"Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my little bill."
Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary, moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks out the prayers appropriate to her condition.
She reads with fervency: "'My God, crushed beneath the burden of my sins I cast myself at thy feet'—how annoying that it should be so cold to the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,—'that I cast myself at thy feet'—tell me, dear, do you know if the chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her friends' sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her foot-warmer—'I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance, and of……..'"
"Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a turkey- cock."
Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place.
"Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you."
"But I was here before you, Madame."
"I beg a thousand pardons, Madame."
"You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this hallowed spot."
"Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night, and the two little ones of this morning."