In the south there was no need to fear such eccentricities; the church was the temple of the Beautiful because it belonged to the women. The congregation gathers in a motley, swaying, chattering crowd; it takes some time for every lady to succeed in settling her finery on her cushion, in a convenient place for seeing and hearing well. Then there arises a confused hum of gossip more or less discreet, a sound of stifled laughter, a rustling of cushions: “There is no better place for a chat than church”; it is for all the world like a concert of “magpies caught in a snare.” Ladies call each other by name, “Jeanne, Catherine, Françoise.” A lady who comes late tries to skip in before another who arrived early. The orchestra can barely drown all these noises; the opening prayer is delayed. Many men standing in the aisles fancy they are on ’change, and talk over their affairs; at one time dandies used to come hawk on fist or dog at heel: others, motionless like machines, are meditating—who knows what? Nothing at all, probably. Some are watching the many-coloured undulations in the nave—the crimped hair, the dainty hats. They quiz a handsome blue bodice with yellow strings and green sleeves, cut very low. The ladies have a wonderful talent for sitting stiffly erect, posing in such a way that they show their profile or half-profile to the best advantage, their eyes sparkling, and sometimes stealing a wicked little side-glance. That is what they call high mass; those are the accessories of a fashionable confessional.