Desirée did not feel at all shocked at hearing the girl pronounce her brother’s name thus familiarly and with an expression of subdued passion. She simply replied that he was in the church hearing the children say their catechism. ‘You must not speak at all loudly,’ she added, raising her finger to her lips. ‘Serge forbade me to talk loudly when he is catechising the children, and we shall get into trouble if we don’t keep quiet. Let us go into the stable--shall we? We can talk better there.’ ‘I want to see Serge,’ said Albine, simply. Desirée cast a hasty glance at the church, and then whispered, ‘Yes, yes; Serge will be finely caught. Come with me. We will hide ourselves, and keep quite quiet. We shall have some fine fun!’ She had picked up the herbage which had fallen from her apron, and quitting the graveyard she stole back to the parsonage, telling Albine to hide herself behind her and make herself as little as possible. As they stealthily glided through the farmyard, they caught sight of La Teuse, who was crossing over to the vestry, but she did not appear to notice them. ‘There! There!’ said Desirée, quite delighted, as they stowed themselves away in the stable; ‘keep quiet, and no one will know that we are here. There is some straw there for you to lie down upon.’ Albine seated herself on a truss of straw. ‘And Serge?’ she asked, persisting in her one fixed idea. ‘Listen! You can hear his voice. When he claps his hands, it will be all over, and the children will go away--Listen! he is telling them a tale.’ They could indeed just hear Abbé Mouret’s voice, which was wafted to them through the vestry doorway which La Teuse had doubtless left open. It came to them like a solemn murmur, in which they could distinguish the name of Jesus thrice repeated. Albine trembled. She sprang up as though to hasten to that beloved voice whose caressing accents she knew so well, but all sound of it suddenly died away, shut off by the closing of the door. Then she sat down again, to wait, her hands tightly clasped, and her clear eyes gleaming with the intensity of her thoughts. Desirée, who was lying at her feet, gazed up at her with innocent admiration. ‘How beautiful you are!’ she whispered. ‘You are like an image that Serge used to have in his bedroom. It was quite white like you are, with great curls floating about the neck; and the heart was quite bare and uncovered, just in the place where I can feel yours beating---- But you are not listening to me. You are looking quite sad. Let us play at something? Will you?’