I know not how it would all have ended.

We all think ourselves strong in some points; we all know ourselves weak in many; the probabilities are that had I visited Numero 10, Rue des Mages, at the hour and day appointed, I might just now, instead of writing this heretic narrative, be counting my beads in the cell of a certain Carmelite convent on the Boulevard of Crecy, in Villette.

There was something of Fenelon about that benign old priest; and whatever most of his brethren may be, and whatever I may think of his Church and creed (and I like neither), of himself I must ever retain a grateful recollection.

He was kind when I needed kindness; he did me good.

May Heaven bless him! Twilight had passed into night, and the lamps were lit in the streets ere I issued from that sombre church.