"What is that, Auguste?" I asked, with feigned ignorance.
"A place of worship," he answered; "the people come there to pray."
"But what do they come there for?" I continued.
"God is there," he answered, with emphasis, pointing at the same time to the gayly dressed puppets.
"No, He is not," I replied.
He turned round and looked at me defiantly. His mild face became that of a fanatic, and I actually quailed beneath his angry eye, as he retorted,—
"He is there."
My mistake flashed upon me, too, at the instant, and I hastened to explain myself in the simplest manner my poor French would allow, saying,—
"Oui, Auguste, Il est là, c'est vrai; mais Il est là aussi!"—and I pointed to the snow-capped mountains on my right,—"et là!"—and I waved my hand towards the deeply shadowed heights on the opposite side of the valley.
He caught my meaning as by an inspiration. His fierce frown melted instantly into an intelligent smile.