stier.

"You are from the country?" said he, inquiringly.

"Yes, from Rennes. And you, sir, is it out of curiosity that you entered
this church?"

"No, I am expecting a lady," and bowing, the journalist walked away,
with a smile on his lips.

Approaching the main entrance, he saw the poor woman still on her knees,
and still praying. He thought: "By Jove! she keeps hard at it." He was
no longer moved, and no longer pitied her.

He passed on, and began quietly to walk up the right-hand aisle to find
Madame Walter again. He marked the place where he had left her from a
distance, astonished at not seeing her. He thought he had made a mistake
in the pillar; went on as far as the end one, and then returned. She had
gone, then. He was surprised and enraged. Then he thought she might be
looking for him, and made the circuit of the church again. Not finding
her, he returned, and sat down on the chair she had occupied, hoping she
would rejoin him there, and waited. Soon a low murmur of voices aroused
his attention. He had not seen anyone in that part of the church. Whence
came this whispering? He rose to see, and perceived in the adjacent
chapel the doors of the confessional. The skirt of a dress issuing from
one of these trailed on the pavement. He approached to examine the
woman. He recognized her. She was confessing.

He felt a violent inclination to take her by the shoulders and to pull
her out of the box. Then he thought: "Bah! it is the priest's turn now;
it will be mine to-morrow." And he sat down quietly in front of the
confessional, biding his time, and chuckling now over the adventure. He
waited a long time. At length Madame Walter rose, turned round, saw him,
and came up to him. Her expression was cold and severe, "Sir," said she,
"I beg of you not to accompany me, not to follow me, and not to come to
my house alone. You will not be received. Farewell."

And she walked away with a dignified bearing. He let her depart, for one
of his principles was never to force matters. Then, as the priest,
somewhat upset, issued in turn from his box, he walked up to him, and,
looking him straight in the eyes, growled to his face: "If you did not
wear a petticoat, what a smack you would get across your ugly chops."
After which he turned on his heels and went out of the church, whistling
between his teeth. Standing under the porch, the stout gentleman, with
the hat on his head and his hands behind his back, tired of waiting, was