“Who,” said he, “could have remained unmoved at what I saw? This lad has taught every one of us a lesson by the sincerity of his repentance, by the simple, truthful expression of the most Christian sentiments. His bearing, his looks, his words, his whole being spoke plainly enough of gentleness and humility, of utter submission to the will of God. He never ceased to offer a most consoling spectacle, a most salutary example. Perfect resignation, an awakened faith too long stifled in his heart, a supreme abasement before the God who pardons: such were the blessed fruits of my exhortations.” The old man was moved with the easy earnestness of the blameless, buoyant, self-absorbed nature. Real grief stirred in his great, prominent eyes and his poor, meagre red nose. After a momentary sigh, he began again, this time turning towards M. Bergeret: “Ah, sir,” said he, “in the course of my painful ministry I have encountered many thorns. But also what fruit I find! Many times in the course of my long life have I snatched lost souls from the devil, who was on the alert to lay hold of them. But none of the poor creatures with whom I have journeyed to the gates of death presented such an edifying spectacle in their last moments as this young Lecœur.” “What!” cried M. Bergeret, “you surely are not speaking like this of the murderer of Madame Houssieu? Isn’t it well known that——” He was just going on to say that, according to the unanimous account of all those who had witnessed the execution, the poor wretch had been carried to the scaffold, already half dead with fear. He stopped short, however, lest he should afflict the old man, who continued in his own way: “It is true that he made no long speeches and indulged in no noisy demonstrations. But if you had only heard the sighs, the ejaculations, by which he testified to his repentance! In his melancholy journey from the prison to the place of expiation, when I reminded him of his mother and his first communion, he wept.” “Certainly,” said M. Bergeret, “Madame Houssieu didn’t die so edifyingly.” At these words M. Tabarit rolled his great eyes from east to west. He always sought for the solution of metaphysical problems, not within himself, but without, and whenever he fell into a day dream at table his old servant, misunderstanding his look, would inquire: “Are you looking for the cork of the bottle, sir? It’s in your hand.”