, we perceive in the chapels groups of the faithful, kneeling, motionless and silent.  In viewing the despair that their attitude appears to express, we are overwhelmed with sadness and uneasiness.  Is it an appeal for the damned?

The aspects of one of these chapels is peculiar.  A hundred or a hundred and fifty ladies, almost buried in silk and velvet, are crowded devoutly about the confessional.  A sweet scent of violets and vervain permeates the vicinity, and one halts, in spite of one’s self, in the presence of this large display of elegance.

From each of the two cells adjoining the confessional shoot out the folds of a rebellious skirt, for the penitent, held fast at the waist, has been able to get only half of her form into the narrow space.  However, her head can be distinguished moving in the shadow, and we can guess from the contrite movements of her white feather that her forehead is bowed by reason of remonstrance and repentance.