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Severin, having less need of prayer than of going near to Our Lady; of showing himself to her, paying her, as it were, a visit of thankfulness, and expressing his gratitude by his very presence.
Thus having completed our survey, which I shall call the south-east division, we will proceed to the south-west, and begin by the church of St. Severin at No. 3, in the street of the same name, called after a hermit who died in the year 530, but had on this spot an oratory and cells, where he conferred the monastic habit on St. Cloud.
And is it also true that it was found under my bed ..." "What do you mean, the rabbit?" "The rabbit and then Polyte." "Yes, my poor Severin, quite true, but who told you?" "Pretty well everybody. I understand! And I suppose you know all about marriages, as you marry people?" "What about marriage?" "With regard to one's rights." "What rights?" "The husband's rights and then the wife's rights."
She scraped together and turned into money whatever of her possessions she could lay hands on; even the valuable necklace she had received in the old days from Farmer Landfried's wife went its way to the widow of the old sexton, a worthy woman who supported herself in her widowhood by lending money at high interest on security; the ducat, too, which she had once thrown after Severin in the churchyard, was brought into requisition.
When he saw the mayor, he got up, took off his cap, and said: "Good-morning, Maitre Cacheux"; and then he remained standing, timid and embarrassed. "What do you want?" the former said. "This is it, monsieur. Is it true that somebody stole one of your rabbits last week?" "Yes, it is quite true, Severin." "Who stole the rabbit?" "Polyte Ancas, the laborer." "Right! right!
Severin; but these Virgins were not numerous enough for him to dedicate each set of ten to them, so he evoked the Madonnas of the early masters, and, absorbed before their images, he turned the windlass of his prayers, not understanding what he mumbled, but praying the Mother of the Saviour to accept his paternosters, as she would receive the lost smoke of a censer forgotten before the altar.
"I forbid any sort of familiarity," she said, cutting my words short, "likewise you are not to come in unless I call or ring for you, and you are not to speak to me until you are spoken to. From now on your name is no longer Severin, but Gregor." I trembled with rage, and yet, unfortunately, I cannot deny it, I also felt a strange pleasure and stimulation.
Her voice sounded so sympathetic, so kind, so full of love, that it clutched my breast like red-hot tongs and I began to sob aloud. "Severin," she began anew. "My poor unhappy friend." Her hand gently stroked my hair. "I am sorry, very sorry for you; but I can't help you; with the best intention in the world I know of nothing that would cure you." "Oh, Wanda, must it be?" I moaned in my agony.
The same line of conduct continued to be pursued by those who succeeded in the government of the church, by Augustin, bishop of Hippo, by Pope Leo, by Gregory, by Severin among the Christians, in Pannonia, and by others. Their exhortations, however, on this subject, were now mixed with promises and, threats.
When I knelt with the coffee-tray beside her bed, Wanda suddenly placed her hand on my shoulder and her eyes plunged deep into mine. "What beautiful eyes you have," she said softly, "and especially now since you suffer. Are you very unhappy?" I bowed my head, and kept silent. "Severin, do you still love me," she suddenly exclaimed passionately, "can you still love me?"
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