her curl-papers, she is kneeling on her prie-Dieu, in front of an ivory crucifix fastened on a red velvet panel.”
“What is she saying?”
“She is saying her evening prayers, she commends herself to God, beseeches Him to keep her mind from evil thoughts; she examines her conscience and goes over all she has done during the day, in order to know if she has failed in any of His commandments or those of the church. In fact, she sifts her soul, poor dear little creature!”—The somnambulist’s eyes were wet—“She has not committed any sin, but she reproaches herself with having thought too much about Monsieur Savinien,” she continued, “she breaks off to wonder what he is doing in Paris, and prays God to make him happy. She finishes with you and says a prayer aloud.”
“Can you repeat it?”
“Yes.”
Minoret took his pencil and wrote, at the somnambulist’s dictation, the following prayer, evidently composed by the Abbé Chaperon:
“‘O God! if Thou art pleased with Thy servant, who adores Thee, and prays to Thee with as much love as fervor, who tries in every way to keep Thy Holy Commandments, who would gladly die as did Thy Son to glorify Thy name, and who would dwell within Thy shadow, Thou who readest all hearts, graciously deign to open my godfather’s eyes, set him in the way of salvation, and impart to him Thy grace so that he may live his last days in Thee;
