ack of a sabot-maker's shop in the Rue Saint-Dominique, an
old priest who had taken up his father's humble trade, used to gather
some of the faithful together for prayer; but precaution had to be
observed, for the hunt was close, and the humble temple was exactly next
door to the dwelling of one of the members of the revolutionary
government, who was an implacable enemy of religion.

It was then a cold December night; midnight Mass was being celebrated in
honor of the festival of Christmas. The shop was carefully closed, while
the incense was smoking in the little room back of it. A huge chest of
drawers on which a clean, white cloth had been spread, served as altar.
The priestly ornaments had been taken from their hiding-place, and the
little assembly, composed of women and a few men, was in pious
recollection, when a knock at the door, like that of the faithful,
attracted attention.

One of the worshippers opened the door; a man hesitatingly entered. The
face was one to which all were unaccustomed in that place. To some,
alas! it was a face too well known; it was that of the man who had in
the public councils shown himself so bitter against gatherings of the
faithful, and whose presence, for that reason, was more than ever to be
dreaded at such a moment.

Nevertheless the majesty of the sacrifice was not disturbed, but fear
had seized on all the attendants; did not each of them have reason to
fear for himself, for his family, and for the good old pastor, in even
greater danger than his flock?

With severe, but calm, cold air, the member of the convention remained
standing until the end of Mass and communion, and the farther the
ceremony progressed, the more agitated were all hearts in the
expectation of an event which could not but too well be foreseen.

When all was over, in fact, when the lights were hardly extinguished,
the congregation cautiously slipped out one by one; then the stranger
approached the priest who had recognized him, but who remained stoically
calm. "Citizen priest," he said, "I have something to say to thee."

"Speak, my brother; how can I be of service to you?"

"It's a favor I must ask of thee, and I feel how ridiculous I am. The
red is coming up into my face and I daren't say any more."

"My bearing and my ministry nevertheless are not of the kind to disturb
you, and if any feeling of piety leads you to me--"

"Eh? That's exactly what it isn't. I don't know anything about religion;
I