me, do you kiss the mat yourself?"

"I! no, never in my life; it is so nasty, dear."

"You confess to the omission, at least?"

"Oh! I confess all those little trifles in a lump. I say, 'Father, I
have erred out of human self-respect.' I give the total at once."

"That is just what I do, and that dear Abbe Gelon discharges the bill."

"Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to
me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my
little bill."

Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without
taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with
her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary,
moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she
loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks
out the prayers appropriate to her condition.

She reads with fervency: "'My God, crushed beneath the burden of my sins
I cast myself at thy feet'--how annoying that it should be so cold to
the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,--'that
I cast myself at thy feet'--tell me, dear, do you know if the
chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and
that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her
friends' sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer
have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her
foot-warmer--'I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance,
and of........'"

"Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a
turkey-cock."

Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place.

"Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you."

"But I was here before you, Madame."

"I beg a thousand pardons, Madame."

"You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this
hallowed spot."

"Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take
the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night,
and the two little ones of this morning."

CHAPTER V. MADAME AND HER FRIEND CHAT BY THE FIRESIDE

Madam--(moving her slender fingers)--It is ruched, ruched, ruched, loves
of ruches, edged all around with blond.

Her Friend--That is good style, dear.

Madame--Yes, I think it will be the style, and over this snowlike
foam fall the skirts of blue silk like the bodice; but a lovely blue,
something like--a little less