The nun’s eyes grew solemn and almost mournful.

“Such beauty is a curse,” she answered, with emphasis; “a fatal—­a fearful curse!  As a child it made her wayward.  As a woman it keeps her wayward still.  Enough of this, signor!” and she bowed her head; “excuse my plain speaking.  Rest assured that I wish you both happiness.”

We had by this time reached the door of the chapel, through which the sound of the pealing organ poured forth in triumphal surges of melody.  Mere Marguerite dipped her fingers in the holy water, and signing herself with the cross, pointed out a bench at the back of the church as one that strangers were allowed to occupy.  I seated myself, and looked with a certain soothed admiration at the picturesque scene before me.  There was the sparkle of twinkling lights—­the bloom and fragrance of flowers.  There were silent rows of nuns blue-robed and white-veiled, kneeling and absorbed in prayer.  Behind these a little cluster of youthful figures in black, whose drooped heads were entirely hidden in veils of flowing white muslin.  Behind these again, one woman’s slight form arrayed in heavy mourning garments; her veil was black, yet not so thick but that I could perceive the sheeny glitter of golden hair—­that was my wife, I knew.  Pious angel! how devout she looked!  I smiled in dreary scorn as I watched her; I cursed her afresh in the name of the man I had killed.  And above all, surrounded with the luster of golden rays and incrusted jewels, the uncovered Host shone serenely like the gleam of the morning star.  The stately service went on—­the organ music swept through and through the church as though it were a strong wind striving to set itself free—­but amid it all I sat as one in a dark dream, scarcely seeing, scarcely hearing—­inflexible and cold as marble.  The rich plaintive voice of one of the nuns in the choir, singing the Agnus Dei, moved me to a chill sort of wonder.  “Qui tollis peccata mundi—­Who takest away the sin of the world.”  No, no! there are some sins that cannot be taken away—­the sins of faithless women, the “Little” sins as they are called nowadays—­for we have grown very lenient in some things, and very severe in others.  We will imprison the miserable wretch who steals five francs from our pockets, but the cunning feminine thief who robs us of our prestige, our name and honorable standing among our fellow-men, escapes almost scot-free; she cannot be put in prison, or sentenced to hard labor—­not she!  A pity it is that Christ did not leave us some injunction as to what was to be done with such women—­not the penitent Magdalenes, but the creatures whose mouths are full of lies even when they pretend to pray—­they who would be capable of trying to tempt the priest who comes to receive their last confessions—­ they who would even act out a sham repentance on their deathbeds in order to look well.  What can be done with devils such as these?  Much has been said latterly of the wrongs perpetrated on women by