But her distinguishing trait was gaiety, a cheerfulness that, while not exactly joy itself, was constant and unalterable; it might be said that she was born a flower, and that her perfume was gaiety. Her pallor, her large dark eyes, her manner at certain moments, all led me to believe that she had suffered. I know not what it was that seemed to say that the sweet serenity of her brow was not of this world, but had come from God, and that she would return it to him spotless in spite of man; and there were times when she reminded one of the careful housewife, who, when the wind blows, holds her hand before the candle. When I had been in the house half an hour, I could not help saying what was in my heart. I thought of my past life, of my disappointment and my ennui; I walked to and fro, breathing the fragrance of the flowers, and looking at the sun. I asked her to sing, and she did so with good grace. In the meantime, I leaned on the window sill and watched the birds flitting about the garden. A saying of Montaigne's came into my head: "I neither love nor esteem sadness although the world has invested it, at a given price, with the honor of its particular favor. They dress up in it wisdom, virtue, conscience. Stupid and absurd adornment." "What happiness!" I cried in spite of myself. "What repose! What joy! What forgetfulness of self!" The good aunt raised her head and looked at me with an air of astonishment; Madame Pierson stopped short. I became red as fire when conscious of my folly, and sat down without a word. We went out into the garden. The white goat I had seen the evening before was lying in the grass; it came up to her and followed us about the garden. When we reached the end of the garden walk, a large young man with a pale face, clad in a kind of black cassock, suddenly appeared at the railing. He entered without knocking, and bowed to Madame Pierson; it seemed to me that his face, which I considered a bad omen, darkened a little when he saw me. He was a priest I had often seen in the village, and his name was Mercanson; he came from St. Sulpice and was related to the cure of the parish. He was large and at the same time pale, a thing which always displeased me and which is, in fact, unpleasant; it impresses one as a sort of diseased healthfulness. Moreover, he had the slow yet jerky way of speaking that characterizes the pedant. Even his manner of walking, which was not that of youth and health, repelled me; as for his glance, it might be said that he had none. I do not know what to think of a man whose eyes have nothing to say. These are the signs which led to an unfavorable opinion of Mercanson, an opinion which was unfortunately correct.