"I confess it was so," whispered the countess, covering her face with her hands.
"Now, here is a nice state of things!" thought the pastor. "The dead ancestors play all manner of pranks in the family vault, while their descendant projects herself out of her human body to make love in some other region. They are, indeed, an extraordinary race. A poor man daren't even think of such extravagances, and how can I, a poor parish priest, deal with such queer goings-on? I only know how to settle with the every-day penitent, who commits the usual sins."
This complication, in truth, of the ghosts below and the bewitched countess above, was too much for a man of his calibre to deal with. It required a superior genius to exorcise the spirits and to calm the hysterical mind of Theudelinde. In the difficulty it appeared to him better to temporize.
"My daughter, the penance you have imposed upon yourself is well thought of. Have you already committed to the flames the portrait of the last demoniacal appearance?"
"No," answered the countess, with all the hesitation a young girl would have in speaking of her lover's picture.
"And why not?" questioned the priest, almost sternly. He was glad to find some tangible fault.
"It would be wrong, I think, to throw this particular portrait into the fire."
"And wherefore should it be wrong?"
Before she replied the countess opened a concealed pocket of the album and drew forth what it contained.
"Ah!" cried the pastor as he took the photograph, which he at once recognized as the Abbé Samuel, the head of an influential order which possessed many different branches.