rs,
the remorse, the contrition of fifteen years relate to the mutual sin of
those two persons, believe me there are no remains of earthly passion
in this long and terrible bewailing. Memory no longer mingles its flames
with those of an ardent penitence. Yes, tears have at last extinguished
that great fire. I guarantee," he said, stretching his hand over Madame
Graslin's head, and letting his moistened eyes be seen, "I guarantee the
purity of that angelic soul. And also I see in this desire the thought
of reparation to an absent family, a member of which God has brought
back here by one of those events which reveal His providence."

Veronique took the trembling hand of the rector and kissed it.

"You have often been very stern to me, dear pastor, but at this moment I
see where you keep your apostolic gentleness. You," she said, looking at
the archbishop, "you, the supreme head of this corner of God's kingdom,
be to me, in this moment of ignominy, a support. I must bow down as the
lowest of women, but you will lift me up pardoned and--possibly--the
equal of those who never sinned."

The archbishop was silent, weighing no doubt all the considerations his
practised eye perceived.

"Monseigneur," said the rector, "religion has had some heavy blows. This
return to ancient customs, brought about by the greatness of the sin and
its repentance, may it not be a triumph we have no right to refuse?"

"But they will say we are fanatics! They will declare we have exacted
this cruel scene!"

And again the archbishop was silent and thoughtful.

At this moment Horace Bianchon and Roubaud entered the room, after
knocking. As the door opened Veronique saw her mother, her son, and all
the servants of the household on their knees praying. The rectors of
the two adjacent parishes had come to assist Monsieur Bonnet, and also,
perhaps, to pay their respects to the great prelate, for whom the
French clergy now desired the honors of the cardinalate, hoping that
the clearness of his intellect, which was thoroughly Gallican, would
enlighten the Sacred College.

Horace Bianchon returned to Paris; before departing, he came to bid
farewell to the dying woman and thank her for her munificence. Slowly he
approached, perceiving from the faces of the priests that the wounds of
the soul had been the determining cause of those of the body. He took
Madame Graslin's hand, laid it on the bed and felt the pulse. The deep
silence, that of a summer nig