s the medley of things, dismal or pleasing, abject
and handsome, that fell on his eye.

These relics of splendor among the potsherds, these household
belongings--so appropriate to the bohemian existence of the girl who
knelt stricken in her unbuttoned garments, like a horse dying in harness
under the broken shafts entangled in the reins--did the whole strange
scene suggest any thoughts to the priest? Did he say to himself that
this erring creature must at least be disinterested to live in such
poverty when her lover was young and rich? Did he ascribe the disorder
of the room to the disorder of her life? Did he feel pity or terror? Was
his charity moved?

To see him, his arms folded, his brow dark, his lips set, his eye harsh,
any one must have supposed him absorbed in morose feelings of hatred,
considerations that jostled each other, sinister schemes. He was
certainly insensible to the soft roundness of a bosom almost crushed
under the weight of the bowed shoulders, and to the beautiful modeling
of the crouching Venus that was visible under the black petticoat, so
closely was the dying girl curled up. The drooping head which, seen from
behind, showed the white, slender, flexible neck and the fine shoulders
of a well-developed figure, did not appeal to him. He did not raise
Esther, he did not seem to hear the agonizing gasps which showed that
she was returning to life; a fearful sob and a terrifying glance from
the girl were needed before he condescended to lift her, and he carried
her to the bed with an ease that revealed enormous strength.

"Lucien!" she murmured.

"Love is there, the woman is not far behind," said the priest with some
bitterness.

The victim of Parisian depravity then observed the dress worn by
her deliverer, and said, with a smile like a child's when it takes
possession of something longed for:

"Then I shall not die without being reconciled to Heaven?"

"You may yet expiate your sins," said the priest, moistening her
forehead with water, and making her smell at a cruet of vinegar he found
in a corner.

"I feel that life, instead of departing, is rushing in on me," said she,
after accepting the Father's care and expressing her gratitude by simple
gestures. This engaging pantomime, such as the Graces might have used to
charm, perfectly justified the nickname given to this strange girl.

"Do you feel better?" said the priest, giving her a glass of sugar and
water to drink.

This man seemed