For some minutes the two men walked side by side in silence. The Abbé Taconet had always inspired Larcher with respect. His was one of those spotless natures which form such a contrast to the ordinary low standard of morality that their mere existence is a standing reproach to a man of the period like the writer, given up to vice though craving for the ideal. Even now, as the Abbé walked beside him with his somewhat heavy tread, Claude looked at him and thought of the moral gulf that separated them. The director of the Ecole Saint-André was a tall, strong-looking man of about fifty. At first sight there was nothing in his robust corpulence to betray the asceticism of his life. His rounded cheeks and ruddy complexion might even have lent him an air of joviality had not the serious lines of his mouth and the usually serene look in his eyes corrected this impression. The sort of imagination found in true artists, and which, elaborated by heredity, had produced the morbid melancholy of René's mother, the poet's own talent, his delight in all things brilliant, and even Emilie's inordinate affection for her brother--that imagination which will not allow the mind to be satisfied with the present and the positive, but which paints all objects in too bright or too dark a colour--this dangerous yet all-powerful faculty had also its reflex in the eyes of the priest. But Catholic discipline had corrected its excesses as deep faith had sanctified its use. The serenity of his piercing glance was that of a man who has lain down at night and risen each morning for years together with but one idea, and that--of self-sacrifice. Claude was well acquainted with the precise terms in which this idea was couched, and to which the Abbé Taconet always reverted in his conversation--the salvation of France by the aid of Christianity. Such was, according to this robust worker in moral spheres, the task laid down in our day for all Frenchmen who were willing to undertake it. Claude was also aware of the hopes this truly eminent priest had cherished concerning his nephew. How often had he heard him say 'France has need of Christian talent'! He therefore looked at him with particular curiosity, discovering in his usually calm face a trace of anxiety--he would almost have called it an expression of doubt. They were walking along the Rue d'Assas, and were just about to cross the Rue de Rennes, when the Abbé stopped and turned to his companion. 'My niece tells me you know the woman who has driven my nephew to this desperate act. God has not permitted the poor boy to disappear in this fashion. The body will be healed, but the soul must not be allowed to relapse. What is she?' 'What all women are,' replied the writer, unable to resist the pleasure of displaying before the priest his pretended knowledge of the human heart.