Mme. Catherine.  Don’t brood so much.  Work and divert yourself.  Now, for instance, do you ever go to church?

Adolphe.  What should I do there?

Mme. Catherine.  Oh, there’s so much to look at, and then there is the music.  There is nothing commonplace about it, at least.

Adolphe.  Perhaps not.  But I don’t belong to that fold, I guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion.  And then, Madame Catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven’t got it yet.

Mme. Catherine.  Well, wait till you get it—­But what is this I heard a while ago?  Is it true that you have sold a picture in London for a high price, and that you have got a medal?

Adolphe.  Yes, it’s true.

Mme. Catherine.  Merciful heavens!—­and not a word do you say about it?

Adolphe.  I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost worthless to me at this moment.  I am afraid of it as of a spectre:  it brings disaster to speak of having seen it.

Mme. Catherine.  You’re a queer fellow, and that’s what you have always been.

Adolphe.  Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of success—­You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered evasively.  This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain without really knowing why I did so.  It seemed as if I were looking for somebody in there—­somebody to whom I could silently offer my gratitude.  But I found nobody.  Then I dropped a gold coin in the poor-box.  It was all I could get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, I should say.

Mme. Catherine.  It was always something; and then it was fine to think of the poor after having heard good news.

Adolphe.  It was neither fine nor anything else:  it was something I did because I couldn’t help myself.  But something more occurred while I was in the church.  I saw Maurice’s girl friend, Jeanne, and her child.  Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune.

Mme. Catherine.  Well, children, I don’t know in what kind of shape you keep your consciences.  But how a decent fellow, a careful and considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert a woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain.

Adolphe.  Nor can I explain it, and he doesn’t seem to understand it himself.  I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn’t imagine anything else.  It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty.  There are things, Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it is