t enduring to see him advancing by rapid leaps on the way of
perfection, adopted various means of hindering him in the happy progress
of his career."

And on turning over to a fresh page he came upon a passage in the life
of one of the Elect who was mourning for his mother, excusing him in
this solemn rigmarole: "After granting to the feelings of nature such
relief as grace cannot forbid on these occasions--"

Or again, here and there were such pompous and ridiculous definitions as
this, which occurs in the life of Cesar de Bus: "After a visit to Paris,
which is not less the throne of vice than the capital of the kingdom--"
And this went on in meagre language through twelve to fifteen volumes,
ending by the erection of a row of uniform virtue, a barrack of pious
idiotcy. Now and again the two poor nags seemed to wake up and trot for
a little space, though gasping for breath, when they had some detail to
record which no doubt moved them to rapture; they expatiated
complacently on the virtues of Catherine of Sweden or Robert de la
Chaise-Dieu, who as soon as they were born cried for sinless wet-nurses,
and would suck none but pious breasts; or they spoke with ravishment of
the chastity of Jean the Taciturn, who never took a bath, that he might
not shock "his modest eyes," as the text says, by seeing himself; and
the bashful purity of San Luis de Gonzagua, who had such a terror of
women that he dared not look at his mother for fear of evil thoughts!

In consternation at the poverty of these distressing non-sequiturs,
Durtal turned to the less familiar biographies of the Blessed Women; but
here again, what a farrago of the commonplace, what glutinous unction,
what a hash by way of style! There was certainly some curse from Heaven
on the old women of the Sacristy who dared take up a pen. Their ink at
once turned to stickiness, to bird-lime, to pitch, which smeared all it
touched. Oh, the poor Saints! the hapless Blessed Women!

His meditations were interrupted by a ring at the bell:

"Why, has the Abbe Plomb really come out in spite of the gale?"

It was indeed the priest that Madame Mesurat showed in.

"Oh," said he to Durtal, who lamented over the rain, "the weather will
clear up all in good time; at any rate, as you had not put me off I was
determined not to keep you waiting."

They sat chatting by the fire; and the room took the Abbe's fancy, no
doubt, for he settled himself at his ease. He threw himself back in a