The verger replied that his reverence had only two more penitents waiting, and that they would not detain him long, so that if Lisa would take a chair her turn would speedily come.  She thanked him, without telling him that she had not come to confess; and, making up her mind to wait, she began to pace the church, going as far as the chief entrance, whence she gazed at the lofty, severe, bare nave stretching between the brightly coloured aisles.  Raising her head a little, she examined the high altar, which she considered too plain, having no taste for the cold grandeur of stonework, but preferring the gilding and gaudy colouring of the side chapels.  Those on the side of the Rue du Jour looked greyish in the light which filtered through their dusty windows, but on the side of the markets the sunset was lighting up the stained glass with lovely tints, limpid greens and yellows in particular, which reminded Lisa of the bottle of liqueurs in front of Monsieur Lebigre’s mirror.  She came back by this side, which seemed to be warmed by the glow of light, and took a passing interest in the reliquaries, altar ornaments, and paintings steeped in prismatic reflections.  The church was empty, quivering with the silence that fell from its vaulted roofing.  Here and there a woman’s dress showed like a dark splotch amidst the vague yellow of the chairs; and a low buzzing came from the closed confessionals.  As Lisa again passed the chapel of Saint Agnes she saw the blue dress still kneeling at Abbe Roustan’s feet.

“Why, if I’d wanted to confess I could have said everything in ten seconds,” she thought, proud of her irreproachable integrity.

Then she went on to the end of the church.  Behind the high altar, in the gloom of a double row of pillars, is the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, damp and dark and silent.  The dim stained windows only show the flowing crimson and violet robes of saints, which blaze like flames of mystic love in the solemn, silent adoration of the darkness.  It is a weird, mysterious spot, like some crepuscular nook of paradise solely illumined by the gleaming stars of two tapers.  The four brass lamps hanging from the roof remain unlighted, and are but faintly seen; on espying them you think of the golden censers which the angels swing before the throne of Mary.  And kneeling on the chairs between the pillars there are always women surrendering themselves languorously to the dim spot’s voluptuous charm.

Lisa stood and gazed tranquilly around her.  She did not feel the least emotion, but considered that it was a mistake not to light the lamps.  Their brightness would have given the place a more cheerful look.  The gloom even struck her as savouring of impropriety.  Her face was warmed by the flames of some candles burning in a candelabrum by her side, and an old woman armed with a big knife was scraping off the wax which had trickled down and congealed into pale tears.  And amidst the quivering silence, the mute ecstasy of adoration prevailing in the chapel, Lisa would distinctly hear the rumbling of the vehicles turning out of the Rue Montmartre, behind the scarlet and purple saints on the windows, whilst in the distance the markets roared without a moment’s pause.