“Seriously, time would fail him if he acted otherwise. But it seems to me that we are whispering a little too much, dear; let me think over my little bill.” Madame leans upon her praying-stool. Gracefully she removes, without taking her eyes off the altar, the glove from her right hand, and with her thumb turns the ring of Ste-Genevieve that serves her as a rosary, moving her lips the while. Then, with downcast eyes and set lips, she loosens the fleur-de-lys-engraved clasp of her Book of Hours, and seeks out the prayers appropriate to her condition. She reads with fervency: “‘My God, crushed beneath the burden of my sins I cast myself at thy feet’--how annoying that it should be so cold to the feet. With my sore throat, I am sure to have influenza,--‘that I cast myself at thy feet’--tell me, dear, do you know if the chapel-keeper has a footwarmer? Nothing is worse than cold feet, and that Madame de P. sticks there for hours. I am sure she confesses her friends’ sins along with her own. It is intolerable; I no longer have any feeling in my right foot; I would pay that woman for her foot-warmer--‘I bow my head in the dust under the weight of repentance, and of........’” “Ah! Madame de P. has finished; she is as red as the comb of a turkey-cock.” Four ladies rush forward with pious ardor to take her place. “Ah! Madame, do not push so, I beg of you.” “But I was here before you, Madame.” “I beg a thousand pardons, Madame.” “You surely have a very strange idea of the respect which is due to this hallowed spot.” “Hush, hush! Profit by the opportunity, Madame; slip through and take the vacant place. (Whispering.) Do not forget the big one last night, and the two little ones of this morning.” CHAPTER V. MADAME AND HER FRIEND CHAT BY THE FIRESIDE Madam--(moving her slender fingers)--It is ruched, ruched, ruched, loves of ruches, edged all around with blond. Her Friend--That is good style, dear. Madame--Yes, I think it will be the style, and over this snowlike foam fall the skirts of blue silk like the bodice; but a lovely blue, something like--a little less pronounced than skyblue, you know, like--my husband calls it a subdued blue. Her Friend--Splendid. He is very happy in his choice of terms. Madame--Is he not? One understands at once--a subdued blue. It describes it exactly. Her Friend--But apropos of this, you know that Ernestine has not forgiven him his pleasantry of the other evening. Madame--How, of my husband? What pleasantry? The other evening when the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice were there? Her Friend--And his son, who was there also. Madame--What! the Abbe’s son? (Both break into laughter.) Her Friend--But--ha! ha! ha!--what are you saying, ha! ha! you little goose? Madame--I said the Abbe Gelon and the Abbe Brice, and you add, ‘And his son.’ It is your fault, dear. He must be a choir-boy, that cherub. (More laughter.)