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216 several times on the jetty, and on those days the thought of Juliette was less oppressive. I wandered in the neighborhood of the chateau which looked to me as desolate as the Priory. Grass was sprouting in the courtyard, the lawns were not well kept, the alleys of the park were broken up by the heavy carts of nearby farmers. The grey stone facade, turned green by rain, was as gloomy as the large granite rocks that one saw on the waste land. . . . The following Sunday I went to mass, and I saw demoiselle Landudec praying among the peasants and fishermen. Kneeling on her prayer stool, her slim body bent like a primitive virgin, her head over a book, she prayed with fervor. Who knows? Perhaps she understood that I was unhappy and mentioned my name in her prayers? And while the priest was chanting his orison in a tremulous voice, while the nave of the church was being filled with the noise of wooden shoes beating against the slabs and with the whisper of lips in prayer, while the incense in the censer rose to the ceiling together with the shrill voices of the children in the choir, while the young lady prayed as Juliette would have done had she prayed at all, I was dreaming. . . . I was in the park, and the young lady approached, bathed in moonlight. She took my hand, and we walked on the lawns and in the shadow of rustling trees.

"Jean," she said to me, "y u are suffering and I have come to you. I have asked God if I could love you. God permits. I love you!"

"You are too beautiful, too pure, too holy to love me! You must not love me!"

"I love you! Put your arm in mine, rest your head on my shoulder and let us walk together, always!"

"No, no! Is it possible for the lark to love the owl? Is it possible for the dove that flies in heaven to