One Sunday morning I passed by the Church Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. This building has always exercised a strong influence on me, because it looks so familiar; the vestibules with their paintings have an inviting air, and the congregations are so small that one is not crushed or lost. As I pass in at the door, there are twilight and organ music, coloured pictures and wax candles. Whenever I enter a Catholic church I remain standing at the door and feel embarrassed, restless, and outside the pale. When the gigantic Swiss guard approaches with his halberd, my conscience feels uneasy, and I expect him to drive me out as a heretic. Here in Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois I feel a certain anxiety, for I remember that it was in this tower that the bell for some unknown reason began to sound at two o'clock in the night of St. Bartholomew. To-day ray position as a Huguenot makes me more uncomfortable than usual, for two mornings ago I read in the _Osservatore Romano_ congratulations sent by the Catholic priests to the persecutors of the Jews in Russia and Hungary, followed by a highly coloured comparison with the great days of the St. Bartholomew massacre, the return of which the writer evidently wished for. The organ, which was out of sight, plays tunes which I have never heard before, but which seem to me like memories--memories of the times of my ancestors, or still further back. When I hear fine music, I always ask myself, "Where did the composer find it?" Not in nature and in life, for in music there are no models, as in the other arts. The only remaining conjecture is, to consider music as the recollection of a condition, which every man in his best moments longs for. And that very longing shows a vague consciousness of having lost something which one has formerly possessed. There are six lighted candles on the altar. The priest, arrayed in white, red, and gold, says nothing, but his hand hovers with the graceful movements of a butterfly over a book. Behind him come two little children dressed in white, and bend their knees. The priest washes his hands, and proceeds to do something which I do not understand. Something rare, beautiful, and wonderful is taking place there in the distance amid the gold ornaments, incense-smoke, and light I understand nothing, but feel an easily explicable fear and reverence, and am convinced that I have gone through the same experience before.