Be quick, elbow your way through the crowd if you want a good place; the Abbe Gelon preaches to-day on abstinence, and when the Abbe Gelon preaches it is as if Patti were singing.

Enter Madame, pushes the triple door, which recloses heavily, brushes with rapid fingers the holywater sprinkler which that pious old man holds out, and carefully makes a graceful little sign of the cross so as not to spot her ribbons.

Do you hear these discreet and aristocratic whisperings?

“Good morning, my dear.”

“Good morning, dear.  It is always on abstinence that he preaches, is it not?  Have you a seat?”

“Yes, yes, come with me.  You have got on your famous bonnet, I see?”

“Yes; do you like it?  It is a little showy, is it not?  What a multitude of people!  Where is your husband?”

“Showy!  Oh, no, it is splendid.  My husband is in the churchwarden’s pew; he left before me; he is becoming a fanatic—­he speaks of lunching on radishes and lentils.”

“That ought to be very consoling to you.”

“Don’t mention it.  Come with me.  See; there are Ernestine and Louise.  Poor Louise’s nose, always the same; who would believe that she drinks nothing stronger than water?”

The ladies push their way among the chairs, some of which they upset with the greatest unconcern.

Arrived at their places they sink down on their knees, and, moist-eyed and full of feeling, cast a look of veiled adoration toward the high altar, then hide their faces with their gloved hands.

For a very few minutes they gracefully deprecate themselves in the eyes of the Lord, then, taking their seats, coquettishly arrange the immense bows of their bonnet-strings, scan the assembly through a gold eyeglass, with the little finger turning up; finally, while smoothing down the satin folds of a dress difficult to keep in place, they scatter, right and left, charming little recognitions and delightful little smiles.

“Are you comfortable, dear?”

“Quite, thanks.  Do you see in front there, between the two tapers, Louise
and Madame de C-------?  Is it allowable in any one to come to church got
up like that?”

“Oh!  I have never believed much in the piety of Madame de C-------.  You
know her history—­the story of the screen?  I will tell it you later.  Ah!
there is the verger.”

The verger shows his bald head in the pulpit of truth.  He arranges the seat, adjusts the kneeling-stool, then withdraws and allows the Abbe Gelon, who is somewhat pale from Lenten fasting, but striking, as he always is, in dignity, elegance, and unction.  A momentary flutter passes through the congregation, then they settle down comfortably.  The noise dies away, and all eyes are eagerly looking toward the face of the preacher.  With his eyes turned to heaven, the latter stands upright and motionless; a light from above may be divined in his inspired look; his beautiful, white hands, encircled at the wrists by fine lace, are carelessly placed on the red velvet cushion of the pulpit.  He waits a few moments, coughs twice, unfolds his handkerchief, deposits his square hat in a corner, and, bending forward, lets fall from his lips in those sweet slow, persuasive tones, by which he is known, the first words of his sermon, “Ladies!”