"No, Luce, I believe no longer. But he remains always the friend of those he has accepted, even once, at his table. And you, do you know him?" "Hardly," responded Luce. "They never talked to me about him. But without knowing him I love him.... For I know that he loved." "Not as we do." "Why not? We ourselves have a poor little heart that knows only how to love you, my love. But He; He loved all of us. But it's always the same love." "Would you like we should go tomorrow," asked Pierre, much moved, "in honor of His death?... I was told that they will have fine music at Saint Gervais!" "Yes, I would love well to go to church with you on that day. I am sure He will give us welcome. And being nearer to Him, one is nearer each to the other." They fell silent.... Rain, rain, rain. The rain falls. The night falls. "At this hour tomorrow," said she, "we shall be down there." The fog was penetrating. She gave a little shudder. "Darling, you are not cold?" he asked, disquieted. She rose: "No, no. Everything is love to me. I love everything and everything loves me. The rain loves me, the wind loves me, the gray sky and the cold--and my little greatly beloved...." * * * * * FOR Holy Friday the heavens remained clothed in their long gray veils; but the air was soft and calm. In the streets one saw flowers, jonquils, stocks. Pierre took a few which she kept in her hand. They followed the peaceful Quai des Orfevres and passed along the base of pure Notre-Dame. The charm of the Old City, clothed in a discreet light, surrounded them with its noble gentleness. On the Place Saint Gervais pigeons flew up under their feet. They followed them with their eyes about the facade of the church; one of the birds settled on the head of a statue. At the top of the steps to the _parvis_ before the church, as they were about to enter, Luce turned about and perceived in the midst of the crowd a few steps away a little girl with reddish hair, about a dozen years old, leaning against the portal, both arms raised above her head, who was looking at them. She had the fine and somewhat archaic face of some little cathedral statue, with an enigmatic smile, graceful, shrewd and tender. Luce smiled also at her while calling Pierre's attention to her. But the little girl's gaze passed over her head and suddenly changed to fright. And hiding her face in her hands the child vanished. "What is the matter with her?" asked Luce. But Pierre did not look. They entered. Above their heads the dove was cooing. Last noise from outside. The voices of Paris were quenched. The fresh air ceased. The hangings of the organ, the lofty vaultings, the curtain of stones and sounds parted them from the world.