were not less affectionate and touching than those of two friends, who meet after long separation and quietly retire to converse on the bank of some lonely stream; for during those hours of divine condescension Jesus deigned to be his friend, his best, most faithful friend, one who never forsook him, and who in return for a little love gave him all the treasures of eternal life.  That day the priest was eager to prolong the sweet converse, and indeed, when six o’clock sounded through the quiet church, he was still listening to the words which echoed through his soul.

On his side there was unreserved confession, unimpeded by the restraints of language, natural effusion of the heart which spoke even more quickly than the mind.  Abbe Mouret told everything to Jesus, as to a God who had come down in all the intimacy of the most loving tenderness, and who would listen to everything.  He confessed that he still loved Albine; and he was surprised that he had been able to speak sternly to her and drive her away, without his whole being breaking out into revolt.  He marvelled at it, and smiled as though it were some wonderful miracle performed by another.  And Jesus told him that he must not be astonished, and that the greatest saints were often but unconscious instruments in the hands of God.  Then the Abbe gave expression to a doubt.  Had he not lost merit in seeking refuge in the Cross and even in the Passion of his Saviour?  Had he not shown that he possessed as yet but little courage, since he had not dared to fight unaided?  But Jesus evinced kindly tolerance, and answered that man’s weakness was God’s continual care, and that He especially loved those suffering souls, to whose assistance He went, like a friend to the bedside of a sick companion.

But was it a sin to love Albine, a sin for which he, Serge, would be damned?  No; if his love was clean of all fleshly taint, and added another hope to his desire for eternal life.  But, then, how was he to love her?  In silence; without speaking a word to her, without taking a step towards her; simply allowing his pure affection to breathe forth, like a sweet perfume, pleasing unto heaven.  And Jesus smiled with increasing kindliness, drawing nearer as if to encourage confession, in such wise that the priest grew bolder and began to recapitulate Albine’s charms.  She had hair that was fair and golden as an angel’s; she was very white, with big soft eyes, like those of the aureoled saints.  Jesus seemed to listen to this in silence, though a smile still played upon His face.  And the priest continued:  She had grown much taller.  She was now like a queen, with rounded form and splendid shoulders.  Oh! to clasp her waist, were it only for a second, and to feel her shoulders drawn close by his embrace!  But the smile on the divine countenance then paled and died away, as a star sinks and falls beneath the horizon.  Abbe Mouret now spoke all alone.  Ah! had he not shown himself too hard-hearted?  Why had he driven her away without one single word of affection, since Heaven allowed him to love her?