"Well, when we go to Florence next winter, Madelon, you shall visit all the churches. They are much more splendid than these, and have the most beautiful pictures, which I should like you to see."
"And will there be music, and lights, and flowers there, the same as here, papa?"
"Oh! for that, it is much the same everywhere," replied M. Linders. "People are much alike all the world over, as you will find, Madelon. Priests, and mummery, and a gaping crowd, to stare and say, 'How wonderful! how beautiful!' as you do now, ma petite; but you shall know better some day."
He spoke with a certain bitterness that Madelon did not understand, any more than she did his little speech; but it silenced her for a moment, and then she said more timidly,
"But, papa——"
"Well, Madelon!"
"But, papa, he said—ce Monsieur—he said that people go to church pour prier le bon Dieu. What did he mean? We often say 'Mon Dieu,' and I have heard them talk of le bon Dieu; is that the same? Who is He then—le bon Dieu?"
M. Linders did not at once reply. Madelon was looking up into his face with wide-open perplexed eyes, frowning a little with an unusual effort of thought, with the endeavour to penetrate a momentary mystery, which she instinctively felt lay somewhere, and which she looked to him to explain; and he could not give her a careless, mocking answer; he sat staring blankly at her for a few seconds, and then said slowly,
"I cannot tell you."
"Do you not know, papa?"