I rose and thanked him. I was withdrawing when he signed me to return.
"You must not come to this church," said he: "I see you are ill, and
this church is too cold; you must come to my house: I live----" (and
he gave me his address). "Be there to-morrow morning at ten."
In reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil,
and gathering round me my cloak, I glided away.
Did I, do you suppose, reader, contemplate venturing again within that
worthy priest's reach? As soon should I have thought of walking into a
Babylonish furnace. That priest had arms which could influence me: he
was naturally kind, with a sentimental French kindness, to whose
softness I knew myself not wholly impervious. Without respecting some
sorts of affection, there was hardly any sort having a fibre of root
in reality, which I could rely on my force wholly to withstand. Had I
gone to him, he would have shown me all that was tender, and
comforting, and gentle, in the honest Popish superstition. Then he
would have tried to kindle, blow and stir up in me the zeal of good
works. 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!
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