xquisite sentiment, that perhaps the living whiteness of
the girl's soul irradiates his thoughts, bleached, like his hair, by
approaching death, while he now feels in his soul the dawn of a warm
purity. Then he murmurs to himself almost involuntarily: 'Abishag.' The
girl asks: 'Who is Abishag?' because she is ignorant like you two, who
do not know Abishag, my first love. The priest does not answer, but
proceeds with the girl down the Rue des Laines. She asks again who may
be Abishag, and still the old man is silent. Then appears that horrible
black shadow, which comes and goes and at last vanishes at the sound of
the twenty-four bells."

"That is not correct," murmured Noemi. Carlino was on the point of
saying, "Stupid!"

"The priest," he continued, "likens the black shadow to an evil spirit,
which comes and goes round pure spirits (you do not understand the
connection, but there is a connection), eager to enter into them, to
dwell in them, he, with others worse than himself. Then--and here I have
not yet found the connection, but I shall find it--they are led to talk
of love. You have crossed the Grande Place. To-night there was no music,
but usually there is, and we will suppose that many amorous glances are
exchanged, as is everywhere the case. The old tower and the old priest
show a certain indulgence; the maiden, on the contrary, finds this phase
of love stupid. She scorns it. It is the love of the world, says the
priest; and here is the Hotel de Flandre and the wedding dance-music."

"What?" exclaimed Noemi. "Was there really a wedding dance?"

Carlino shrugged his shoulders and clenched his fists, gasping with
impatience. After a deep sigh he continued:

"The girl asks, 'But is there a heavenly love?' It was then I told you
to stop under the trees of Saint-Sauveur, and you, instead, stopped at
the entrance to the square. It makes no difference; the cathedral was in
sight, and that is enough. The priest answers: 'Yes, there is a heavenly
love,' The majesty of the ancient cathedral, of the night, of the
silence, inspires him. He speaks, I cannot now repeat his discourse,
it is rather confused in my mind; but at any rate the essence of it is
this, that even heavenly love has its birth, but never reaches maturity
on earth. The old man almost allows himself to be led into making a
confession. With, bursting heart and burning tongue he does confess
to not having felt any inclination towards individuals nor indeed a