Madame H—­I can hardly tell you.  Doubts, in short; about hell, for instance, I have had horrible doubts.  Oh! but do not let us speak about that; I believe it is wrong even to think of it.

Madame F—­I have very broad views on that point; I never think about it.  Besides, my late confessor helped me.  “Do not seek too much,” he always said to me, “do not try to understand that which is unfathomable.”  You did not know Father Gideon?  He was a jewel of a confessor; I was extremely pleased with him.  Not too tedious, always discreet, and, above all, well-bred.  He turned monk from a romantic cause—­a penitent was madly in love with him.

Madame H—­Impossible!

Madame F—­Yes, really.  What! did you not know about it?  The success of the monastery was due to that accident.  Before the coming of Father Gideon it vegetated, but on his coming the ladies soon flocked there in crowds.  They organized a little guild, entitled “The Ladies of the Agony.”  They prayed for the Chinese who had died without confession, and wore little death’s heads in aluminum as sleeve-links.  It became very fashionable, as you are aware, and the good fathers organized, in turn, a registry for men servants; and the result is that, from one thing leading to another, the community has become extremely wealthy.  I have even heard that one of the most important railway stations in Paris is shortly to be moved, so that the size of their garden can be increased, which is rather restricted at present.

Madame H—­As to that, it is natural enough that men should want a place to walk in at home; but what I do not understand is that a woman, however pious she may be, should fall in love with a priest.  It is all very well, but that is no longer piety; it is—­fanaticism.  I venerate priests, I can say so truly, but after all I can not imagine myself—­you will laugh at me—­ha, ha, ha!

Madame F—­Not at all.  Ha, ha, ha! what a child you are!

Madame H—­(working with great briskness)—­Well, I can not imagine that they are men—­like the others.

Madame F—­(resuming work with equal ardor)—­And yet, my dear, people say they are.

Madame H—­There are so many false reports set afloat. (A long silence.)

Madame F—­(in a discreet tone of voice)—­After all, there are priests who have beards—­the Capuchins, for instance.

Madame H—­Madame de V. has a beard right up to her eyes, so that counts for nothing, dear.

Madame F—­That counts for nothing.  I do not think so.  In the first place, Madame de V.’s beard is not a perennial beard; her niece told me that she sheds her moustaches every autumn.  What can a beard be that can not stand the winter?  A mere trifle.

Madame H—­A mere trifle that is horribly ugly, my dear.

Madame F—­Oh! if Madame de V. had only moustaches to frighten away people, one might still look upon her without sorrow, but—­

Madame H—­I grant all that.  Let us allow that the Countess’s moustache and imperial are a nameless species of growth.  I do not attach much importance to the point, you understand.  She has a chin of heartbreaking fertility, that is all.