His thin face, the calm and cold expression of which had not altered one whit at the sight of the hunting trophies in the hall, the historic paintings in the drawing-room, the rich tapestries, the magnificent ceiling of the gallery, and the beautiful books with their tooled morocco bindings, now grew animated, interested, and full of admiration. He had at last discovered something to stir and amaze him, something which afforded him both food for thought and mental satisfaction--a wall! His legal mind, struck down in its flower at the time of the new regulations, and his heart, too soon bereaved of the joy of administering punishment, rejoiced at the sight of a wall, a deaf, dumb, sombre thing, which recalled to his eager mind thoughts of prison cells, of sentences and public prosecutions, of codes, laws, justice, and morals--a wall! “Yes,” replied the Duke, “the wall at this particular spot between the gallery and the next wing is tremendously thick. It is the outer wall of the old castle, built in 1405.” M. Lerond gazed lingeringly at the wall, measured it with his eyes, felt it with his little, crooked, yellow hands, studied, worshipped, loved, and possessed it. “Mesdames,” he said to the ladies on his return to the drawing-room, “the Duke has very kindly shown me his wonderful library. On my way back I noticed the remarkable wall that separates the gallery from the wing. I don’t think there is anything to equal it even at Chambord.” But neither the Brécé ladies nor Madame de Courtrai was listening; their united attention was given to another matter. “Jean,” cried the Duchess to her husband, “Jean, look at this!” And she pointed to a red leather case lying on the table near the lamp which a servant had just brought in. The case was round in shape, topped with a kind of knob like a thimble, and divided at the base in the shape of a clover leaf. A visiting card lay beside it. All around the table were heaps of tissue paper, that made one think of little white dogs tied up with pale blue ribbon. “Do look, Jean!” The Abbé Guitrel, who was standing near the table, opened the case with reverent hands, and displayed a golden ciborium. “Who sent it?” asked M. de Brécé. “Look at the card. I am horribly worried--I don’t know what to do.” M. de Brécé put on his glasses, picked up the card, and read aloud: BARONNE JULES DE BONMONT. For Notre-Dame-des-Belles-Feuilles. He replaced the card upon the table, took off his glasses and murmured: “How very annoying!” “A ciborium, a beautiful ciborium,” said the Abbé. “When I used to sing in the choir as a boy,” said the General, “I always heard the Fathers call it a custodial.” “Yes, you can call it either a custodial or a ciborium,” replied the Abbé. “These are the names given to the receptacles which hold the reserved Eucharist. But the custodial is formed like a cylinder and has a conical cover.”