by its very simplicity, highly commended itseif me Monsieur Blancmesnil.
Père Guinardon, quite beside himself, exclaimed:
“Are you going to tell me, Monsicur d’Esparvieu, that Saint John was astigmatic because he beheld a woman clothed with the sun, crowned with stars, with the moon about her feet; the Beast with seven heads and ten horns, and the seven angels robed in white linen that bore the seven cups filled with the wrath of the Living God?”
“After all,” said Monsieur Gaétan, by way of conclusion, “people are right in admiring El Greco if he had genius enough to impose his morbidity of vision upon them, By the-same token, the contortions to which he subjects the human countenance may give satisfaction to those who love suffering,—a class more numerous than tis generally supposed.”
“Monsieur,” replied the Comte Desmaisons, stroking his luxuriant beard with his long, thin hand, “we must love those that love us. Suffering loves us and attaches itself to us. We must love it if life is to be supportable to us. In the knowledge of this truth lies the strength and value of Christianity. Alas! I do not possess the gift of Faith. It is that which drives me to despair.”
The old man thought of her for whom he had been mourning twenty years, and forthwith his reason left him, and his thoughts abandoned them-
