France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Women -- Psychology -- Fiction
Every evening the ladies went to church. Madame Deberle was enchanted
with the novel pleasure she was enjoying. It was so different from
evening dances, concerts, and first nights; she adored fresh
sensations, and nuns and priests were now constantly in her company.
The store of religion which she had acquired in her school-days now
found new life in her giddy brain, taking shape in all sorts of trivial
observances, as though she were reviving the games of her childhood.
Hélène, who on her side had grown up without any religious training,
surrendered herself to the bliss of these services of the month of
Mary, happy also in the delight with which they appeared to inspire
Jeanne. They now dined earlier; they gave Rosalie no peace lest she
should cause them to be late, and prevent their securing good seats.
Then they called for Juliette on the way. One day Lucien was taken, but
he behaved so badly that he was afterward left at home. On entering the
warm church, with its glare of wax candles, a feeling of tenderness and
calm, which by degrees grew necessary to Hélène, came over her. When
doubts sprang up within her during the day, and the thought of Henri
filled her with indefinable anxiety, with the evening the church once
more brought her peace. The chants arose overflowing with divine
passion; the flowers, newly culled, made the close atmosphere of the
building still heavier. It was here that she breathed all the first
rapture of springtide, amidst that adoration of woman raised to the
status of a cult; and her senses swam as she contemplated the mystery
of love and purity—Mary, virgin and mother, beaming beneath her wreath
of white roses. Each day she remained longer on her knees. She found
herself at times with hands joined in entreaty. When the ceremony came
to an end, there followed the happiness of the return home. Henri
awaited their appearance at the door; the evenings grew warmer, and
they wended their way through the dark, still streets of Passy, while
scarce a word passed between them.
“How devout you are getting, my dear!” said Madame Deberle one night,
with a laugh.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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