was spread beneath his feet. Yonder was her lute; here were some of her favourite books; all around, draperies of pink silk fell from the ceiling, and curtained round the boudoir like a tent.
The Abbé laid his head upon his hand, and groaned aloud.
When he again looked up, the Countess was standing beside him, with an unwonted trouble in her face—a trouble that might have been pity, or anxiety, or shame, or a mingling of all three.
She began to speak; she hesitated; her voice trembled, and her words were indistinct.
André Bernard was suddenly aroused from his dream. The lover, not the priest, was awakened.
He rose abruptly.
"Madame la Comtesse," he said, sternly, "spare yourself useless and sinful words. I know why you have sent for me to-day, and I tell you that the All-Powerful who has received your vow, commands you by my lips to observe its sanctity."
The young woman cast a terrified glance at the gloomy countenance of the priest, and hid her face in her hands.
"Then, Monsieur le Curé, the All-Powerful bids me die!"
"No, you will not die," replied the Abbé, in the same profound and steady voice—"you will not die. Heaven, which gave you strength to bear the first separation, will enable you to sustain the second."