“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before breakfast.” “EH?” “His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before breakfast, in the chapel fitted up for that purpose.” “Oh! my head! my head!” cried the poor woman, wildly clapping her hands to her temples. “Is Madame ill?” coolly inquired the mulatto. “ILL? Is all the world raving mad? You tell me, you impertinent! you impudent! you insolent! outrageous——! You tell me that the Pope says Mass here every Sunday!” “Madame can assure herself of that fact,” replied Madeleine, with an humble, but injured look. “I shall go mad! I got over your King of the Isles, your Lord High Constable, and your Princess Etoile—but his Holiness the Pope saying Mass here every Sunday—no! I won’t endure that!” “Madame undoubtedly has the privilege to object!” “Begone!” “Yes, Madame. But pardon me for delaying long enough to say my master bade me inform you, that High Mass would be celebrated in the chapel this morning; and that Louis would be in attendance to conduct you thither.” “Begone, I say, while I have some rationality left!” “Certainly, Madame.” “Stop! come back; help me to dress; I will go to the chapel that the dream may be finished, and I may wake up the sooner.” Madeleiene obediently came back. Madame quickly made her toilet and left her chamber, at the door of which she found Louis waiting to attend her. “Louis, is it true that Mass will be celebrated here this morning?” “Yes, Madame.” “But who will officiate?” “Our Most Holy Father, the Pope!” “Go to the——. I mean go on before me.” Madame had nearly permitted herself, in her indignation, to use profane language. Louis, undisturbed by his mistress’s excitement, walked down before her, until he paused before the door of the chapel, which was one of those pleasant rooms on the first floor. Madame entered, and found herself in an apartment fitted up as a church. At the upper extremity stood an altar adorned with sacred pictures and statuettes, wreathed with flowers, and lighted with many wax candles. From a silver censer burning before it, arose a rich aroma that filled the air. Dark, rich transparencies pulled down before the windows produced something of the effect of stained glass, and threw over the scene an atmosphere at once brilliant and solemn. Between every window was some picture of saint, or angel. Rows of neat white benches supplied the place of pews. All the slaves of the Island plantation, dressed in their summer Sunday suits of pure white, were here assembled, with a quiet and devout demeanor. Before the altar, with his back to the congregation, stood a very tall and dignified old man in the triple-crowned mitre and the pontifical robes and vestments of his Holiness the Pope.