"And you, mesdames! How is this? You are not Catholics? And I was so sure of it! Quite sure of it, you were so sympathetic, so full of reverence. And you, my child"—turning to Charm—"you speak our tongue so well, with the very accent of a good Catholic. What! you are Protestant? La! La! What do I hear?" He shook his cane over the backs of the straw-bottomed chairs; the sweet, mellow accents of his voice melted into loving protest—a protest in which the fervor was not quenched in spite of the merry key in which it was pitched.
"Protestants? Pouffe! pouffe! What is that? What is it to be a Protestant? Heretics, heretics, that is what you are. So you are deux affreuses hérétiques? Ah, la! la! Horrible! horrible! I must cure you of all that. I must cure you!" He dropped his cane in the enthusiasm of his attack; it fell with a clanging sound on the stone pavement. He let it lie. He had assumed, unconsciously, the orator's, the preacher's attitude. He crowded past the chairs, throwing back his head as he advanced, striking into argumentative gesture:
"Tenez, listen, there is so little difference, after all. As I was saying to M. le comte de Chermont the other day, no later than Thursday—he has married an English wife, you know—can't understand that either, how they can marry English wives. However, that's none of my business—we have nothing to do with marrying, we priests, except as a sacrament for others. I said to M. le comte, who, you know, shows tendencies toward anglicism—astonishing the influence of women—I said: 'But, my dear M. le comte, why change? You will only exchange certainty for uncertainty, facts for doubts, truth for lies.' 'Yes, yes,' the comte replied, 'but there are so many new truths introduced now into our blessed religion—the infallibility of the pope—the—' 'Ah, mon cher comte—ne m'en parlez pas. If that is all that stands in your way—faites comme le bon Dieu! Lui—il ferme les yeux et tend les bras. That is all we ask—we his servants—to have you close your eyes and open your arms.'"
The good curé was out of breath; he was panting. After a moment, in a deeper tone, he went on:
"You, too, my children, that is what I say to you—you need only to open your arms and to close your eyes. God is waiting for you."
For a long instant there was a great stillness—a silence during which the narrow spaces of the dim aisles were vibrating with the echoes of the rich voice.
The rustle of a light skirt sweeping the stone flooring broke the moment's silence. Charm was crossing the aisles. She paused before a little wooden box, nailed to the wall. There came suddenly on the ear the sound of coin rattling down into the empty box; she had emptied into it the contents of her purse.
"For your poor, monsieur le curé," she smiled up, a little tremulously, into the burning, glowing eyes. The priest bent over the fair head, laying his hand, as if in benediction, upon it.
"My poor need it sadly, my child, and I thank you for them. God will bless you."
It was a touching little scene, and I preferred, for one, to look out just then at Henri's figure advancing toward us, up the stone steps.