"And I, I am unworthy; my body is soiled, twice soiled: since the baptism of your love, madonna, the carnal seductions have prevailed over the grace which your intercession had granted me. "To a woman, and what a woman! to an infidel, and what an infidel! I have betrayed my body that had been regenerated by the condescension of your gaze, lavished by your tears, purified by your smile, as a scabious rag by the running of the stream and by the rays of sunshine. "You have punished me, madonna, but should I moan, since I myself have supplicated you to whip my shoulders with the rod. You have punished me well, thanks ... I hate you now, impure and perjured Virgin! "Dream that I love you for your immaculate candor, and that your virginal skin is spotted with ineffable stains...." "It can no longer be seen," the Virgin said, "I have a new robe." "My lord," said Veltro, bowing to the prisoner, "the ceremony is ended and we must return. I have taken it upon myself to prolong the minutes, but orders, my lord, orders ... all the same, the crowning of a madonna is a fine holiday. The Novella is crowned every year at Assumption, and her red robe is changed at the same time; it is the custom. The little poor girls are given the old gown and dresses are made of it. And how proud the little rascals are; after all, it is the custom, you see!" "Another moment, Veltro, please, my friend?" After Della Preda had raised his eyes and saw the Novella face to face, radiant in her new purple and without the veil of any cloud, his anguish and bewilderment subsided. All he felt was the agitation that follows an evil dream, like a persistent odor, but suddenly the sensation of blasphemy struck him; it was dim and violent: he swooned and Veltro took him in his arms. CHAPTER XXIV THE COLOR OF MARRIAGE "The dotal husband owes his wife three nights each month." _Attic Laws._ "Good," Entragues said, as he heard the bell ring. "It is the Russian angel... Ah! I have written a fine blasphemy! '... in his arms.' And to think that for want of understanding, people will tax me with impiety, I who make the Roman breviary my daily reading no less than a clergyman who holds the name of Voltaire as an infamous word." "My dear Moscowitch, I made you wait. The reason was that I was finishing a phrase and that this phrase ended a chapter." The Russian angel drank tea while Entragues breakfasted. He spoke little, seeming to hold himself in reserve. "Have you your manuscripts, your plans, your theories?" asked Entragues. "My theory," said Moscowitch, "is to make a school of pity out of the theater."