as, so to speak, silence in her speech; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a drawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown, finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of God.
Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have said, for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice''s distinctive trait; it was the accent of her virtue.
She was almost renowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity.
The Abbe Sicard speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu. However pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the crack of the little, innocent lie.
She did not.
Little lie, innocent lie--does such a thing exist?
To lie is the absolute form of evil.
To lie a little is not possible:
he who lies, lies the whole lie.
To lie is the very face of the demon.
Satan has two names; he is called Satan and Lying.
That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did.
The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned--a whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance.
Her smile was white, her glance was white. There was not a single spider''s web, not a grain of dust, on the glass window of that conscience.