Far from the dancing Christians who flourish under the brilliant chandeliers, blooms the young Christian who does not dance. If the former are the Cavaliers of this parlour religion, the latter are its Puritans,--grave, pale, austere, thin, dismal, negligent, more bashful than St. Joseph, it would give them real pleasure to cover themselves with ashes, but they go about dragging here and there their melancholy and their religiously pure and transparent lives. Taking no interest in our profane joys, which they witness but do not associate in, they are entirely taken up by their divine aspirations, their celestial visions; they are tolerant, kind, and full of pity for human error; these are the tender Fénélons of this mundane church, while the dancing Christians are the merciless Bossuets, for the dancing Christian is implacable, unapproachable, impossible. As soon as there is any question of human weakness, not in himself, but in another, there is no compromise, no mean term, it is the devil and hell, the devil with his horns and tail; it is perfectly clear, there is no escape. The Christian who does not dance is extremely fond of purgatory. Extremes disgust his pious soul. He is scrupulous and charitable, he would hesitate a long, long time, he would need the proof of many dreadful iniquities, before he could bring himself to say positively, "Alas, my poor, dear brother, it appears to me that, unless you amend your ways, you will one of these days be claimed by the great devil of hell." The dancing Christian, on the contrary, sends you off there at once and for ever, for the smallest little sin, with frightful assurance. As for the future of the human race, the Christian who does not dance seems still to have some hopes that the world will be saved in spite of the crimes and errors of mankind. He presumes, though he will not assert it positively, that at the last judgment, there may be a general amnesty which will remit the sins of the damned. The Christian who does not dance seems to count on the inexhaustible mercy of God, who is as kind as he is powerful, he says, and one might think that he was very well informed as to celestial politics; but the dancing Christian, who comes to take part in the conversation while eating an ice, overturns with a single word all these pleasant and comforting thoughts. Then he holds forth only threats and menaces. There is no more hope,--nothing but the smell of sulphur and bitumen which give you a foretaste of a future of eternal flames, eternal pitchforks, and everlasting gridirons. There is nothing left for poor human beings but to weep with despair and to moan over their fatal destiny, and so, while awaiting the terrible predictions of the young Christian dancer, they give themselves up to an endless galop, or an orgy in the two worlds of society, worthy of Belshazzar's feast. CHAPTER XX THE PARLOUR