both remained motionless, kneeling as though they had been addressing fervent supplications to heaven together. The stout gentleman passed close to them, cast an indifferent look upon them, and walked away to the lower end of the church, still holding his hat behind his back.
Du Roy, who was thinking of obtaining an appointment elsewhere than at the Church of the Trinity, murmured: “Where shall I see you tomorrow?”
She did not answer. She seemed lifeless—turned into a statue of prayer. He went on: “Tomorrow, will you let me meet you in the Parc Monseau?”
She turned towards him her again uncovered face, a livid face, contracted by fearful suffering, and in a jerky voice ejaculated: “Leave me, leave me now; go away, go away, only for five minutes! I suffer too much beside you. I want to pray, and I cannot. Go away, let me pray alone for five minutes. I cannot. Let me implore God to pardon me—to save me. Leave me for five minutes.”
Her face was so upset, so full of pain, that he rose without saying a word, and then, after a little hesitation, asked: “Shall I come back presently?”
She gave a nod, which meant, “Yes, presently,” and he walked away towards the choir. Then she strove to pray. She made a superhuman effort to invoke the Deity, and with quivering frame and bewildering soul appealed for mercy to heaven. She closed her eyes with rage, in order no longer to see him who just left her. She sought to drive him from her mind, she struggled against him, but instead of the celestial apparition awaited in the distress of her heart, she still perceived the young fellow’s curly moustache. For a year past she had been struggling thus every day, every night, against the growing possession, against this image which haunted her dreams, haunted her flesh, and disturbed her nights. She felt