"The news, then, is, that Nismes is being converted as fast as possible," said La Croissette. "No persuader, sirs, like fire and sword. Dragoons are quartered on every Protestant. They are destroying whatever they cannot make booty of. Some are littering their fine black horses with bales of broadcloth, silk, and cotton; others with fine Holland cloths. The common people are being driven to church at the sword's point, and conforming by shoals. The gentry give more trouble, but end by coming round." "Some may--some weak-hearted persons," said my father, reluctantly. "Well, they may be weak-hearted; I'm sure I should be, in their place," said La Croissette. "In fact, what is it?--a mere form. They just slur over a few words--cross themselves--kiss a relic, or some little matter of that sort. No more is required; the bishop lets them off easy." "Will the Lord let them off easy?" said my father. "Christianity admits of no such temporizing. The early Christians might have saved their lives by burning a handful of incense before the Roman Emperor's statue; but they did not hold it a mere form. And the Romanists admit in principle what they dissent from in practice; for they almost deify those early martyrs for their constancy to the truth, and yet would martyr us for doing the very same thing." "Well, I don't mean them to martyr me," said La Croissette, "I've an elastic creed, I!--it stretches or collapses like an easy stocking." "Beware, beware, my friend, of fancying a creed like that of any worth at all." "Sir, we all have our weak points and our strong ones. I'm no polemic, I!--I prefer meddling with things that will not bring me into trouble. There was a factory burnt down last night--" "Ah!" groaned my father. "Some say both the partners were burnt; others that one of them is at a distance. Some think the factory was set on fire on purpose; others that it was an accident. Nothing remains of it but the outer walls and a smoking heap of ruins." My father covered his face with his hand. "Then, again," pursued La Croissette, "that worthy old Monsieur Laccassagne, unable to stand the deprivation of sleep any longer, has conformed--" "Has he, though!" cried my father, with a start. "Oh, how sad a fall!" "Outwardly, only outwardly," said La Croissette. "The poor old gentleman was driven almost out of his senses by that deafening drumming. 'You shall have rest now,' said the bishop. 'Alas!' replied he, 'I look for no rest on this side heaven; and may God grant that its doors may not be closed against me by this act.'" "Poor old man! poor Monsieur Laccassagne!" ejaculated my father. "Well might he say so." "Yes, but what reasonable person can suppose the doors of heaven will be closed against him by it?" said La Croissette. "The Lord is a God of mercy--" "But will by no means clear the guilty," said my father. "And He looketh not to the outward appearance, but to the heart," said La Croissette.