“Alas, monsieur, I have not the courage to spend the money which is needed for the poor on decorating the church,--the poor are the church. I assure I should not be ashamed of my church if Monseigneur should visit it on the Fete-Dieu. The poor return on that day what they have received. Did you notice the nails which are placed at certain distances on the walls? They are used to hold a sort of trellis of iron wire on which the women fasten bouquets; the church is fairly clothed with flowers, and they keep fresh all day. My poor church, which you think so bare, is decked like a bride; it is filled with fragrance; even the floor is strewn with leaves, in the midst of which they make a path of scattered roses for the passage of the holy sacrament. That’s a day on which I do not fear comparison with the pomps of Saint-Peter at Rome; the Holy Father has his gold, and I my flowers,--to each his own miracle. Ah! monsieur, the village of Montegnac is poor, but it is Catholic. In former times the inhabitants robbed travellers; now travellers may leave a sack full of money where they please and they will find it in my house.” “That result is to your glory,” said Gabriel. “It is not a question of myself,” replied the rector, coloring at this labored compliment, “but of God’s word, of the blessed bread--” “Brown bread,” remarked the abbe, smiling. “White bread only suits the stomachs of the rich,” replied the rector, modestly. The young abbe took the hands of the older priest and pressed them cordially. “Forgive me, monsieur,” he said, suddenly making amends with a look in his beautiful blue eyes which went to the depths of the rector’s soul. “Monseigneur told me to test your patience and your modesty, but I can’t go any further; I see already how much injustice the praises of the liberals have done you.” Breakfast was ready; fresh eggs, butter, honey, fruits, cream, and coffee were served by Ursule in the midst of flowers, on a white cloth laid upon the antique table in that old dining-room. The window which looked upon the terrace was open; clematis, with its white stars relieved in the centre by the yellow bunch of their crisped stamens, clasped the railing. A jasmine ran up one side, nasturtiums clambered over the other. Above, the reddening foliage of a vine made a rich border that no sculptor could have rendered, so exquisite was the tracery of its lace-work against the light. “Life is here reduced, you see, to its simplest expression,” said the rector, smiling, though his face did not lose the look which the sadness of his heart conveyed to it. “If we had known of your arrival (but who could have foreseen your errand?) Ursule would have had some mountain trout for you; there’s a brook in the forest where they are excellent. I forget, however, that this is August and the Gabou is dry. My head is confused with all these troubles.” “Then you like your life here?” said the young abbe.