True to the life, my Lapui!—­that kind of worship has lasted in Paris until now!—­it goes on still—­Reason,—­man’s idea of Reason,—­impersonated by a ballet dancer!  Yes,—­the shops are full of that goddess and her portraits, Jean Lapui!  And the jewellers can hardly turn out sufficient baubles to adorn her shrine!’ He laughed again, and I took hold of him by the arm.  ‘See here, petit pere,’ I said, ‘I fancy all is not well with you.’  ‘You are right,’ he answered, ‘all is very ill!’ ‘Then will you not go home and to bed?’ I asked him.  ‘Presently—­presently;’ he said, ’if I may tell you something first!’ ‘Do so by all means, reverend pere,’ said I, and I sat down near him.  ‘It is just this, Lapui,’ and he drew out a crucifix from his breast and looked at it very earnestly, ’I am a priest, as you see; and this symbol represents my faith.  My mother told me that to be a priest and to serve God was the highest happiness that could befall a man.  I believed it,—­and when I look at the stars up there crowding around us in such vast circles,—­when I look at all this moonlight and the majesty of creation around me, I believe it still!  Up here, it seems there may be a God; down there,’ and he pointed towards the streets, ’I know there is a devil!  But I have discovered that it is no use telling the people about God, because they do not believe in Him.  They think I am telling them a lie because it is my metier to tell lies.  And also because they think I have neither the sense nor the ability to do anything else.  They know they are telling lies themselves all day and every day.  Some of them pretend to believe, because they think it best to be on the safe side even by feigning,—­and they are the worst hypocrites.  It drives me mad, Lapui, to perform Mass for liars!  If it were only unbelievers! but liars!—­liars!  Liars who lie on their death-beds, telling me with mock sighs of penitence that they believe in God when they do not!  I had a dream last night—­you shall tell me if I was mistaken in it,—­it was a dream of this very tower of Notre Dame.  I was up here as I am now—­and the moonlight was around me as it is now—­and I thought that just behind the wing of that third angel’s head carved yonder—­do you see?’ and he got up and made me get up too, and turned me round with his hand on my shoulder—­’a white dove had made its resting-place.  Is there a white dove there, Lapui?  If there is I shall be a happy man and all my griefs will be at an end!  Will you go and look—­and tell me if there is a white dove nestling there?  Then I will say good-night to you and go home.’  God forgive me!—­I thought to humor him in his fancy, and so I left him to walk those five steps—­only five at the utmost--and see if perhaps among the many doves that fly about the towers, it might not be that a white one, as he said, should have chosen to settle in the place he pointed out to me, ‘for,’ thought I, ’he will be quiet then and satisfied.’  And like a blind fool I went—­and when I came back the platform was empty!—­Ah, Monseigneur!—­he had said good-night indeed, and gone home!”