tery something to make him weep and pray. That man is not Mr.
Affre: read the mandate. There is compassion for the blood-stained
church, and pity for the polluted stones; but for the dead only a
malediction. But, whether a Christian or not, guilty or not, is he not
still a man, my lord bishop? Could you not, whilst you were condemning
suicide, let fall one word of pity by the way? No, no sentiment of
humanity, nothing for the poor soul, which, besides its misfortune
(which must have been terrible, indeed, since it could not support it),
departs all alone and accursed, to attempt that perilous flight of the
other life and judgment.

Another very different fact had given me some time before a similar
impression. I had gone on business to the house of the venerable
Sister * * *.

She was absent; and two persons, a lady and an aged priest, were
waiting, like myself, in the small parlour. The lady seemed actuated
by some motive of beneficence: the priest, as they are lords and
masters in every Religious house, seemed to be quite at home, and, to
beguile the time, was writing letters at the sister's bureau. At the
conclusion of every note, he listened to the lady for a moment. The
latter, whose gentle face bore traces of grief, impressed one at once
with the goodness of her disposition: perhaps she would not have
attracted my attention, but there was something in her that interested
me. Was it passion or grief? I overheard without listening--she had
lost her son.

An only son, full of affection, spirits, and courage; a young hero,
who, leaving the Polytechnic school, had abandoned everything, riches,
high life, pleasure, happiness, and such a mother! And regardless
alike of safety and danger, had rushed to Marseilles, thence to
Algiers, to the enemy, and to death.

The poor woman, wholly occupied with this idea, snatched, from time to
time, a little moment to put in a word; she wanted to speak to him, and
appeal to his compassion. The scene was infinitely touching and
natural, without any theatrical effect. Her moderate grief and sighs,
without tears, affected me the more.

She was evidently wasting her breath. The thoughts of the priest were
elsewhere. It was not possible for him not to listen; he was forced to
say something or other (the lady was rich, and her carriage was waiting
at the door); but he got off as cheap as he could: "Yes, Madam,
Providence tries us. It strikes us for our good. These ar