The Countess Guy de Saint-Prix, Julius’s younger sister, who had been suddenly summoned to Paris by Count Juste-Agénor’s death, had not long since returned to Pezac (an elegant country residence, four miles out of Pau, which she had scarcely ever left since her widowhood, and to which she had become more than ever attached now that her children were all married and settled), when she received a singular visit. She had just come in from her drive (she was in the habit of going out every morning in a light dog-cart which she drove herself), when she was informed that there was a priest in the drawing-room who had been waiting for over an hour to see her. The stranger came with an introduction from Cardinal André, as was shown by the card which was handed to the Countess; the card was in an envelope; under the Cardinal’s name, in his fine and almost feminine handwriting, were written the following words: “Recommends Father J. P. Salus, canon of Virmontal, to the Countess de Saint-Prix’s very particular attention.” That was all--and it was enough. The Countess was always glad to receive members of the clergy; Cardinal André, moreover, held the Countess’s soul in the hollow of his hand. Without a second’s delay, she hurried to the drawing-room and excused herself for having kept the visitor waiting. The canon of Virmontal was a fine figure of a man. His noble countenance shone with a manly energy which conflicted strangely with the hesitating caution of his voice and gestures; and in like manner his hair, which was almost white, formed a surprising contrast to the bright and youthful freshness of his complexion. Notwithstanding the Countess’s affability, the conversation at the outset was laborious, lagging, in conventional phrases, round about the lady’s recent bereavement, Cardinal André’s health and Julius’s renewed failure to enter the Academy. All this while the Abbé’s utterance was becoming slower and more muffled and the expression of his countenance more and more harrowing. At last he rose, but instead of taking leave: “Madame la comtesse,” he said, “I should like to speak to you--on behalf of the Cardinal--about an important matter. But our voices sound very loud in this room and the number of doors alarms me; I am afraid of being overheard.” The Countess adored confidences and mysteries; she showed the canon into a small boudoir, which could be entered only from the drawing-room, and shut the door. “We are alone here,” she said. “Speak freely.” But instead of speaking, the abbé, who had seated himself on an arm-chair opposite the Countess, pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and buried his face in it, sobbing convulsively. The Countess, in some perplexity, stretched out her hand for her work basket, which was standing on a small table beside her, took out a bottle of salts, hesitated whether she should offer them to the abbé, and finally solved the difficulty by smelling them herself.