So he stood, crossing and prostrating himself when necessary, and struggled with himself, now giving way to cold condemnation and now to a consciously evoked obliteration of thought and feeling. Then the sacristan, Father Nicodemus⁠—also a great stumbling-block to Sergius who involuntarily reproached him for flattering and fawning on the Abbot⁠—approached him and, bowing low, requested his presence behind the holy gates. Father Sergius straightened his mantle, put on his biretta, and went circumspectly through the crowd.

“ Lise, regarde à droite, c’est lui! ” 294 he heard a woman’s voice say.

“ Où, où? Il n’est pas tellement beau. ” 295